Novelas y relatos de Damaged

“Dammit!” smashed his mobile phone against the wall angrily.. Adrian stood like a statue at a corner not daring to make a sound to get on the bad side of the furious boss.. He quickly stepped aside when Damian threw his MacBook pro at him and it ended up smashing into pieces.. Damian was so furious as he threw things around and ended up breaking everything in his study.. “Calm down, sir, your wounds ain't fully healed yet..” Adrian tried to talk him outta smashing things but this earned him a vase being thrown at him..

DAMIEN I fùcked up. I fùcked up real bad when I followed the car. I was too slow because I didn't want Jake finding out that I was following them. So I kept losing track and getting lost on the way which wasted more time. I also have another huge problem. My battery is dead. I can't use my phone to make any calls. How can I be of help if I can't call the cops? Of all the days, why did I forget to charge my phone today? And why the hell did I forget my charger too?

Damien sat rigid across from me, his dark eyes cold yet distant, haunted by everything we’d lost—and everything he couldn’t forget. His side still bled through hastily wrapped bandages, but he barely acknowledged the pain. I reached for his hand, holding tight, grounding us both.“We made it,” I whispered, almost not believing it. His jaw clenched before he nodded slowly, his fingers tightening around mine. “We’re still here.” A Shattered World Kyle’s trembling fingers flew over the damaged console, trying to restore power to Rook’s navigation system. "Our systems are fried... no signal, no backup,” he rasped.

Banks of servers hummed along the walls, processing the terabytes of data radiating from the containment sector. Damian was there, of course. He sat in a chair facing the blast doors. He looked rough. The five years hadn't been kind to his body. The internal injuries from the gravity crush had left him with a permanent tremor in his hands and a reliance on a heavy cane. He couldn't shift anymore. The Wolf was too broken. But his mind was still the sharpest blade in the room. "You're late," Damian grunted, not looking away from the monitors.

“He just has to hold on a little longer.” Of course, when we arrive at the hospital it’s more of the same: Damian being impossibly stubborn and overprotective, even though I’m perfectly fine and he’s the one who looks like he’s been put through a meat grinder. Once I can see his back, I understand that the entire broad surface was shredded by the glass of the windshield, and hundreds of tiny shards are still embedded in his skin. The sight is enough to send me into a fresh fit of tears, and I’m beyond angry with myself for giving into the emotion. I know me being upset will do nothing but rile Damian’s wolf further.

Smoke drifted through the hall, the metallic tang of overheated circuits thick in the air. Eli coughed. Damian’s arm wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him close. “You’re hurt,” Damian murmured, brushing his thumb beneath a fresh cut on Eli’s cheek. Eli shook his head. “Barely. You took the worst of it.” Damian didn’t argue—because he knew it was true. His knuckles were bruised and split. A burn streaked across his forearm, still glowing faintly where plasma had grazed him. His breathing was rough, ragged at the edges.

Whoever was holding it didn’t care about framing, only about capturing pain. Damian’s head was bowed at first, hair damp with sweat or blood. When he lifted his face, my breath snagged. His left eye was swollen. Not the neat purple of makeup the ugly, uneven puffiness of real trauma. One cheekbone sat slightly wrong, like it had taken a hit it hadn’t fully recovered from yet. I paused the video and zomed in. His lips were split not cleanly, but torn. Blood had dried unevenly at the corner of his mouth, dark and cracked.

“Yeah. I’m just surprised she wants me there.” “Says you shouldn’t be alone right now. I couldn’t give a damn, but she’s the better one of the two of us.” “I don’t know what to say…” “Then get off the phone.” I hung up. 11 Sofia Damien was in terrible shape. When his men helped him into the house, I hardly recognized him. With swollen eyes and a face so discolored, he barely looked human, he had been beaten so badly that it was a shock he’d survived at all.

Monitors beeped on—steady, oblivious to the world shifting between them. Morning came—gray light filtering through blinds, rain still tapping the window. The doctor entered with news: ribs knitting slowly but steadily, kidney bruise worse than initial scans showed. Minimum six weeks out. Possible career impact if re-injury occurred—scar tissue, chronic pain, reduced mobility on the left side. Damien’s face hardened—jaw locking, eyes darkening with quiet fury. Marc stared at the ceiling—white tiles blurring as the words sank in. Outside the window: an Ostin City scarf left by a nurse—anonymous gift, navy and gold folded neatly on the sill. Pinned to it: small note in typed print.

If Damian checked me now—if he saw the metal I’d deformed with two fingers while supposedly paralyzed—the Vane debt wouldn't save us. Damian walked toward the wall-com. It was a shattered ruin, wires hanging like viscera from the casing. He didn't ask questions. He didn't shout. He touched the jagged edge of the plastic, his thumb tracing the deep, impossible dent my grip had left. “Julian says it was the drills,” Damian said, his back to the room. “Marcus says it was a surge from the asset.” He turned around, the tablet’s glow reflecting in his eyes like cold moonlight.