The Wrong Keycode Led Me to the Right Monster

Three drinks past rational thought, I found myself standing in front of my childhood best friend’s apartment door. I punched in the six-digit passcode. Beep. Error. I tried again, slower. Beep. Error. On the third failed attempt, the digital keypad locked with a shrill, mocking chime. And that was the exact moment glowing lines of text began scrolling across my vision, hanging suspended in the dim hallway air like translucent live-stream comments: [Give it up, girl. The new girl changed the code hours ago.] [Elliott and Sierra are busy tearing each other’s clothes off inside. They don’t have time for Joanna.] [LMAO, look at the bad boy across the hall watching her through the peephole.] [Hasn't Damian been quietly losing his mind over her for years?] [Honestly, she should just jump him. Damian Montgomery’s face alone is a work of art.] [And word on the street is he’s packing a lethal eight inches...] The alcohol hummed thick in my veins, stripping away whatever sensible inhibition had kept me polite for twenty-two years. I spun on my heel, took three unsteady steps across the carpeted corridor, and pressed the buzzer to the opposite door. It swung open almost instantly. A breathtakingly sharp face appeared in the opening. The man looked down at me, his Adam’s apple shifting in a hard, deliberate swallow. 1 Damian was wearing nothing but a black waffle-knit bathrobe. The belt was loosely tied, the front hanging open just enough to reveal a broad expanse of pale, cut chest and the stark line of his collarbones. His dark hair was damp, droplets trailing down the angle of his jaw and disappearing into the shadowed hollow of his throat. My throat went dry. I swallowed involuntarily. My gaze slid downward before I could stop myself. The floating text flared with instant commentary: [Holy shit, she actually rang Damian’s doorbell! But where are her eyes wandering?!] [That jawline could cut glass. Joanna, take him down! Ruin his life!] [Is the eight-inch rumor true? Someone get this girl a tape measure!] Damian’s heavy lids lowered, his gaze pinning me to the floorboards. It was dark, brooding, and possessed a razor-thin edge that felt dangerously close to devouring. "You need something?" His voice was wrecked and low, carrying the damp heat of the shower behind him. A small, wine-soaked hiccup escaped me. I pointed a limp finger toward the door across the hall. "The code's changed. I'm locked out." His Adam's apple bobbed again. The tiny, faint freckle sitting just beside it moved with the motion—intolerably attractive. "And?" A cool smirk touched the corner of his lips. "You came knocking on my door for charity?" "Can't I?" I took a step forward. The tip of my nose brushed within an inch of his bare sternum. The scent of him hit me instantly—cold cedarwood, clean soap, and the faint, bitter ghost of clove cigarettes. Maybe it was the vodka-cranberries, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of being pushed aside for months, but a reckless bravery bloomed in my chest. Normally, I never dared to look Damian Montgomery in the eye, let alone speak to him like this. We’d gone to the same high school. His family ran in the same country-club circles as Elliott’s, and the two of them had maintained a loose, wary camaraderie since sophomore year. Back then, Damian sat in the back corner of every class, sleeping through lectures, nursing bruised knuckles from weekend street fights, and leaving his uniform shirts unbuttoned past what was considered civil. He had the eyes of a predator coiled in the dark. I used to cross the street whenever I saw him coming. So when the glowing text labeled him the villain of this narrative, I wasn't even surprised. Damian tilted his head down, narrowing his dark eyes. A dangerous, flicking light ignited in their depths. He raised one arm, planting an open palm flat against the doorframe, effectively boxing me in. He leaned down, his sheer physical presence crushing the space between us. "I’m the kind of bastard who ruins his friend’s girl, Joanna," he whispered, low and gravelly. "Think very carefully about what you’re doing." A line of translucent text drifted past his ear: [He’s baiting the hook. Bite it, Jo, bite it!] [Look at him acting all stoic while his hand is literally shaking against the wall!] I glanced down at his hand braced on the wood. Sure enough. The tendons in his forearm were corded tight, veins raised, and the tips of his long fingers trembled with an agonizing, suppressed restraint. He was holding himself back by a thread. The realization sent a jolt of electric heat straight down my spine. I reached out. With slow, deliberate precision, my index finger hooked into the dangling tie of his bathrobe. "I've thought about it," I murmured, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. My eyes felt hot and heavy with liquor. "Let me in, Damian." The air between our lips froze for three agonizing seconds. Damian’s eyes shut tight. A guttural curse tore from his throat. The next second, his scorching fingers clamped around my wrist. The world spun in a blur of movement—he hauled me inside, his free hand sliding behind my waist to shield my spine just before I could slam against the entryway console. Behind us, the heavy oak door shut with a resounding click. 2 Damian’s presence crashed over me like an avalanche. Cedarwood, smoke, and pure, concentrated heat. He pressed me back against the polished wood of the console, his thigh ruthlessly sliding between my knees, prying them apart. There was nothing left of the detached, untouchable recluse he usually pretended to be. He looked starved. "Since when did you get so brave, Joanna?" He lowered his head, his nose dragging along the curve of my ear, sending a violent shiver down the back of my neck. "You mess with me... you think you can afford the bill when it comes due?" My head spun, the room tilting on its axis, but the furnace-like warmth of his body anchored me. The floating text flashed frantically across the ceiling: [HOLY SHIT! Is this rated R? Am I allowed to watch this?!] [Kiss her! Kiss her already!] [Original canon had this man pining in silence until the day he died. God bless this timeline!] Dazed, I reached up and let my palm rest against the rough stubble along his jawline. "Just checking the merchandise... seeing if you're really as formidable as they say..." Damian let out a dark, ragged laugh that vibrated with raw madness. His large hand gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my hip bone as he dragged me flush against him. "You walked into this room yourself." His mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, bruising, and laced with years of suppressed hunger. His teeth caught my lower lip, breaking the skin, and the faint, metallic taste of copper bloomed on my tongue. I gasped at the sharp sting, and he used the opening to drive the kiss deeper, tangling his tongue with mine until all the oxygen left my lungs. In the haze of friction and heat, I felt his lips press against my jaw, his teeth scraping my skin as he growled through his teeth: "Say my name, Joanna." A hot nip at my throat. "Don't you dare get it wrong." 3 "Damian..." I managed to breathe. The sound of his name seemed to shatter his remaining sanity. His head snapped back for half a second, his eyes rimmed with a terrifying, crimson fever. His trembling hands reached for the knot of his robe, tearing the fabric aside. Before my blurry vision could take in the lean, ridged muscle of his chest, my stomach heaved violently. The alcohol, the spinning room, the sudden adrenaline—everything collided into a sickening wave. "Oh—ugh—" The feverish tension dissolved into thin air. I shoved hard against Damian’s frozen chest, clamped a hand over my mouth, and stumbled blindly past him toward the faint light of the bathroom. I dropped to my knees in front of the porcelain bowl and heaved until my ribs ached. Steady, measured footsteps approached from behind. Damian knelt on the cold tiles beside me. His face was thunderous, dark as a storm cloud, but his large hand immediately came to rest against my back, rubbing soothing, rhythmic circles between my shoulder blades. In his other hand, he held a glass of warm water and a clean, damp towel. "You're unbelievable, Miller," he muttered under his breath. His voice was ice, but his touch was impossibly soft. He wiped my face, coaxed me into drinking a mug of warm honey-water, and eventually scooped me up to carry me into his bedroom. When my head hit the down pillow, the room finally stopped spinning, leaving behind a hollow, cavernous ache in my chest. As my consciousness began to drift into darkness, a memory unspooled unbidden behind my eyelids. 4 Sophomore year of college. A creepy guy had followed me off the late-night bus, trailing me for four blocks. I had sprinted in blind terror until I reached Elliott’s apartment complex, my fingers shaking so badly I couldn't press the elevator button. Elliott had come down to the lobby in his flannel pajama pants, pulling me against his chest until my breathing steadied. “Don’t be scared,” he had whispered, smoothing back my hair. “The keycode will always be your birthday. I’ll never change it. Whenever you need a place, you come here.” That night, he gave me his bed and slept on a mattress on the floor. At three in the morning, I woke up crying from a nightmare. He climbed onto the edge of the mattress, wrapped his arms around me, and gently patted my back until dawn. “I’m right here, Jo. I’m not going anywhere.” The moonlight had washed over his features, making him look like something out of a dream I never wanted to wake from. When he finally fell asleep, his arm still draped over my waist, I had leaned in and pressed a secret, trembling kiss to the corner of his lips. I thought that was the beginning of our story. Then, during our junior year mock trial competition, he met Sierra Collins. They had endless things to talk about—precedents, law theories, inside jokes that excluded everyone else. Slowly, imperceptibly, the scale in Elliott’s heart tipped. He started forgetting my birthday. He started canceling our Friday dinners. He changed the door codes. And eventually, he began saying things like: “Joanna, be reasonable. Sierra doesn't have anyone else in the city. She needs me more.” In Damian’s dark bedroom, my eyes squeezed shut. Tears slipped silently from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow. "Elliott..." I mumbled into the sheets, my voice breaking. "You liar..." The arm wrapped around my waist instantly tightened, pulling me back against a hard, rigid chest with an intensity that bordered on bruising. 5 I woke to bright, merciless morning sunlight cutting across the room. My skull felt like it was being pried open with a crowbar. I pushed myself up on the mattress, squinting. That was when I realized I was wearing an oversized black dress shirt that fell past my mid-thigh, smelling intensely of cedar and laundry starch. I glanced down at my collarbone. Two dark, purplish bruises bloomed against the pale skin near my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs. The floating text drifted into view, practically dripping with smug amusement: [Congrats to our girl! No home run last night, but the bad boy definitely took 'good care' of you from head to toe.] [You really poked the sleeping bear. You think Damian Montgomery is just going to let you walk away now?] Panic spiked through my veins. I scrambled out of bed, grabbed my clothes from the chair, and bolted into the guest bathroom to wash my face and pull myself together. Ten minutes later, feeling like a thief making an escape, I eased Damian's front door open. As fate would have it, the door across the hall swung open at the exact same second. Elliott stepped out into the corridor wearing a gray crewneck and joggers, holding a brown paper bag of fresh bagels. Behind him, Sierra stood in the foyer wearing an oversized silk nightshirt, rubbing her eyes with a sleepy, delicate yawn. Our eyes locked. The casual smile on Elliott’s face withered instantly. His gaze dropped from my sleep-tousled hair to the borrowed black shirt clinging to my frame, his pupils contracting into pinpricks. "Joanna?" His voice climbed an octave, sharp and disbelieving. "What the hell are you doing coming out of Damian’s apartment?" Sierra gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her lips. "Joanna... you guys...?" Her eyes flicked down to the faint marks on my neck, a knowing, subtly scandalized gleam lighting up her expression—as if she’d caught me doing something utterly disgraceful. "What's all the racket out here?" A low drawl came from right behind me. Damian stepped into the hallway, still wearing the black robe from last night. He leaned casually against the doorframe, carrying two mugs of black coffee, and handed one directly to me without a word. Then, he lifted his eyes, regarding Elliott with absolute, indifferent contempt. "Whose place she sleeps at is none of your damn business, Carter." 6 Elliott’s face turned an ugly, mottled red. He lunged forward, reaching to grab my arm. "Joanna, have you lost your mind?" "All because I missed your call last night?" "You’re sleeping with my best friend just to spite me?" I took a step backward, easily avoiding his reach. My gaze settled on the collar of his crewneck, where a fresh, angry red hickey peeked out against his skin. A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up in my chest. "Elliott," I said, my voice dead and calm. "Your keycode didn't work last night." Elliott froze. A flicker of guilt darted across his eyes. "Last night was Sierra’s birthday," he stammered, his tone softening in an attempt to sound reasonable. "We were messing around and changed the lock as a joke. I forgot to text you the new one." He reached out again, his eyes pleading. "Jo, stop making a scene. Come inside. You smell like a distillery." "Inside where?" I scoffed. "Your place? Or the place you share with Sierra?" "Joanna!" Elliott's patience snapped. "Can you stop being so unreasonable? Sierra was just crashing on the couch. She was having anxiety, and I—" "Tch." A derisive sneer came from behind me. Damian looked at Elliott with unvarnished mockery. "Who are you trying to kid, Carter?" Damian bent down, his mouth brushing right past my ear. The warmth of his breath against my skin sent an involuntary shiver straight to my core. "Did you sleep well, sweetheart?" he murmured, loud enough for the entire hallway to hear. "You kept kicking the duvet off in the middle of the night." Elliott looked like he’d been struck by lightning. The text overhead erupted: [LMAOOOO Damian’s passive-aggressive pettiness is a 10/10!] [Elliott’s face is literally green. He’s never heard Damian talk to him like that in his life.] [Best friend drama! Give me the popcorn!] I had zero interest in standing around as part of their audience. I turned on my heel and headed straight for the elevator bank. Elliott moved to follow me, but Sierra quickly caught him by the crook of his elbow. "Elliott, please," she whined softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I'm starving. Can we just eat first?" Elliott hesitated. He looked between my retreating back and Sierra's wide, helpless eyes—and let her pull him back inside. Just before the elevator doors slid shut, I caught a glimpse of Damian leaning against his doorframe, a slow, wicked smirk playing across his lips. 7 Three days later, Elliott organized a dinner at an upscale oyster and seafood bar downtown. He claimed he wanted to "officially introduce Sierra to our core group," and sent me three separate texts insisting I attend. [Jo, you’re like a little sister to me. If you’re not there, people will think there’s bad blood.] A week ago, that text would have crushed me. I would have put on a brave face, shown up, and swallowed my pride just to keep him happy. Now? I looked at the glowing text warning me that [Sierra planned this dinner specifically to knock the childhood friend down a peg in public,] and typed back a single word: [Fine.] We’ll see who knocks down whom. The private dining room was loud and crowded when I arrived. Elliott sat at the head of the long table, with Sierra practically draped across his lap like an expensive accessory. The chatter dipped the moment I walked in. In the shadowed corner at the far end of the table sat Damian. He was slumped back in a leather booth, twirling a matte-black Zippo lighter between his long fingers. The flame clicked open and shut, casting sharp shadows across his angular cheekbones. When his eyes found mine, his fingers stilled for half a second. I didn't greet him. I took the only empty seat available—as far away from Elliott as possible. The food arrived shortly after, including a massive, steaming platter of spicy garlic-butter crawfish placed right in the center of the table. Sierra let out a delicate, helpless sigh. "Oh, these look so good, but peeling them is such a nightmare. It totally ruins my gel manicure." She turned her wide, doe-eyed gaze directly toward Elliott. Elliott, who was mid-conversation with one of our college buddies, glanced over and spoke without thinking: "Jo, peel a plate for Sierra. You're always fast at it." Back in college, whenever we got seafood, I had always peeled his shrimp and crab. I had practiced doing it quickly just so he wouldn't get his hands dirty while studying his case files. Everyone at the table looked at me as if this were completely standard procedure. Sierra even smiled, gently nudging the porcelain platter an inch toward me. "Thanks so much, Joanna. You're the best." I didn't move. I picked up my water glass, took a slow sip, and set it down with a sharp clack against the marble tabletop. "Joanna," Elliott frowned, his voice taking on an impatient edge. "What are you waiting for?" "I'm not peeling them," I said evenly. The room went quiet. "I’m a guest, not the catering staff," I continued, looking directly at Sierra. "If you want to eat, use your own hands. If you can't be bothered, starve." A collective intake of breath rippled through our friends. Elliott’s face hardened, his pride stinging in front of the group. "Joanna, what is your problem lately? It’s a plate of food. Do you really have to make a scene and ruin the mood for everyone?" "A little thing?" I pushed my chair back, standing up with a dry laugh. "If it’s such a little thing, why don't you peel them for her? Did your hands fall off, too?" "You—" Elliott started to push up from the table, his temper flaring. Clatter. A sharp, metallic sound cut through the room. The Zippo lighter was tossed onto the table. Damian unfolded his long frame from the corner booth. He didn't look at Elliott. He walked straight over, his long strides effortless, and picked up the heavy metal platter of crawfish with one hand. Under the stunned silence of twelve people, he dumped the entire thing straight into the nearest trash can. Crash. Sauce and shells splattered across the plastic liner. "Since nobody wants to peel them," Damian said, pulling a linen napkin from his pocket to wipe his fingers, his dark eyes sweeping over the table with lethal boredom, "nobody eats them. You're all giving me a headache." The text in my periphery went wild: [HOLY SHIT THAT WAS HOT!] [Protective husband mode: ACTIVATED!] [Am I crazy, or is Elliott looking pathetic right now while Damian is radiating pure main-character energy?] Elliott stood up, his face flushing crimson. "Damian, what the hell is your problem?" "My problem?" Damian crumpled the sauce-stained napkin and threw it straight into Elliott’s chest. "My problem is that I’ve been sick of looking at your smug face for five years." 8 Nobody dared to breathe. Elliott stood frozen, staring at Damian as if he were looking at a stranger. "Are we done being friends, Montgomery? Is that what this is?" Elliott’s voice shook with suppressed fury. "You’ve been gunning for me all week. Don't tell me you actually have feelings for Joanna!" Damian’s lips curved into a sharp, mocking smile, but the muscle in his jaw jumped violently. "None of your business." The floating text drifted over the table: [None of his business?! It's literally the ONLY business! Damian only became Elliott's friend in high school to get close to her!] [Elliott really has zero critical thinking skills. Did he think a guy like Damian just randomly decided to hang out with him?] [He saw Jo in the hallway junior year, had no clue how to talk to her, so he played the long game through Elliott... but he held back for five whole years because he didn't want to ruin her happiness!] I stared at the text, stunned. My eyes slowly drifted toward Damian, who was casually leaning back against the wall, projecting an aura of complete indifference. He really... all this time? Seeing the tension spiraling out of control, Sierra quickly stood up and laid a soothing hand on Elliott’s forearm. "Elliott, calm down, please. You said yourself Damian has a dry sense of humor. Let’s not let dinner get ruined." With her gentle stroking, Elliott’s shoulders dropped slightly, though his glare remained locked on Damian. Eventually, the tension subsided into awkward, quiet chatter. After several rounds of drinks, Sierra suggested a party game to lighten the mood. The oldest, most predictable game in the book: Truth or Dare. A few rounds passed uneventfully until the neck of an empty beer bottle spun across the lazy susan and stopped, pointing dead at me. A predatory glint flashed behind Sierra’s innocent smile. "Joanna, you have to pick Dare. Truth is so boring." I leaned back, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "Sure." "Okay, then..." Sierra tapped her chin in mock contemplation, her gaze sweeping around the table before darting toward Elliott, then quickly away. "I dare you to pick any guy in this room... and French kiss him for a full sixty seconds." Whistles and hushed murmurs broke out across the table. Everyone in this room knew I had been in love with Elliott Carter for half a decade. Sierra was setting a trap. She was betting on one of two outcomes: either I’d be too cowardly to kiss Elliott and look pathetic, or I’d try to kiss him, and he would reject me in front of everyone to protect Sierra's feelings. Either way, I was supposed to be the punchline. Elliott frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Sierra, that's too far. Pick something else." "What's the matter?" Sierra pouted, tilting her head. "Joanna hasn't even said no yet." Every pair of eyes at the table swiveled toward me, waiting for the crack in my composure. I picked up my shot glass and downed the bourbon in one clean gulp. The burn hit the back of my throat, lighting a fire in my blood. The text scrolled across my view: [KISS THE BAD BOY! KISS HIM SENSELESS!] [Jo, don't you dare back down! Take the prize!] I pushed my chair back and stood up. My heels sank into the plush carpet as I walked past Elliott, completely ignoring the way he sat up, bracing himself. I walked straight toward the shadowed booth in the corner. Straight to Damian. 9 Damian hadn't anticipated this. For the first time since I’d known him, the cold, mocking composure slipped from his features. He froze against the leather cushions, his dark eyes widening slightly as my reflection filled his pupils. "Damian," I said, my voice steady. His Adam’s apple bobbed violently. When he spoke, his voice was cracked and raw. "Miller... don't use me for your games." "I'm not playing." I planted both hands on the back of the booth on either side of his shoulders, effectively trapping him beneath me. I leaned down and pressed my mouth to his. His lips were cool, tasting faintly of mint and clove. The entire private room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence. Damian was rigid beneath me, hard as granite. Just as I thought he might shove me away, his large hand snapped up, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of my neck with a bruising grip, completely seizing control. This wasn't a party dare. It was a tidal wave of five years of repressed, suffocating longing crashing through a broken dam. He parted my lips with ruthless authority, his tongue sweeping inside, claiming every corner of my mouth, demanding every breath in my lungs until my vision blurred with stars. Smash. Across the room, the wine glass in Elliott’s hand slipped, shattering against the hardwood floor. Merlot pooled outward like blood. Damian didn't stop. In fact, the moment he heard the glass break, his teeth caught my lower lip in a sharp, possessive bite, pulling a muffled gasp from my throat. By the time he finally let me go, my chest was heaving, my lips swollen and throbbing. Damian rested his forehead against mine, his dark eyes burning with an intense, crimson heat. "Done yet?" he rasped. Before I could answer, a furious shadow descended on us. Elliott lunged forward, looking like a madman. "Joanna! Have you lost your damn mind?" He reached out to rip me away, but Damian’s arm shot out, blocking him cold. "Back off," Damian growled. "This is between her and me!" Elliott’s eyes were bloodshot, his chest heaving. "Joanna, if you’re putting on this pathetic show just to get a reaction out of me, you've gone too far!" "A show?" I started laughing. A wet, sharp laugh that pushed tears to the corners of my eyes. Peering over Damian’s broad shoulder, I looked at Elliott’s furious, indignant face. "Elliott... when you were in bed holding Sierra the other night while I was locked out in the cold, was that a show, too?" Dead silence swallowed the room. Elliott went stark white, his mouth opening and closing without producing a sound. Damian didn't give him another second. He shrugged off his heavy wool coat and draped it over my shoulders. The heavy fabric immediately enveloped me in his warmth and cedar scent. "We're leaving," Damian said. His arm locked firmly around my waist, steering me toward the exit. As we passed Elliott, their eyes met. Damian looked right through him, while Elliott looked like a man watching his entire world slip through his fingers.