The storm didn't leave. It waited — heavy against the glass, rattling the old windows like an unwelcome guest Damian refused to acknowledge.
Ann lay back in his bed — their bed — her wrist wrapped in soft silk where he'd bitten her hours ago. The faint sting kept her awake, but the warmth of him beside her kept her frozen in place.
She could feel him watching her in the dark. His breathing didn't change. His chest rose and fell like a man asleep — but his eyes stayed open. Bright silver pinpricks cutting through the shadows that curled around the headboard like vines.
Outside, the knocks returned. Not at the door this time — but at the window. Soft, patient. Tap tap tap. A child's knock, polite and persistent.
Ann squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see what waited there, but the image pressed into her mind anyway — the same pale shape she'd seen in the hallway mirror, wearing her face but hollow behind the eyes.
She felt the mattress shift as Damian leaned over her. His cold palm slipped under her chin, tilting her face toward him. When she opened her eyes, he was so close she could taste the storm on his breath.
"You hear them again," he murmured. Not a question — a fact. The truth clinging to her skin like sweat.
Ann swallowed. "They won't stop."
Damian's mouth curved into that half-smile — the one that made her bones ache with fear and craving all at once. His thumb traced the silk bandage at her wrist.
"They're drawn to what's mine," he said softly. "They knock because they want permission. They want you to open the window, the door, your throat — anything that lets them crawl back inside."
His fingers slipped lower, brushing her collarbone, resting over her heartbeat like he could squeeze it quiet if he wished.
"You won't open it," he whispered. "Not while I'm here."
Tap tap tap.
The knock turned to scratching. Tiny fingernails against glass. A child's giggle lost in the wind.
Ann flinched. Damian's eyes glinted like polished silver coins as he leaned closer, brushing his cold lips over hers — not a kiss, just a warning.
"Look at them," he murmured.
She turned her head toward the window — against every scream inside her telling her not to. The glass was fogged, but a tiny handprint bloomed there — small, impossibly small, pressed flat from the other side.
Something moved behind it — a face half-smeared, wide-eyed, mouth open like it was whispering her name through the storm. A face that looked like her own.
She whimpered. Damian's hand threaded into her hair, gentle but unyielding. "You hear it, don't you?" he asked, his voice dark silk slipping into her ears. "What does it say?"
Ann's breath caught. The words crawled into her mind like worms through soft dirt.
Let us in. You left us in the dark. Let us in.
She shivered. "I can't — I didn't —"
Damian pressed his lips to her ear, his teeth grazing the soft skin until she gasped. "Good. You didn't. And you won't."
The knocks grew louder. The glass rattled in its frame, a soft crack snaking through the frosted pane. But Ann couldn't look away — not until Damian's mouth crushed hers, cold and hungry, dragging her back to him like an anchor.
"Say it," he growled against her lips. "Tell them whose you are."
"I'm yours," she choked out, the words warm in his cold mouth.
He kissed her again, harder, swallowing her fear, her breath, her sanity. When he pulled back, the knocks had stopped — but the handprint lingered, smeared like a promise waiting for the next storm.
Damian's thumb brushed her swollen lip as he whispered against her throat, "As long as you're mine, they'll never have you."
Ann's heartbeat slowed under his touch — not calm, not safe. Just trapped. The shadows at the corners of the room drifted closer, quiet for now.
And somewhere beyond the walls, the night kept knocking — but the only door left to open was the one inside her chest.