Kill Switch (Devil's Night 3)

“Say you love me.”

I swallowed, my throat so dry.

“Say you love me,” he demanded.

“I love you,” I told him, surprised by how easily it came. “I love you, Damon.”

And he wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, and this was it. Right here. Everything I wanted to feel that brought me even more happiness than dancing did.

He was still the boy, promising to kiss me again someday, and I was still her, never wanting to leave whatever little private world we created when we were together.

Later, after he held me and touched me and kissed me some more, we made our way out of the park, toward the lot where Mr. Crane was parked. Damon had given me his hoodie to cover up my ripped shirt—or Rika’s ripped shirt, actually—and he held my hand, leading me past the crowds, the music, and his friends who were smart enough to know to leave us alone when he ignored their calls for him.

We approached the car, and I felt sprinkles of rain hit my hand as he held the door open, and I climbed in.

“Just drive,” I heard him tell Crane.

Thunder cracked overhead and rolled over the sky, and I heard shouts of excitement coming from the park as heavier drops hit the roof of the car.

He climbed into the backseat next to me, and I laid my head down on his lap, my eyes heavy and my body already feeling the residual ache of what we did against that wall.

I slid one of my hands in the center pocket of his sweatshirt, feeling my panties and smiled lazily.

I was glad he didn’t leave them on the floor in there.

Mr. Crane drove, and I reached up with my other hand, running the back of it over Damon’s cheek and neck, caressing his ear, too.

The gravel under the tires crackled, we jostled as he pulled onto the road, and then the pavement turned smooth as he coasted down the late-night highway.

I told him I loved him. But he hadn’t said it back.

It was okay. I didn’t need to hear it yet. He seemed to need to hear it himself, though. Like in the treehouse when we were kids. Desperate to keep me safe and by his side.

I got the impression from his friends that he was possessive with more than just me. If he found something good, he fought to keep it.

It could be a scary thing.

But it also meant he knew what was important. He worked to keep what he valued. Would he be so devoted to a wife?

His children?

I continued touching him, just savoring the feel of his skin and the feeling of peace at just lying here with him.

“What’s your tattoo?” I asked quietly, remembering how my friend noticed he had one.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, or ask how I knew, but then he answered, “A decaying snowflake.”

I raised my eyebrows. A decaying…

“Why?” I asked.

“Because of Winter by Walter de la Mare,” he replied softly. “Something still beautiful, even after what I did to her.”

Her. Me. The snowflake represented winter.

My throat tightened, and I kind of smiled and teared up at the same time. How did he do it? How did he always break my heart, especially in ways I loved?

“I wish you could see the sea,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “The choppy waves and moonlight on the whitewash. The rain spilling from the dark clouds under a sliver of moonlight.”