The Angel And The Bastard

Chapter 14 -Iris

Iris

We walk into Damien's apartment, and I instantly take in the mismatched furniture and the faint smell of stale cigarettes.

It's so different from the cold, sterile rooms I grew up in, but oddly, it has more personality.

"Nice place," I say, deliberately exaggerating as I sink onto the worn couch, sweeping my eyes around at the scattered books and the barely-working lamp in the corner.

"Don't get too comfortable. That couch's been through more than you'd want to know," he shoots back, grabbing a drink for himself and tossing me one as if he knows I'll take it.

I eye the can, quirking a brow. "What, no fancy glasses? This place doesn't exactly scream 'well-stocked bar.'"

"Didn't know I had to impress you with my choice of glassware," he smirks, dropping into a chair opposite me. "Didn't think the princess would dare touch a can, honestly."

I give him a look, cracking open the drink. "I'll try to survive, your highness."

We settle into silence, the kind that might be awkward with anyone else. But with Damien, it's like we're both comfortable enough not to fill it.

As the quiet stretches, I let my gaze wander over the room, catching sight of a small, dust-covered photo on the shelf by the TV.

The picture shows a young boy, maybe eight or nine, grinning wide and open.

It's so unlike the Damien sitting here that I almost don't recognize him.

I glance over, but he's looking away, taking a sip from his drink.

"So, was that you?" I ask, nodding toward the photo.

Damien follows my gaze and stiffens, his jaw clenching slightly. "Maybe," he mutters, brushing it off as if it doesn't matter.

I raise a brow. "You were... a happy kid once?"

"Guess that's one way to put it," he says, his tone curt. "That kid had no idea what the world was really like."

"Wow, you make it sound like you've been through war," I retort, tilting my head at him.

He scoffs. "Life has its battles."

The darkness in his voice makes me pause, but before I can ask anything else, he's back to his usual sarcastic self, deflecting with a lazy grin.

"What? Surprised I wasn't always this charming?"

"Charming isn't the word I'd use," I shoot back, rolling my eyes. "But seriously, what happened to that kid?"

He shifts in his seat, clearly not wanting to talk about it. "That kid grew up," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

I narrow my eyes. "You're being awfully cryptic."

He shrugs. "I'm just giving you the highlights. I'm sure you're thrilled."

"Oh, I'm riveted," I deadpan, sipping my drink.

We sit in silence again, and I can tell he's uncomfortable, which only makes me more curious. It's rare to see him without his guard up, and I'm half-tempted to push him further. But instead, I let it go, sensing that he needs the space.

As he gets up to grab another drink, I keep looking around, noting the random details of his life scattered across the room. There's a stack of records on the floor by the old turntable, a guitar leaning against the wall, and books that look like they've been read and re-read.

"You read a lot, don't you?" I say when he returns, nodding toward the pile.

He glances over at the books, shrugging. "Can't blame a guy for wanting a little escape."

"Escape from what?" I ask, feigning innocence.

He smirks, shaking his head. "You really are relentless."

"Hey, you're the one who invited me over," I remind him with a pointed look.

"Touché," he mutters, dropping back into his chair. He takes a long sip, studying me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "So, why are you really here, Angel?"

I arch a brow. "What, I can't just be here for your delightful company?"

"You're here to pry, aren't you?" he accuses, giving me a challenging look. "Trying to unravel the mystery of Damien?"

"Oh, please." I roll my eyes. "You think you're that interesting?"

"Then why are you asking so many questions?" he counters, leaning forward with a smug grin.

"I'm just trying to understand how someone can be so infuriating and still manage to survive in polite society."

"Polite society doesn't know what to do with me, trust me," he laughs. "And don't act like you're not intrigued. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

I open my mouth to argue, but he's right, and he knows it. Instead, I take another sip, rolling my eyes. "Fine. Maybe I am a little intrigued. But don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

There's a pause, and I find myself studying him, trying to figure out the puzzle he presents.

On the surface, he's the ultimate bad boy, all swagger and sarcasm. But there's something deeper beneath that, a sadness he keeps hidden, and for some reason, I want to know what's behind it.

"It must be hard, pretending all the time," he says suddenly, surprising me with the softness in his voice. "Keeping up appearances."

I shrug, glancing away. "I'm used to it."

"Well, if you ever get tired of pretending, you know where to find me," he says, his tone playful but his eyes serious.

I laugh, trying to shake off the tension. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

But as he gets up to grab another drink, I feel my eyes growing heavy, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.

I try to fight it, but the couch is surprisingly comfortable, and before I know it, I'm drifting off, Damien's voice a distant hum in the background.