She hesitated for an entire minute about pushing the button, her heartbeat a frantic echo in her ears. If she pressed it, she would be stepping off a precipice. His voice-a wrecked, tortured whisper of her name-sent a jolt through her when he answered on the second ring. This was not the booming voice of the powerful CEO from the boardroom or the feverish, desperate man at her doorway. This was something new. This was defeat; this was the sound of a man who had been to hell and back in the equivalent of a single night. For an instant, it stripped her righteously outraged fury and left in its place an unsettlingly raw pity. But she wasn't going to afford it. Not yet. Her knuckles turned white around the phone, she pulled in a deep breath, and armored all facts like a shield. "I'm looking at my front door, Damien," she said, voice hard and steady-betraying none of the tremor she felt inside. "There are claw marks deep enough to find my hand. There is a car on my street that looks like it was crushed by a falling piano, and the front door to my building is in splinters."
And she paused, letting the silence on the other end stretch and fester. This was a reporter's trick: letting the subject fill the void. If he didn't, she closed in continuation of her words, lowering further her voice. "You told me not to go out. You warned me. You knew something was coming. So you're going to tell me what it was. Right now." The silence lasted a few seconds more, pregnant with unspoken truths. She could hear faint, ragged breathing from him. She was expecting to hear denial, deflection, and perhaps a threat from his lawyers. The thing that came was a question so small, and so stricken with agony that it knocked the wind out of her. "Are you... hurt? Did it hurt you?" The question was her confirmation. He didn't even pretend not to know what she was talking about. And after everything, put through thought for her safety first. The man in there. The man who had looked at her with such torment in his eyes was real and horrified by what the monster had done. The complexity of it, the sheer, tragic impossibility, made her head spin.
"No," she said, the word coming out softer than she intended. "I'm not hurt. Just... informed." She steeled her tone once again, battling the rising tide of sympathy that threatened to drown her resolve. "This isn't a conversation for the phone. I'm coming to see you." "Selena, no," he said immediately, a spark of his old, commanding tone returning. "That's not a good idea." "I wasn't asking for your opinion," she countered now, completely consumed by that fiery need for the truth. "I'm the one with claw marks on my door, Damien. I'm the one who gets to decide what's a good idea. I'm on my way." She didn't bother waiting for a response. Instead, she hanged up, a sense of dizzying finality washing over her. She had just demanded a face-to-face meeting with a man who was, by all evidence, a creature of nightmare. A part of her screamed that she was insane, that she should be buying a one-way ticket to anywhere else. But the journalist in her, the woman who had built her career running toward the fire, was already pulling on her shoes.
It was surreal, taking a taxi to Voss Tower. The morning traffic, the busy cities bustling along with people waving their coffees and briefcases - all the evidence of one busy human activity seemed like a flimsy stage set on which, just some hours ago, one of the most powerful men in the world had suddenly been transformed into a ravenous beast and carved a path of destruction through the city. And no one knew. Everything else was exactly the same but not for her. She had learned that monsters did exist and wore suits for show while living in penthouses. The knowledge was deafening and terrifying. Total role reversal. Last time she'd made this trip, she was the hunter, armed with questions for a toppled corporate titan. Now, she was something else entirely: the only keeper of a secret that could destroy him. And she was walking willingly back into his lair. Upon arrival, the doorman - who had looked at her from the top down a mere few days back - now received her with nervous deference. "Mr. Voss is expecting you, Ms. Cross. He asked that you be sent up immediately."
The elevator ride was a silent rise into the unknown. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was strangely calm, her purpose clear. The doors opened directly into the penthouse foyer. The apartment was pristine; the evidence of his earlier, human rage was completely gone. But the air was heavy, thick with tension and the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood and something wilder, like ozone and wet earth. He stood before the great wall of windows, back to her, looking over the city. He turned slowly when the elevator doors slid shut behind her, sealing her in. His sight stole her breath. He was a ghost of the man she had met. Simplicity clothed him-apparently, grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt barley masked his bare feet on the cold marble floor. Pale-drawn was his face, under which hung two bruises-like marks from having been punched under his eyes. Thin angry red scratches, not quite scabbed, ran from his temple down his cheek. He looked broken, very tired, very human. The shadow of the beast clung to him like a shroud, but the man standing before her was a prisoner, not a king. He had surrendered to angels, and this battle is now over-the reckoning would begin.