C11 The wrong twin

Date = 31 October

Place = San Francisco (Reaper venue)

POV - Damion

I swing her lightly onto the dance floor, a playful spin that ends with her pressed right in front of me.

Face-to-face with the 5-foot-4, heart-stopping, stubborn-as-hell beauty. The kind of woman who could ruin a man with a look and then ask him why he’s bleeding.

The music hasn’t even started yet, but the air between us already feels thick — like the room’s holding its breath.

You hurt me you did … Several times

It hurts to admit that we’re no different … I find it hard to commit

But you don’t even try

Still, I’m better with than without you

I pull her tight.

She hesitates — just a fraction of a second — then closes her eyes and exhales like she’s stepping off a ledge. Her body softens, her breasts brushing my chest, her thighs align with mine. And everything in between finds its match as we sway, slow and deliberate.

She smells like vanilla, roses, and champagne, and something sharper underneath — her.

“Culture Code,” she says. “Did you choose the song?”

A loose blonde strand catches in my stubble, tugging just enough to make my pulse jump.

“Yes.”

I feel … off. Not bad. Just overloaded. My body’s a mess of sensation — too hot, too wired, very winded, heartbeat refusing to behave. A fuckload of things — but talkative is not one of them.

As we dance, the tight black dress offers peek-a-boo hints of some red lace beneath. A warning. Or an invitation.

“Because of what I said.” Her breath fans into my neck, and my everything-in-between hardens.

“Yes.” This one comes out in a meek, hoarse pitch. Barely there. My body reacts before my brain can file an objection.

Oh, I, I’m on it, I want it

But why do you seem to call in your eyes?

I can’t tell if you’re here or you’re out there … Do you wanna be out there?

Her eyes nearly bug right out of her head.

Yeah, of course she noticed. We’re too close. No way I can hide the world’s biggest boner.

“Damion.”

“Right here.” Leaning even closer, I dip my head.

“I think you have a unique little problem,” she whispers in a bedroom voice that raises the problem.

I huff a quiet laugh. “Young, celibate male. Poor impulse control.” I lower my head even more, my lips hovering just shy of her shoulder. “But there’s nothing little about it.”

She makes this tiny sound — half-breath, half-laugh — and my control wobbles like a bad wheel alignment.

You don’t need to be Prince Charming to me … I just need this to be real …

I don’t need no fairy tale

You don’t need to kill a dragon for me … ooh, ooh … I don’t need no fairy tale

“You know,” she says, trying for composed and failing beautifully, “this is just a chemical reaction. Your hypothalamus floods your system with hormones. Perfectly natural.”

Her breathing betrays her. So do her eyes. There’s nothing natural about the way she’s looking at me.

She’s driving me completely insane, but I know better than to do anything about it here —under chandeliers, with her brothers close enough to kill me with eye contact alone. I’d like to live to see twenty-two.

We run and go still … every time

Whatever it is I keep on trying … ‘cause it ain’t hard to forget …

When you know what it’s like

That’s why I’m better with than without you

Oh, I, I’m on it, I want it

But why do you seem to call in your eyes?

I can’t tell if you’re here or you’re out there

Do you wanna be out there?

“So how was puppy class with Mr. Stick-up-his-but?”

Diversion. Survival tactic. And because that guy touched a nerve.

She laughs, light and bright. “Alejandro? He’s great.”

That lands like ice water straight down my spine.

“Great,” I repeat flatly.

“In fact,” she adds, smiling far too innocently, “he reminds me a little of you.”

I blink. “No. He really doesn’t.”

She shrugs. “You’re both hot.”

I’ll take it.

“And you have the same hair and cheekbones.”

… Less thrilled about that.

You don’t need to be Prince Charming to me … I just need this to be real …

I don’t need no fairy tale

We keep moving, slow and close, pretending the world still exists around us.

But right here — with her breath on my neck, her body aligned with mine — this feels real enough to wreck me.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

Enrique launches to his feet so fast his chair tips backward and slams into the floor with a hollow thud.

Mel freezes and turns simultaneously, tripping over absolutely nothing. Gravity takes over.

She grabs my bicep with one hand, my cloak with the other, dragging me off balance mid-step.

I try to save it. I really do.

But we go down in a spectacular tangle of limbs and fabric.

“Jackson? Blood? What — where are you?” Enrique shouts, panic shredding his voice. “JACKSON!”

It’s like someone pulled the plug on the room.

Dead silence.

The song keeps playing — soft, ironic, completely wrong.

You don’t need to kill a dragon for me … ooh, ooh … I don’t need no fairy tale

You don’t need to be Prince Charming to me … I just need this to be real …

“NO!” Mel’s sharp gasp snaps the spell.

The room fractures into chaos. Everybody goes into panic mode. Half the people start talking all at once. The other half starts moving with no idea where they’re going.

The DJ reacts, and the music dies down.

I’m up in a second, hauling her with me, my hand locked around hers as I steer her back toward the table. The boys crowd around Enrique, their faces hard, waiting.

“Fuck,” Enrique spits. “Something’s wrong. He’s in the bathroom.”

That’s all it takes. We bolt for the stairs.

“If our stupid brother passed out from seeing blood, I’m going to kill him,” Ilkay mutters as he tosses his keys to Logan. “Bro — grab my emergency kit. Quick..”

“Maybe he got his dick stuck,” Axel adds, jogging beside us. “Like a dog.”

We laugh — because that’s what we do when fear hasn’t fully caught up yet.

But we’re running hard.

Because if Jackson asked for help, it’s bad. He doesn’t ask. Ever. I’m not convinced he would even if he were actively dying.

Ren steps out from the upstairs balcony, fiddling with his clown nose, nearly colliding with Ilkay. Chloe’s right behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but no one answers him. He’s just not important enough.

A few meters from the bathroom, my feet lock up. I can’t do this again.

Dad barrels past me, Uncle John right behind him. Logan sprints by with the medical kit, already opening it as he runs.

My legs feel like they’re filled with cement. I move anyway.

As if my legs are weighted down, I slowly take one step at a time. Please, please … let him be okay … I don’t have space for another demon in my head.

“Knife wound,” Ilkay says sharply.

I peer around the doorframe. I’m not squeamish, just fearful of losing another person close to me.

Dad and Ilkay are on the floor beside Jackson, barking instructions while Axel hands them supplies with shaking hands.

Jackson’s face-down, gurgling raggedly, each breath wet and wrong. His head is turned to the side, eyes closed, skin pale and slick with sweat. One arm stretches out, fingers still curled around his phone.

Thank God he called.

Blood seeps from a puncture wound in his back. Pink foam bubbles and hisses with every breath.

Ilkay moves fast … takes a piece of plastic and some tape, places the plastic over the wound, and tapes it to 3 sides.

The bubbling slowly subsides. Dad checks vitals, steady, controlled, terrifyingly calm.

Logan and Enrique stand off to the side with Uncle John, who’s on the phone, his voice tight. None of them looks okay. Not even close.

The jokes are gone.

The music downstairs is quiet.

As if the whole world and hell are holding their breath.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Uncle John says calmly, sliding his phone in his pocket.

Mel rockets past me. No warning. No thought. Just pure, unfiltered panic.

Mel speeds wildly past me, stops, and stares. She skids to a stop — and I grab her so hard the impact knocks the air out of both of us.

People crowd in behind us, a silent wall of bodies, everyone frozen like they’re afraid breathing too loudly might finish the job.

“Whoa, angel,” I mutter, locking her to me. “Where exactly are you planning to go?”

She fights me. Small fists slam into my chest like she’s trying to punch through bone and guilt and physics.

“Let go!” she cries.

I don’t.

“Calm down!” I snap softly — and the edge in my voice surprises both of us. It works. Her body goes slack, and she collapses into me like someone cut her strings.

Shaking.

She presses her temple to my chest, eyes unblinking, facing her brother.

Then she breaks.

Full-on sobbing. The kind that sounds like something tearing.

“Angel,” I whisper fiercely, stroking her hair. “He’s okay. Ilkay and Dad’s got this.”

“He got the wrong twin,” she chokes. “He should’ve killed the other one.”

Okay. Either she’s finally snapped or shock just hit DEFCON ONE.

Her eyes — normally sharp and dangerous — are glassy, soggy, and ocean-blue, tears spilling freely. I swipe one away with my thumb, swallowing a lump the size of a brick.

She cries harder.

It doesn’t hurt. It fucking destroys my soul.

“Mel,” I bend down until we’re eye level. Her makeup is wrecked — black streaks running down white-painted cheeks like a gothic art project gone wrong. “Listen to me.”

She looks shattered.

“I’ll stab the other twin if that’s what you want,” I blurt. “Hell, I’ll stab all your brothers. Just — please — stop crying.”

… Yeah. That came out wrong.

“He told me,” she sobs. “I didn’t listen.”

Her shaking eases, but her words are scrambled. Shock. Definitely shock.

I pull her head to my chest, my fingers tangle in her hair, holding her there like an anchor.

Ilkay slices a cut between his brother’s ribs and opens it with his finger.

Mel sucks in a sharp, horrified breath through her nose.

Ilkay inserts a tube. Blood and air rush out with a wet hiss, the metallic stench mixing with fear so thick I can taste it. Jackson lies motionless, pale and sweaty, surrounded by a growing pool of red expanding over the floor tiles.

Then — he gulps a breath.

The room exhales as one. Nervous tension gone.

Everyone. Except me.

Something claws around my throat — tight, merciless. A familiar demon sinking its nails in. My lungs refuse to cooperate.

Not now.

Fire coils in my gut. Panic flares. I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in like oxygen.

In. Out. Again.

Wildflowers. Vanilla. Soap. Her.

The memories try to break through — dust, pain, blood, death — but her scent shoves them back into the dark. The fire dims. The demon retreats, sulking.

“D — he sent me a message,” she hiccups. “I should’ve listened.”

My brain snaps back online.

D. The stalker. Message.

Paramedics flood the room. Orders barked. Movements fast and efficient. Dad checks vitals one last time. Ilkay fits an oxygen mask over Jackson’s face. His breathing steadies.

So does mine.

“Let’s go!” Ilkay barks. They lift the stretcher.

Jackson rips the mask off for a second, grabs Axel’s arm, and shoves something into his hand.

Then they’re gone.

I don’t move. Still holding Mel.

Her phone. I need her phone.

“Mel.”

“Mm.”

“Give me your phone.”

The words snap her out of it. She pulls free, digs through her bag, and hands it over.

WhatsApp.

D Stalker: Mayday! Mayday! A little actor is dying! 💀

My blood goes cold.

“He told me,” she whispers. “I ignored it.”

I glance at Enrique, slumped against the wall, hands tangled in his hair.

The target was him. It was the wrong twin.

“It’s my fault,” she sobs again, clutching my cloak.

Fuck I hate tears. Especially her tears. She melts back into me, fitting like she was built for this space. I wrap around her, holding tight.

“It’s not your fault,” I murmur.

She nods against my chest, smearing makeup, tears, and probably snot all over my costume.

Don’t care.

“Sniff pixie dust and soar,” she wails softly.

My muscles contract. Does she remember that after all these years? She looks up, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

“You never told me what it means,” she stammers. I swallow a ball of edgy spit.

“My dad said confusion improves moods,” I say. “So in a crisis, say something weird. Short-circuit the panic.”

I pause.

“That line came from a very special girl once.”

She sniffles. “It really works.”

Yeah.

It really does.