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The faint, otherworldly glow of the aquarium wall bathed the room in a soft, shifting light. Tonight, the Fade had painted it with the illusion of an underwater starlit ocean, its surface rippling with spectral waves that seemed to whisper secrets only the restless could hear. Alessa lay on her side, cocooned in blankets so impossibly soft they should have been enough to lull her into sleep. Yet her eyes remained wide open, staring into the faint patterns the glow cast on the ceiling above her bed.
It had been hours—at least, that’s how it felt—since she’d first slipped beneath the covers. She had tried everything: closing her eyes and breathing deeply, counting the faint ripples on the aquarium wall, even burying her face into the pillow that still smelled faintly of crushed salt from her last wash. Nothing worked.
The restlessness had burrowed into her chest like a living thing, a weight that refused to let her sink into the comfort of sleep. It wasn’t anxiety exactly, though there had been plenty to worry about. No, this was something else—a subtle tension that tugged her awake, as though the Fade itself were leaning too close, watching with unseen eyes.
Finally, she let out a quiet sigh of defeat, sliding out from under the covers. The cool air nipped at her bare arms and legs, urging her to return to the plush mattress and fluffy blankets, but she ignored their call. Reaching for the robe draped on the nearby chair, she shrugged it on, the silk gliding over her skin as she loosely tied the sash around her waist. Her long hair was a tangled mess, but she gave it only a half-hearted attempt at smoothing it before leaving it to fall in soft waves over her shoulders.
Padding softly across the room, Alessa approached the small table where her equipment lay—a collection of tools, notes, and weapons she had meticulously prepared for their last mission but never had the chance to use. Her fingers traced the familiar edges of her blades, the cool metal grounding her in the present.
If sleep refused to come, she might as well put the time to use.
Yet, even as she reached for her whetstone, a prickling sensation crawled up the back of her neck. It wasn’t fear—she was used to the Fade’s influence, its ever-present hum that was as much a part of her as air and light now. No, this was sharper, a faint ripple in the atmosphere that set her teeth on edge.
She stilled, her hand hovering just above the blade, and cast a glance over her shoulder toward the door.
Something didn’t feel right.
That sensation prickling at the base of her skull—like the lightest brush of static against her skin—was one she had come to associate with Spite. It always started faint, almost teasing, as if the demon wasn’t sure whether to fully announce itself. Not fearsome, but ever present. A shadow watching her from just outside her peripheral vision.
Alessa hesitated, her hand lingering over the blade on her table. She didn’t fear Spite—not exactly—but she was far from comfortable with the demon’s presence. She did not care too much for it being able to make Lucanis have a nosebleed if it didn’t get its way. Demons weren’t supposed to be subtle. They twisted, consumed, destroyed. Yet Spite had been… uncharacteristically quiet since her small warning after joining their group. Too quiet.
In a strange way, that silence unnerved her more than any of its outbursts ever could.
This was the first time Alessa had seen a demon so embedded in its host without turning them into a monstrous abomination. And a non-mage at that. There were moments, of course, when Spite clawed its way to the surface of Lucanis’ control—the nosebleeds, the deepened voice, the occasional flash of otherworldly rage. But those moments were rare. Spite’s control never seemed total. Not like the abominations she had encountered before.
And then there was the strangest part: its interest in her .
No demands, no bargains, no whispered temptations to tip her into madness or ruin. It had done nothing but watch. There were times when she could feel Spite’s gaze—Lucanis’ dark eyes fixed on her, but they didn’t quite belong to him. She knew it was the demon, studying her, calculating. Yet, it never acted. Never spoke to her beyond its initial insistence to talk.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless Lucanis was keeping something from her. Alessa knew it was possible—no, probable. Trust was a fragile thing in their line of work, and Lucanis had been raised in the shadowed world of the Antivan Crows. Secrets were as much a survival tool to him as his daggers. Even so, there was a part of her that believed he wouldn’t intentionally keep something this important from her.
Would he?
She let out a long, slow breath, pressing her palms against the edge of the table. Her reflection in the polished steel of her blade stared back at her, the faint glow from the aquarium wall casting eerie highlights in her eyes. Whatever this was—this restlessness, this feeling of being watched—she wouldn’t ignore it.
She didn’t hear the door open, nor the faint shuffle of footsteps against the polished floor, but she knew he was there. The weight of his presence was unmistakable, a pressure in the room that wasn’t quite Lucanis and certainly wasn’t benign. Alessa straightened, her hand brushing instinctively against the table's edge before curling into a loose fist. When she turned, her suspicions were confirmed.
Lucanis—no, Spite —stood in the faint glow of the aquarium wall, watching her. And glaring at the water scene.
For a moment, she couldn’t help but marvel at how utterly wrong he looked. Gone was the deadly precision, the effortless grace that defined Lucanis Dellamorte. Spite moved like a marionette pulled by a drunken puppeteer, his strides uneven, his balance ever so slightly off-kilter. Shoulders hunched and head tilted, he surveyed the room seeing it for the first time.
It was almost funny— almost . She had seen Lucanis fight with the fluidity of a blade slicing through silk, his every movement a carefully honed display of lethal elegance. In contrast, Spite tripped over his own shadow. The way the demon wore Lucanis’ body reminded her of a child playing dress-up in a uniform that didn’t fit. And she wasn’t just meaning how the man looked at the moment in his casual wear. Yet, even in its awkwardness, there was something unsettling about how it inhabited him.
The sharp edges of amusement and unease scraped against one another in her chest as she watched him amble closer. This was still a demon in an assassin’s body afterall.
When he finally stopped a few feet from her, Spite grinned. It was a smile so at odds with Lucanis’ usual reserved expression that it made her skin crawl—too wide, too sharp, too pleased with itself. And when Spite spoke, there was no question who was in control.
The smooth, lilting Antivan accent she had grown used to was gone, replaced by clipped syllables and jagged, staccato sentences. The voice grated like steel dragged against stone.
“Finally,” Spite said, dragging the word out like it was a prize he’d been chasing for weeks. “We talk.”
The grin widened, and his dark eyes sparkled with a cruel kind of glee. The sudden shift in expression—so manic, so disconnected—would have been comical if it weren’t so alien.
Alessa tilted her head, crossing her arms loosely over her chest, careful to keep her expression neutral. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” she asked, her voice calm and measured.
He laughed, a disjointed, barking sound that made her wonder if he’d heard her at all. “Waiting? Waiting? ” Spite leaned forward slightly, his grin faltering as his expression flickered into something closer to anger, but not quite. “So long. So long he talks. Not you . Never you .”
He jabbed a finger at his chest—Lucanis’ chest, but the motion was so erratic it might as well have been someone else entirely. “How boring he is? Always planning. Always thinking.” Another laugh, sharp and bitter. “ Rook this, Rook that.” He spat the name like a cursed title. “But now... you. Alessa. We here. ”
The grin returned, sharp as broken glass. “Finally.”
Alessa’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. Not too sharp—she didn’t want to provoke him—but just enough to let Spite know she was far from intimidated. She leaned casually against the table, her arms still folded as she studied him with an air of practiced ease, like a cat watching an unruly dog trying to figure out its next move.
“Talk, then,” she said lightly, her tone as smooth as silk. “It’s all you seem to want. Here I am. You have my attention, Spite.”
His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, the manic light in his eyes dimming before flaring brighter. “ Spite, ” he repeated, rolling the word around like a taste he couldn’t quite savor. “You say it easy. Like you. Know. Me.”
The elven woman tilted her head slightly, her smile never wavering. “I’ve known many of your kind,” she said, her voice sweet with feigned warmth. “The Fade is full of demons, all of them convinced they’re the most fascinating thing to ever exist. Always clawing for power, spinning their little schemes.” She let the smile sharpen just a little at the edges. “You’re not so different.”
Spite’s expression twisted, a flicker of irritation breaking through the glee. “You think you clever.” The words were clipped, almost a growl. “But you ... you not like. The others. I know you, Alessa. You twist words. You play games. Too. They hate you.”
Her smile grew wider, more genuine now. “Oh, they do. But you don’t, do you? You’ve been watching me. Listening. You didn’t come here just to talk—you could have done that at any time. No, you waited. For this moment. Why?”
Spite’s grin returned, sly and lopsided. He stepped closer, his uneven gait making the movement feel more like a lurch. “You different,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Not like him. Not like others. You understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?” She kept her tone light, playful, but her eyes never left his. Spite might have worn Lucanis’ face, but she could see the cracks in the facade—the telltale flickers of purple showing the demon beneath.
Spite leaned in closer, his grin now so wide it looked painful. “You know what it like. To wear mask. To play part. You see it in him, don’t you? How he hides. How he lies .” His voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorial.
The shift was subtle, but Alessa caught it. The bait. A clumsy attempt to sow doubt between her and Lucanis. She let out a soft laugh, straightening to meet his gaze head-on. “Oh, Spite,” she said, her tone dripping with mock affection. “If you think you can plant little seeds of doubt in me, you’re going to have to do better than that. I’ve been dealing with demons far longer than you’ve been stuck in poor Lucanis’ head.”
Spite snarled, his grin vanishing in an instant. The sudden flare of temper was as brief as it was intense, his hand twitching at his side as though resisting the urge to lash out.
Alessa’s gaze softened, though her smile remained. She could see the cracks in his bluster, the flicker of something beneath the anger and the sharp words. He wanted something from her—something he wasn’t used to asking for. Something he didn’t know how to ask for.
When Spite leaned closer, his movements twitchy and uneven, she didn’t step back. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him as intently as he was studying her. “What do you really want from me, Spite?” she asked again, but this time her voice was quieter, gentler.
Spite’s grin wavered, his expression flickering through a series of emotions too quickly to pin down. “Want?” he repeated, his tone uncertain, almost confused. “What I...?” His gaze flicked to her hand, which hovered near his arm, her fingers curling and uncurling absently as though debating what to do.
Alessa hesitated, then made her decision. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and placed her hand on his forearm, the fabric of Lucanis’ sleeve cool and rough beneath her palm. Her touch was light, a mere whisper of contact, but the reaction was immediate.
Spite froze. His head tilted slightly, the crooked grin fading as his expression shifted to one of quiet fascination. His dark eyes, so unlike Lucanis’ usual guarded intensity, widened just a fraction as he stared at her hand. It was as if he were trying to comprehend something entirely foreign.
“Why?” he asked, his voice softer now, the usual jagged edge blunted by confusion. “Why you...?”
Alessa smiled faintly, her thumb brushing the fabric of his sleeve in a small, absent motion. “Because I wanted to,” she said simply. “Is that so strange?”
Spite blinked, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. The curiosity in his expression was almost childlike, as though the concept of such a gesture was something he’d never encountered before. “You don’t fear me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“Should I?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, her tone light but not mocking. “You’ve had plenty of chances to hurt me if you wanted to. But you haven’t. Not yet.”
His head tilted further, the motion almost birdlike, and for a moment he simply stared at her, as if searching for something in her face. Then, hesitantly, he lifted his other hand—Lucanis’ hand, though the movement was unsteady, uncertain—and hovered it near hers, not quite touching.
“No hurt, not you,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur, something quieter, softer. Vulnerable. “Don’t know.”
Alessa’s smile grew a little warmer, though she was careful not to push too far. “That’s alright,” she said gently. “You don’t have to. Not everything needs to be understood right away.”
Spite’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he stepped back, breaking the contact. The usual manic energy began to return to his movements, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression—something she couldn’t quite place.
“Strange,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to clear it. “You’re... strange.”
Alessa chuckled softly, crossing her arms again as she watched him with a faint glimmer of amusement. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said lightly.
Spite wasn’t just a demon bound to a host; he was a spirit corrupted, twisted into something alien to his original nature, then thrust into a human mind and body. The two of them—host and demon, man and spirit—were locked in a battle neither could win alone. The whole team, as new as it was, were seeing just how tiring it was for Lucanis. There was no way he was going to be able to keep this up for long. It was honestly a miracle as much as a wonder how he had for the last month. And here she was, standing between them, with an idea to finally get both some rest that was so reckless it almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Her hand lingered on his sleeve, her fingers soft against the coarse fabric, as the weight of that thought settled over her. Biting her lip, Alessa hesitated only for a moment before she decided to gamble. “Spite,” she said softly, her voice gentle but steady.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and focused, his head tilting slightly in that birdlike way. “What?” he asked, his voice still laced with confusion.
The blonde smiled faintly, keeping her tone light, nonthreatening. “May I?” she asked, slowly reaching for his hand. “I’d like to try something.”
The demon’s brow furrowed, his fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to pull away. “Why?” he asked, the single word both suspicious and intrigued.
“Because Lucanis needs to sleep,” she said simply, her honesty cutting through the tension like a blade. “And maybe... you could use some peace, too.”
Spite blinked, his expression flickering through confusion, curiosity, and something else she couldn’t quite place. But he didn’t pull away. Slowly, tentatively, she took his hand in hers, her fingers curling around his with deliberate care.
His hand was warm, rough, so similar to Lucanis’ but somehow alien in the way it moved—hesitant, uncertain. She began to rub her thumb softly over the back of his hand, a small, soothing motion that seemed to mesmerize him. His head tilted further, his dark eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at her hand as though it held the secrets of the universe.
“Why?” he asked again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
Alessa smiled, her touch never faltering. “Because no one else has, have they? Not like this.”
Spite didn’t respond, but the way his fingers twitched beneath hers, the way he stared as though committing the sensation to memory, spoke volumes. He was fascinated, transfixed, his usual sharp edges dulled by this strange new experience.
“Would you let me try something else?” she asked softly, her gaze steady on his. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”
His eyes snapped back to hers, the usual manic energy flickering there for a moment before curiosity took hold. “Promise. Like a contract?” he asked, his voice cautious but intrigued.
“Yes. I want to help Lucanis sleep,” she explained, her tone patient. “And you, too. Just for a while. No fighting, no pain. Would you let me try?”
The silence stretched between them, thick with tension and unspoken thoughts. Spite’s gaze darted between her eyes and her hand, still gently holding his, as though weighing her words against some internal calculation.
Finally, he nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Try.”
Alessa smiled, a warmth blooming in her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly, giving his hand a small, reassuring squeeze.
As she began to lead him toward the bed, her mind raced of what she was doing. When Lucanis woke, she knew he would likely panic, his thoughts spiraling with worry over what didn’t happen rather than what did. But for now, she would take the risk—for him, and for the demon who wore his face but longed for something neither of them could name or admit to.
Alessa moved with carefully as she turned down the covers on the bed, the faint glow of the aquarium wall casting her every motion in soft, rippling light. She tugged the blanket aside, smoothing it over with quick, practiced movements. All the while, Spite hovered awkwardly nearby, his movements both jerky and rushed, as though he wasn’t sure whether to sit, stand, or lie down immediately.
“You’re going to have to actually get in the bed, you know,” she said, keeping her tone light despite the tightening knot in her chest.
Spite blinked at her, tilting his head as though processing the words took effort. Then, without warning, he all but dove onto the mattress, sprawling himself out with an inelegant flail of limbs that was so utterly unlike Lucanis that Alessa stared wide eyed and fought hard not to laugh. The mattress dipped under his weight as he shifted around, trying—and failing—to mimic some semblance of composure.
“Close enough,” she murmured under her breath, shaking her head in amusement as she moved to the other side of the bed.
For a split second she realized just how hair brained she was for literally sharing a bed with a demon. Nor had she thought of being happily married and how this all sounded and looked to outside eyes and ears. But there was no turning back now. She slipped into the bed, deftly hanging her robe on the headboard and pulling the sheet up to create a barrier between them. The covers were smooth and cool against her skin as she tucked herself in, pulling the blankets over both of them. For a moment, there was stillness—peace, even.
Then she felt it.
Her breath hitched, and cold fear jolted down her spine as she realized Spite had shifted toward her, his arms wrapping around her with startling familiarity. His body pressed against hers, Lucanis’ muscled form an unyielding presence that sent her mind racing. She was frozen, trapped between the bed and his overwhelming proximity.
“Soft,” Spite murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. He nuzzled closer, his grin broadening as he inhaled deeply. “Smell of salt, and berries.”
Alessa’s mind screamed at her to move, to push him away, but her body refused to obey. Her cheeks burned as she realized— too late —that she was still in her small clothes, doing little to shield her from the intensity of the demon’s touch.
And then, as if her night couldn’t spiral further out of control, Spite shifted again. His hands fumbled at Lucanis’ shirt with a roughness that made her wince. The fabric strained against the buttons as he yanked at it, his grin widening with a manic sort of glee.
“Soft,” he muttered again, his voice dripping with fascination. “But this—no good. Too much. Want less.”
Alessa’s eyes widened in horror as the first button popped, ricocheting off the headboard with a faint plink . “Wait—what are you doing?!” she managed to squeak, her voice higher-pitched than she intended.
“Uncomfortable,” Spite replied simply, as though that explained everything. His fingers continued their assault on the shirt, tugging and pulling with a single-minded determination that made her heart race for all the wrong reasons.
The woman’s mind raced just as quickly, a torrent of panic and exasperation crashing over her. ‘When Lucanis wakes up, he’s going to think—oh, Maker, he’s going to—’
“Spite, stop!” she hissed, her voice sharp but not loud enough to wake Lucanis—not yet, at least. “You can’t just—leave his clothes alone!”
Spite paused, tilting his head toward her with a frown that almost looked pouty. “Why?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious. “Too hot. Not soft.”
Alessa groaned softly, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to summon every ounce of patience she had left. “Because when Lucanis wakes up and sees this, he’s going to panic . And I’ll have to explain that nothing happened—which he probably won’t believe.”
The demon considered her words for a moment, his grin fading into a thoughtful expression. Then he leaned closer again, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “You explain. Your problem.” His grin returned, sharper this time. “But you soft. Nice. No fighting.”
Alessa resisted the urge to bury her face in the pillow and scream. “This is not how I imagined tonight going,” she muttered under her breath.
“I want.” Spite replied, far too cheerfully.
Alessa tried to keep herself calm, her mind racing for some way to extricate herself from this increasingly surreal predicament. But Spite, with all the unshakable persistence of a particularly troublesome cat, seemed determined to make things even more complicated.
Before she could protest further, Spite shifted again. His head dipped down, burying itself in the crook of her neck. A startled gasp escaped her lips as she felt his warm breath against her skin. His movements were deliberate yet strangely hesitant, as though he were exploring something completely foreign.
And then he nuzzled her.
Nuzzled. Her.
It wasn’t just a brief, awkward brush—it was a full-on, shameless burrow into her neck, his nose pressed against her as he inhaled deeply. His dark hair tickled her cheek as he nestled closer, his arms curling around her waist with startling possessiveness.
“What—Spite, what are you doing?” she demanded, her voice an urgent whisper, more incredulous than angry.
“Nice,” Spite murmured, his voice muffled against her skin. “Soft. Warm. Smell of ocean. But soft ocean. Warm ocean. Not Occuary.”
She stiffened as she felt his hands begin to roam, rubbing aimlessly over her back, her arms, her sides—anywhere he could reach. Though he avoided anything too inappropriate, the sheer volume of contact was overwhelming. It was like being smothered by a particularly clingy, overly affectionate animal -cat- that had no concept of personal space.
The elf tried to wriggle free, but Spite only tightened his hold, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his strength. And then, as if the situation wasn’t already absurd enough, she heard it—a deep, rumbling sound vibrating through his chest.
Spite was purring .
“Maker’s breath,” she whispered, staring at the ceiling as if it might provide some divine intervention. A demon—a literal demon—was cuddling her, nuzzling her, purring at her. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream.
The worst part was how utterly alien it felt to see Lucanis’ body—the poised, pragmatic, lethal assassin she’d come to know over the past month—reduced to this bizarre display of almost childlike affection. It was so utterly at odds with everything she knew about him that her brain struggled to reconcile the image.
“Spite,” she said carefully, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You do realize this is Lucanis’ body, don’t you?”
Spite hummed against her neck, the vibration sending another shiver down her spine. “Yes,” he replied simply, as though the answer should have been obvious.
“And you realize that if he wakes up like this, he’s going to lose his mind, right?”
Spite pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief and something else—something softer, more curious. “Maybe,” he said with a grin. Like the spiteful little shit he was.
Alessa opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. His tone may have been one thing, but his movements were strangely genuine, almost vulnerable, and she found herself hesitating. She wasn’t sure if it was the demon or some strange reflection of Lucanis’ own mind bleeding through, but the way he looked at her—like she was some kind of anchor in the storm—made it hard to push him away.
Her anxiety, however, was far less forgiving. She tried again to shift, only to be met with more determined nuzzling. His hands were still wandering—over her arms, her shoulders, the curve of her hip—exploring every inch he could without crossing any obvious boundaries.
“You smell... clean,” he murmured, his voice soft and oddly reverent. “Not like blood. Not like fear.”
A demon was cuddling her like a child clutching a treasured blanket. The rumbling purr deep in his chest was an almost absurd contrast to the poised, deadly master Crow she knew Lucanis to be.
And yet, as she lay there, her initial panic slowly gave way to an unexpected understanding.
The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. This was a man and a demon who had both been imprisoned and tortured for over a year. Spite—this corrupted spirit now cradled against her—had only ever known touch to mean pain, suffering, and dominance. No wonder he was confused, curious, even fascinated. This kind of touch—gentle, harmless, and without an ulterior motive—was entirely foreign to him.
And Lucanis... she couldn’t even begin to fathom the layers of his trauma. His strength and composure, the way he held himself as though nothing could reach him—it wasn’t just discipline. It was armor, forged in fire and honed to survive a world that had tried to break him. This wasn’t just about Spite; it was about Lucanis, too.
Her heart ached as she realized how starved they both were—for touch, for comfort, for anything that did not hurt.
The logical part of her mind screamed that this was dangerous, that no one should be touching or cuddling someone else without consent. Her own trauma trying to surface. But Alessa made a choice. She would let the demon explore, so long as it stayed innocent, so long as Spite’s curiosity didn’t stray into places she wasn’t willing to allow. If this small act could bring even a fraction of peace to either of them, she was willing to risk the awkwardness.
And it did stay innocent.
Spite, for all his wild and unnerving intensity, was surprisingly restrained. His hands roamed over her arms, her back, her sides, even her hips, but never lingered anywhere inappropriate. His touch was firm yet careful, as though he were cataloging every sensation—her warmth, the softness of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
She knew he could feel her tension. He wasn’t oblivious, not even in this strange, touch-starved state. But there was no malice, no threat in his movements or sensing it in her, and so he seemed content to ignore the stiffness in her frame. Not the worst thing ever, but not ideal for any future habits to start..
“Soft,” he murmured against her neck, his voice low and almost reverent. “Warm.”
The purring continued, a steady vibration that was strangely soothing despite the absurdity of the situation. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax by degrees. Spite responded immediately, his grip loosening just enough to make her breathing easier, as though he’d sensed her discomfort and adjusted without thought.
The demon shifted again, pressing closer, his head nestled against the curve of her shoulder. His hair brushed against her cheek, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, synchronized almost unconsciously with her own.
In the back of her mind, she knew she would have to explain all of this to Lucanis when he woke up. She could already imagine the storm of questions, the worry, the incredulity. But she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
For now, she let herself be still. Let Spite indulge in his curiosity, in this strange, innocent exploration of touch. If this was what it took to calm him, to give Lucanis a moment of true rest, then so be it.
Every few minutes Spite mumbled, his voice heavy with drowsiness, repeating the same words over and over of how good she smelled and touched. His fingers brushed lightly against her arm, then stilled, his purring softening into a contented hum.
Alessa closed her eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks. Whatever this was, it was temporary.
But then why did that feel like the biggest lie here?
Still, as she felt the demon’s breath even out, his hold on her steady but no longer invasive, she couldn’t help but think. ‘What in the Void have I gotten myself into?’