Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Her smile—faint, fragile, stubborn—was still there. It twisted him up, the way she could still shine through all the hurt. He thought of her words, about wanting to see his carvings, about “sometime.” The future she still believed in. His mouth moved before he could second-guess it.
“Then you will,” he said, nodding once, with that iron certainty that was more vow than idle talk.
Damien didn’t look away when she spoke of her father. He listened, every word sinking down into him. He could picture it: the unicorn, the speed, her small form pressed safe against someone she trusted absolutely. The way her voice softened around the memory told him everything. Then came the stumble, the falter—the Fangs, the fall. He saw her pull in on herself, bracing against the grief like she’d done a thousand times before.
He didn’t let her sit there alone.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice quiet and smooth, steady as the hand he shifted just slightly—off the cub’s back, brushing close enough to hers that his knuckles grazed the edge of her blanket. Not a full touch, not yet. Just the offer of one. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
The cub mewled again, stretching its paws until they pressed into both of them, insistent little claws kneading fabric. Damien let out a breath, softer this time, almost a laugh. “Seems like it doesn’t want you to stop talking. Can’t blame it.. Your old man sounds like he was one hell of a rider.” His eyes caught hers again, dark but not unkind.
He let the fire’s crackle fill a beat of silence, then added, more quietly, “That’s how he stays with you. Not in the fall. In the flight.”
The words surprised him even as he said them. They weren’t what he’d meant to give, but they came anyway, unvarnished. He shifted, the blanket sliding across his shoulder, and finally let his hand rest lightly atop hers where it lay on the cub’s fur. A feather of contact, warm, steady. No promises. Just presence.
“Then you will,” he said, nodding once, with that iron certainty that was more vow than idle talk.
Damien didn’t look away when she spoke of her father. He listened, every word sinking down into him. He could picture it: the unicorn, the speed, her small form pressed safe against someone she trusted absolutely. The way her voice softened around the memory told him everything. Then came the stumble, the falter—the Fangs, the fall. He saw her pull in on herself, bracing against the grief like she’d done a thousand times before.
He didn’t let her sit there alone.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice quiet and smooth, steady as the hand he shifted just slightly—off the cub’s back, brushing close enough to hers that his knuckles grazed the edge of her blanket. Not a full touch, not yet. Just the offer of one. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
The cub mewled again, stretching its paws until they pressed into both of them, insistent little claws kneading fabric. Damien let out a breath, softer this time, almost a laugh. “Seems like it doesn’t want you to stop talking. Can’t blame it.. Your old man sounds like he was one hell of a rider.” His eyes caught hers again, dark but not unkind.
He let the fire’s crackle fill a beat of silence, then added, more quietly, “That’s how he stays with you. Not in the fall. In the flight.”
The words surprised him even as he said them. They weren’t what he’d meant to give, but they came anyway, unvarnished. He shifted, the blanket sliding across his shoulder, and finally let his hand rest lightly atop hers where it lay on the cub’s fur. A feather of contact, warm, steady. No promises. Just presence.
