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
She looked up at him, met his eyes and didn’t waver. Firelight caught the flush spreading across her cheeks, that telltale warmth she always gave away around him. He noticed it the way he noticed everything about her; the way her hair broke loose and framed her face like spilled ink, catching glimmers of light as if it had its own stubborn will. Her eyes were so damned blue it stopped him every time. Not like the storybook ocean or summer sky, no. More like mountain ice, sharp and unyielding, and yet when she looked at him, it melted at the edges.
He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this. Especially not now, with blood still drying on their clothes, her stitches pulling under his arm. But he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful without trying. Maybe because she never tried. Even undone, fraying at the seams, exhaustion dragging her eyelids low—she still hit him square in the chest.
Her body pressed closer when his arm tightened around her. That thumb of hers, drawing lazy circles over his shirt—he hadn’t even realized it until just then, and suddenly every point of contact burned clear in his mind. Her chest against his ribs, her legs brushing against his, their breathing synced tight in the close heat of the bedroll. She was right there, and it made his pulse kick harder, rougher. He hated how much he wanted to stay like this. Nights like this—without all the blood, without the near-death. Or maybe it was the danger that made the closeness mean so much more, like every breath was a dare to take what they could before it was gone.
She told him he had protected her, reminded him of the leopard, of the moment his blade found its mark where she would’ve been torn apart. The words cracked something loose in him, a knot so tight it had calcified. Before he could stop himself, he breathed it out low and certain:
“And I’d do it a hundred times, Theea. If it meant keeping you alive.”
The silence after was thick, filled with everything he hadn’t meant to say.
She grinned then, bright enough to hurt. His words about “only the beginning” had lit something in her. And when she asked him—you promise?—her voice carried it like a plea and a vow all at once.
It stopped him cold. He hadn’t meant it that way, not exactly. What he’d meant was duty, the grind, the endless war the guild had signed them into. But she was looking at him like he was more than that. Like he was hers.
His throat worked, dry as sand. A dozen answers warred in his skull—don’t ask me that, don’t hope for that, don’t make me break it later. But she waited, her blue-ice eyes locked on his, her heartbeat thrumming against him, and he found himself caught.
He didn’t lie. Couldn’t.
His voice dropped, low, almost tender against the weight of the dark. “Yeah. I promise.”
And gods help him, he meant it.
He shouldn’t be thinking of her like this. Especially not now, with blood still drying on their clothes, her stitches pulling under his arm. But he couldn’t help it. She was beautiful without trying. Maybe because she never tried. Even undone, fraying at the seams, exhaustion dragging her eyelids low—she still hit him square in the chest.
Her body pressed closer when his arm tightened around her. That thumb of hers, drawing lazy circles over his shirt—he hadn’t even realized it until just then, and suddenly every point of contact burned clear in his mind. Her chest against his ribs, her legs brushing against his, their breathing synced tight in the close heat of the bedroll. She was right there, and it made his pulse kick harder, rougher. He hated how much he wanted to stay like this. Nights like this—without all the blood, without the near-death. Or maybe it was the danger that made the closeness mean so much more, like every breath was a dare to take what they could before it was gone.
She told him he had protected her, reminded him of the leopard, of the moment his blade found its mark where she would’ve been torn apart. The words cracked something loose in him, a knot so tight it had calcified. Before he could stop himself, he breathed it out low and certain:
“And I’d do it a hundred times, Theea. If it meant keeping you alive.”
The silence after was thick, filled with everything he hadn’t meant to say.
She grinned then, bright enough to hurt. His words about “only the beginning” had lit something in her. And when she asked him—you promise?—her voice carried it like a plea and a vow all at once.
It stopped him cold. He hadn’t meant it that way, not exactly. What he’d meant was duty, the grind, the endless war the guild had signed them into. But she was looking at him like he was more than that. Like he was hers.
His throat worked, dry as sand. A dozen answers warred in his skull—don’t ask me that, don’t hope for that, don’t make me break it later. But she waited, her blue-ice eyes locked on his, her heartbeat thrumming against him, and he found himself caught.
He didn’t lie. Couldn’t.
His voice dropped, low, almost tender against the weight of the dark. “Yeah. I promise.”
And gods help him, he meant it.
