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 breathed out and somehow sank even closer into his side, like she was trying to disappear into him altogether. How small she looked there, compared to him—fragile, soft. And Damien knew that wasn’t the whole of her. Theea was sharp, clever, stubborn to the bone. She fought tooth and claw to prove she could stand on her own. But now she let herself rest in the crook of his arm, her head heavy against his chest, her voice still echoing in his ears: I promise too. You’re stuck with me.
He went silent at that, silent in the way a man could only go when the words he wanted to say were too heavy to risk. His eyes stayed fixed on the crown of her head, on the spill of raven hair against his shirt, even after her own gaze slid away and her lashes lowered.
Aria had given in to sleep already, curled tight against Theea’s chest, tiny body rising and falling with hers. But Damien couldn’t follow them into it. Not yet. Restlessness gnawed at him from the inside out, tangled with something worse—affection. Fierce, growing, dangerous. For Theea. For the cub. For both.
And in that stillness, he realized something sharp and startling: if he held onto this cub, he could hold onto this moment. He could keep a part of Theea, because Aria was tied to her. Theea had been the one to name her, to defend her. If not for Theea’s wounds dragging them to this den, the cub would’ve been left in the ruins, forgotten in the rubble to die of starvation. But she hadn’t hesitated—she’d spoken for the cub’s life as if it mattered. Not that Damien would’ve driven his blade through the little thing, not truly, but the fact she stood for it… that counted. That burned itself into him.
His hand slipped from her shoulder, paused midair like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like reaching for her was something forbidden. His fingers hovered, then, with a hesitance that felt almost painful, he brushed them into her hair. Coarse in places, soft in others, untamed as the woman herself. He stroked once, slow, careful, as if the act alone might shatter something fragile.
“When you wake,” he murmured into the dark, the words barely more than breath, “everything’s going to be fine.” A lie, maybe. Or maybe a prayer. He told himself it was for her sake, but it was as much for his.
He let his hand drift through her hair again, gentler this time, like he was lulling her down into sleep and away from the ache. “I’ll carry you if I must. We’ll find a healer.” His voice had the cadence of a man reciting orders to himself, keeping the world steady one step at a time. “Then I’ll ask Frey to bind the little one to me. She’s got nothing left here. The mountains are gone. There’s no home for her kind anymore.”
He let the words trail off, his thumb catching on a tangle in her hair before smoothing it free. For a breath, he just looked at her, tucked close against him, and hated how much he wanted this to last.
He went silent at that, silent in the way a man could only go when the words he wanted to say were too heavy to risk. His eyes stayed fixed on the crown of her head, on the spill of raven hair against his shirt, even after her own gaze slid away and her lashes lowered.
Aria had given in to sleep already, curled tight against Theea’s chest, tiny body rising and falling with hers. But Damien couldn’t follow them into it. Not yet. Restlessness gnawed at him from the inside out, tangled with something worse—affection. Fierce, growing, dangerous. For Theea. For the cub. For both.
And in that stillness, he realized something sharp and startling: if he held onto this cub, he could hold onto this moment. He could keep a part of Theea, because Aria was tied to her. Theea had been the one to name her, to defend her. If not for Theea’s wounds dragging them to this den, the cub would’ve been left in the ruins, forgotten in the rubble to die of starvation. But she hadn’t hesitated—she’d spoken for the cub’s life as if it mattered. Not that Damien would’ve driven his blade through the little thing, not truly, but the fact she stood for it… that counted. That burned itself into him.
His hand slipped from her shoulder, paused midair like he wasn’t sure if he had the right. Like reaching for her was something forbidden. His fingers hovered, then, with a hesitance that felt almost painful, he brushed them into her hair. Coarse in places, soft in others, untamed as the woman herself. He stroked once, slow, careful, as if the act alone might shatter something fragile.
“When you wake,” he murmured into the dark, the words barely more than breath, “everything’s going to be fine.” A lie, maybe. Or maybe a prayer. He told himself it was for her sake, but it was as much for his.
He let his hand drift through her hair again, gentler this time, like he was lulling her down into sleep and away from the ache. “I’ll carry you if I must. We’ll find a healer.” His voice had the cadence of a man reciting orders to himself, keeping the world steady one step at a time. “Then I’ll ask Frey to bind the little one to me. She’s got nothing left here. The mountains are gone. There’s no home for her kind anymore.”
He let the words trail off, his thumb catching on a tangle in her hair before smoothing it free. For a breath, he just looked at her, tucked close against him, and hated how much he wanted this to last.
