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
Aria gave a little trill at the scratch beneath her jaw, her eyes closing as she melted into Theea’s touch. Damien felt the vibration of her purr through his own ribs, a steady rumble pressed between them. He watched the cub’s contentment like it was something fragile, fleeting, something he couldn’t quite touch.
And then Theea’s words came, steady as hammer blows, each one striking its mark. She was gentle, yes, but she didn’t pull punches. She called him out plain, told him he wasn’t the reason she was hurt, that she’d chosen every step. He wanted to argue—hell, the words prickled at the back of his throat, sharp and bitter—but she kept talking, and all he could do was sit there, take it, let it sink deep where it stung.
When she said the scars wouldn’t be monuments to failure but proof of survival, something in him twisted hard. His chest felt too small for his lungs. He wanted to scoff, to shake his head, to shove away the hope in her eyes before it rooted anywhere in him. But gods help him, he believed her, at least for a moment.
She leaned back into him and every nerve in his body fired at once. He could smell her hair, faint smoke and soap and copper. He could feel the heat of her pressed tight into his side. He wanted—gods, he wanted. His jaw locked until it ached, resisting the pull to tip his chin, to catch her lips with his, to give in to the madness of how right she felt against him. He resisted because he had to. Because if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back.
And he hated himself for it. For resisting. For wanting. For not being strong enough to protect her when it counted.
The words broke loose, ragged, before he could bite them back. “I wasn’t able to protect you.” Low, raw, almost swallowed. His eyes found hers, dark and firelit, and for once he didn’t look away. Everything he couldn’t say hung there instead—the apology, the ache, the guilt, the dangerous pull he was fighting with every breath.
His arm tightened the barest fraction around her, a wordless promise he couldn’t quite voice.
“You joined the guild,” he said finally, rough but steadier, his chest rising under her cheek. “So did I. Guess that means this—” he gave the faintest huff, humorless, “—is only the beginning.”
And then Theea’s words came, steady as hammer blows, each one striking its mark. She was gentle, yes, but she didn’t pull punches. She called him out plain, told him he wasn’t the reason she was hurt, that she’d chosen every step. He wanted to argue—hell, the words prickled at the back of his throat, sharp and bitter—but she kept talking, and all he could do was sit there, take it, let it sink deep where it stung.
When she said the scars wouldn’t be monuments to failure but proof of survival, something in him twisted hard. His chest felt too small for his lungs. He wanted to scoff, to shake his head, to shove away the hope in her eyes before it rooted anywhere in him. But gods help him, he believed her, at least for a moment.
She leaned back into him and every nerve in his body fired at once. He could smell her hair, faint smoke and soap and copper. He could feel the heat of her pressed tight into his side. He wanted—gods, he wanted. His jaw locked until it ached, resisting the pull to tip his chin, to catch her lips with his, to give in to the madness of how right she felt against him. He resisted because he had to. Because if he crossed that line, there’d be no going back.
And he hated himself for it. For resisting. For wanting. For not being strong enough to protect her when it counted.
The words broke loose, ragged, before he could bite them back. “I wasn’t able to protect you.” Low, raw, almost swallowed. His eyes found hers, dark and firelit, and for once he didn’t look away. Everything he couldn’t say hung there instead—the apology, the ache, the guilt, the dangerous pull he was fighting with every breath.
His arm tightened the barest fraction around her, a wordless promise he couldn’t quite voice.
“You joined the guild,” he said finally, rough but steadier, his chest rising under her cheek. “So did I. Guess that means this—” he gave the faintest huff, humorless, “—is only the beginning.”
