Chapter Eight_ A slow evening

Elliot.

It took a few days for me to get used to seeing Damien or anyone in my cabin.

To get used to him.

The crackling of the fireplace filled the quiet cabin as I glanced over at Damien, who lounged on the old leather armchair across from me.

He had been staying with me for almost a week now, and we had settled into an unspoken truce, an odd but comfortable rhythm of shared meals, stolen glances, and late night conversations that never strayed close to the truth.

Or the questions I wanted to ask.

There was something comforting about him being here. The way he was always watching, always on edge, as if he were guarding something precious.

"So," I started, breaking the silence. "When would you tell me about how your wounds disappeared within a day."

Damien's lips quirked in a half-smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I have really good genes."

"Good genes," I scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "That's a first. Good genes don't usually lead to fast wound healing."

He chuckled softly