Damon took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn't look back at the kitchen. He couldn't. If he turned around and saw Leo standing there, flush-faced and panting, daring him to cross the line, Damon knew he wouldn't make it to the top of the stairs.
He pushed open the double doors of the master bedroom and shut them.
The room was bathed in the soft, ambient glow of a single bedside lamp. Helen was asleep, curled on her side, the duvet pulled up to her chin. The rhythmic, even sound of her breathing should have been a comfort—a reminder of the stable, normal life he had built.
Instead, it felt like an accusation.
Damon stripped off his clothes with frantic, jerky movements. He threw his shirt onto the armchair, stepping out of his trousers and kicking them aside.
He walked into the en-suite bathroom and stepped into the glass-enclosed shower. He didn't wait for the water to warm up. He turned the handle all the way to cold.
