When the Devil Brought Quiet

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They call her Femi, though no one knows her real name.

Silent and elusive, she moves through the Helix clubhouse like a ghost, serving dangerous men while asking only to be left alone. Then Daemon returns—a scarred, merciless man feared by everyone except the woman whose quiet begins drawing him closer.

He never asks for her voice. She never asks for his protection.

But some monsters remember what the world has forgotten—and when Femi’s buried past begins whispering her name, Daemon will remind them why even devils know to fear him.

When the Devil Brought Quiet is a dark, slow-burning romance about the violence of memory, the sanctuary of choice, and a dangerous man who became the safest place she had ever known.

A dark romantic suspense novel featuring a morally gray protector, slow-burn intimacy, found family, and trauma recovery—set inside a gritty biker world.

Table of Contents

Ravenside changed at the tracks.

There was no sign announcing it.

No gate.

No border patrol.

No neat municipal marker informing anyone that the city they had been standing in five seconds ago had ended and another had begun.

There were only two steel rails sunk into old gravel, cutting through Ravenside like a scar.

On the eastern side, the city climbed toward the evening sky in glass and steel.

Mirror-faced towers caught the last light of dusk and threw it back in sheets of copper and gold. Office windows burned high above the streets. Valet attendants in pressed black jackets moved between idling cars beneath hotel awnings while men in tailored suits checked watches worth more than most people in Wolfwater made in a year.

A bakery on Riverward stayed open late. Warm light spilled through its windows.

Bread cooled behind the glass.

Butter.

Sugar.

Cinnamon.

The smell followed pedestrians halfway down the block.

Then came the tracks.

Cross them, and Ravenside stopped pretending everyone belonged to the same city. The asphalt cracked first. Then the streetlights thinned. Luxury towers remained visible behind you, but they seemed farther away than a few blocks should have allowed.

Wolfwater began with old brick.

Factories that had once fed Ravenside’s appetite stretched along the river, some abandoned, others only half dismantled. Their broken windows stared toward the water. Rusted fire escapes clung to walls where entire floors had collapsed inward. Weeds pushed through parking lots no one had bothered to repave.

The river ran beside them.

Dark.

Slow.

The color of old pewter beneath the dying light.

Chain-link fences divided one forgotten property from another. Some leaned so badly a man could step over them. Others had been patched with plywood, wire, old road signs, and whatever else someone had found before winter came.

Potholes collected black water.

Shopping carts appeared in places where there were no stores. Under the overpass near Mill Street, shapes moved beneath blankets and sleeping bags as people settled in before the temperature dropped. A shopping bag rustled in the wind. Someone coughed. A shopping cart wheel squealed once, then went quiet. Farther down the street, a V-twin engine turned over.

The sound rolled through Wolfwater.

Deep.

Heavy.

Familiar.

Nobody looked toward it.

Near Fourth and Bismol, an old warehouse wall had been painted over so many times that the brick beneath had disappeared beneath layers of gray, black, white, and rust-colored paint. Someone had added something new. Silver spray paint gleamed beneath the streetlamp. A serpent. Its body coiled three times. Its scales had been suggested with quick diagonal strokes. Its head was missing.

Two men walked toward it from the corner. One noticed the symbol first. His conversation stopped. The other followed his stare. Neither said anything. They crossed the street.

Wolfwater had rules. Most were never written down. The people who survived there learned them anyway.

Three blocks away, the red neon above Helix buzzed against the coming dark.

H E _ I X.

The L had been dead for months.

Malone had been told about it. Repeatedly. He had demonstrated precisely how much he cared by doing absolutely nothing. The clubhouse occupied a two-story building of blackened brick wedged between a shuttered body shop and a warehouse whose roof sagged toward the center like a broken jaw.

Motorcycles already crowded the curb.

Harleys.

Indians.

A battered Triumph that had no business still running and somehow did. Chrome caught the red neon and threw it across the wet pavement. The alley behind Helix was barely wide enough for a truck. A single yellow lamp hung above the back entrance. Wind coming off the river made it sway. Light moved across the brick. Dark. Light. Dark again.

Inside, Helix was alive.

Not loud yet. That would come. For now, the clubhouse had settled into its evening growl. Conversation overlapped beneath old rock playing from speakers mounted somewhere near the ceiling. Pool balls cracked together at the back of the room. Glass struck wood. A stool scraped. Someone laughed hard enough to start coughing.

A motorcycle sat along the far wall beneath an old framed photograph of six men standing beside bikes twenty years earlier. Another stood near the stairs. Helix had never entirely decided whether it was a bar, a clubhouse, a garage, or someone’s living room. So it remained all four. The long bar bore the evidence. Cigarette burns from before Malone had banned smoking inside. Knife scratches. Names carved into the wood. A dark stain from something nobody remembered. A lipstick ring someone had drawn a circle around years ago and labeled MARRY HER in black marker.

Above it all, an ancient ceiling fan turned with a tired click.

Click.

Tonight, something else occupied the room.

Garlic.

Onions.

Rosemary.

Roasting meat.

A man sitting near the service window lifted his head and sniffed.

“What the hell is that?”

The biker beside him didn’t look away from his cards.

“Food.”

“I know it’s food.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Helix ain’t supposed to smell like somebody’s grandmother’s house.”

From behind the bar, Malone said, “Don’t eat it.”

The man immediately looked offended.

“I didn’t say that.”

A few people laughed.

Malone continued wiping the counter. Broad shoulders. Iron-gray hair. Weathered face. Black shirt with the sleeves pushed high enough to expose old tattoos fading along his forearms. He moved without hurry.

Malone rarely hurried.

He had discovered years ago that men became nervous when the person confronting them didn’t appear particularly concerned.

Two bikers near the pool table proved the point. One shoved the other. The second man shoved back harder. A chair scraped. Several conversations lowered. Malone looked up. That was all. One long, flat stare from behind the bar. The first biker stepped back. The second picked up his beer. The room resumed breathing.

Malone returned to the counter.

Femi slipped between the tables.

She was easy to overlook if someone wasn’t paying attention. That was deliberate. Five foot three. Olive skin. Green eyes. Midnight-black hair fell almost to her waist, though tonight most of it had been pulled back so it wouldn’t fall into the plates she carried.

Black jeans.

Black shoes.

Dark shirt.

An apron tied around her waist. Nothing bright. Nothing that demanded attention. Femi had learned a long time ago that attention could be dangerous. She carried three plates toward the far tables. One went in front of a heavyset biker named Nick, who had been coming to Helix longer than she had been alive.

He looked down.

Then back at her.

“That’s mine?”

Femi nodded.

“Didn’t order yet.”

She pointed toward the plate. Medium burger. No tomato. Onions. Fries.

Nick stared at it.

Then at her.

“You remembered?”

Another nod.

Nick looked toward Malone.

Malone was polishing a glass.

“She’s smarter than you,” he said.

“Everybody’s smarter than me.”

“First true thing you’ve said all week.”

Femi’s mouth moved. Barely. Not quite a smile. She continued. Cutter sat near the far wall with two older bikers and a deck of cards worn soft around the edges. He raised two fingers as she approached. Femi set down his coffee before he asked.

Black.

No sugar.

Cutter looked into the cup.

“You trying to tell me something?”

Femi lifted an eyebrow.

“I ain’t old.”

Her eyebrow climbed higher. The men at the table laughed.

“Traitor,” Cutter muttered.

Femi moved away. Every time the front door opened, her eyes went there. Every time. It didn’t matter what she was doing. Carrying plates. Collecting bottles. Wiping tables. Refilling water. The hinges moved. Cold air entered. Femi looked. Man. Woman. Biker. Stranger. Regular. Her eyes registered them before returning to whatever was in front of her.

She knew the front door. The rear entrance. The kitchen exit. The stairs. The narrow hallway leading toward the rooms in back. She knew which windows opened. Which didn’t. Which tables could be moved easily. Which chairs were heavy enough to slow someone down.

She knew where Malone stood. Always. And Malone knew where she stood. Always. He simply made certain she never noticed him checking. A group entered shortly after eight. Four men. Two women. Regulars. Femi relaxed before the door had fully closed.

At eight twenty-three, someone dropped a bottle. Glass shattered. Her shoulders jerked. Her hand tightened around the tray. Malone saw it. He said nothing. Femi inhaled once. Exhaled. Continued walking.

At eight forty-seven, a man shouted after losing at pool. Her head snapped toward him.

At nine twelve, two motorcycles backfired outside. She froze for less than a second. Then moved again. Most people never noticed. Malone noticed every time.

By ten, Helix had become loud enough that conversation required commitment. Music rolled through the room. The pool table had accumulated money along one rail. Someone was arguing about an engine rebuild near the stairs. Someone else had decided that Malone needed to hear, in great detail, why the Ravenside parking authority consisted entirely of thieves and bastards.

Malone poured whiskey throughout the explanation. Femi moved through all of it. A hand lifted. She already knew what the table wanted.

Two beers.

A whiskey.

Water.

Another basket of fries.

She turned before the man could call her.

His hand dropped.

“Hell,” he said. “She does that every damn time.”

“Maybe you’re predictable,” Cutter called.

“Maybe you can mind your business.”

“My business is knowing you’re predictable.”

The room erupted again. Femi reached the bar. Malone had already placed the drinks on her tray. Their eyes met. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be. She took the tray. A man near the end of the bar caught her wrist. Femi stopped. Everything inside her seemed to stop with her. The room did not. Music continued. Someone laughed. Pool balls struck. But Femi went rigid. The man’s fingers remained around her wrist.

“Hey, sweetheart, I need—”

Malone appeared between them. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t slammed anything down. He was simply there.

“Let go.”

The man looked at him.

“I was just trying to get her attention.”

“Now you’ve got mine.”

The fingers loosened. Femi pulled her wrist against her body. Malone’s gaze remained on the man.

“She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t have to. You need something, you ask me.”

The man glanced toward Femi.

Then back at Malone.

“Didn’t mean anything.”

“I know.”

Something in Malone’s tone made the man decide that explanation was over. He released her completely.

Femi stepped back. For one second, she stared at the hand that had been holding her. Her fingers trembled. She curled them into her palm. Malone didn’t touch her. Didn’t ask if she was all right. Didn’t make the room look at her longer than it already had. He picked up the abandoned tray.

“Table seven needs those.”

Femi looked at him.

Malone looked toward table seven. Normal. He was giving her normal. She understood. Femi took the tray. Smoothed her apron. Then walked away. Malone watched until she reached the table. Only then did he look back at the man. The man suddenly found his drink fascinating.

By eleven thirty, the crowd began thinning.

By midnight, only the stubborn remained.

Cutter left first among them. He stopped at the bar, put down cash, and nodded toward the kitchen.

“Tell the kid dinner was good.”

Malone glanced toward Femi.

“Tell her yourself.”

Cutter looked over.

Femi was wiping a table.

“Good food, Femi.”

She glanced up.

Cutter rubbed his stomach dramatically and gave her a thumbs-up.

Her smile appeared before she could stop it.

Small.

Quick.

Gone.

Cutter grinned.

“There it is.”

Femi immediately looked down.

“Leave her alone,” Malone said.

“I complimented her.”

“You scared her.”

“By saying the roast was good?”

“Your face is unsettling.”

Cutter stared at him.

“Have you looked in a mirror?”

Malone pointed toward the door. Cutter laughed all the way outside.

The last motorcycle started at twelve forty-one. Its engine thundered through the walls. Then faded toward the tracks. Silence came strangely to Helix. Not true silence. The building had too many old bones for that. Pipes knocked. The refrigerator hummed. The ceiling fan clicked. Rain tapped softly against the windows. Chairs sat upside down on tables.

Lights had been switched off one section at a time until only the bar remained illuminated. Malone counted the till. Femi scrubbed the counter.

Long circles.

Overlapping.

Again.

The stain beneath her rag had disappeared several minutes ago. She kept scrubbing. Malone counted another stack of bills. Stopped. Looked at her.

Femi continued.

Circle.

“You’re going to take the finish off.”

The rag stopped. She looked at the counter. Then at him.

Malone nodded toward the spotless wood.

“Pretty sure it’s surrendered.”

Femi looked down. A tiny smile touched one corner of her mouth.

Malone returned to the money.

For a while, neither of them moved beyond the small necessities of closing.

Bills counted.

Bottles checked.

Glasses put away.

Registers locked.

Femi carried the final tray into the kitchen. When she returned, Malone had finished. He placed the cash inside the lockbox. Closed it. Then leaned against the back counter and folded his arms. Femi resumed cleaning. He watched her. Not openly. Not enough to make her uncomfortable. He had become good at that. There were questions he wanted to ask. There were always questions. Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did somebody bother you before I saw it? Are you still having nightmares? Why do you look at every door like someone is going to come through it? Why do you flinch when a bottle breaks? Who taught you to disappear while standing in the middle of a room?

Malone asked none of them. He had learned that questions could become another kind of corner. So he gave her space instead.

Space.

Food.

A room.

Work.

A key.

A place where nobody demanded that she explain why she needed any of those things. Femi moved to another section of the bar. The rag passed over clean wood. Malone finally spoke.

“You did good tonight, little girl.”

Her hand stopped. The rag remained beneath her palm. She didn’t look at him. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then her shoulders lowered. Barely. A fraction. Malone saw it anyway. He pushed away from the counter. That was enough.

He switched off the overhead light.

Darkness swallowed most of the clubhouse.

Only the warm rectangle from the kitchen pass-through remained, spreading across the bar and catching the edges of bottles behind it.

Malone walked toward his office.

At the doorway, he stopped. Femi was still standing behind the bar.

Small.

Silent.

Alone beneath the remaining light. For an instant, something tightened across Malone’s face. Something old. Something that looked dangerously close to grief. He said nothing. He entered his office. The door closed most of the way. Not all the way. Never all the way. Femi looked toward it. A narrow line of light remained across the floor.

She returned to the counter. One last pass. Then another.

Satisfied, she carried the rag to the sink.

Washed it.

Wrung it dry.

Folded it once.

Then again.

Precise corners.

She placed it beside the sink. Femi stood there for a moment. Her palm settled flat against the clean bar. The clubhouse stretched around her in darkness. Empty tables. Upside-down chairs. Sleeping motorcycles. The slow ceiling fan. The half-open office door. And in the darkest corner of Helix, against two old walls where the light never quite reached, an empty seat waited beside an empty table.

Femi looked at it without knowing why. Then she turned away. Her footsteps disappeared toward the back of the clubhouse.

The fan continued its slow rotation.

Click.

The folded rag remained beside the sink.

Malone’s office door remained half-open.

And the corner remained empty.

Under his roof, rival clubs drank side by side, grudges surrendered at the door. Malone’s rules were simple: pay your tab, respect the house, and never—ever—touch the woman who served the drinks.

At two in the morning, Helix was finally quiet.

Malone had sent the last bartender home twenty minutes earlier. The dancers were gone. The front doors were locked, the music silenced, and the red lights above the stage had been turned off one by one. He was halfway through counting the register when he heard something behind the bar.

Not inside it.

Outside.

A metallic scrape came from the alley, followed by the soft thud of something striking the pavement. Malone stopped counting. Rats were common in Wolfwater. So were drunks who wandered behind businesses looking for somewhere private to piss. Neither usually bothered being quiet.

The sound came again.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Malone closed the register and reached beneath the counter for the pistol taped beneath it. He did not draw the weapon. He rested his hand around the grip and walked toward the back door.

The alley beyond Helix was narrow and poorly lit. One yellow lamp hung above the door, illuminating the overflowing trash bins and a section of rain-darkened brick. The rest disappeared into shadow.

Malone unlocked the door and stepped outside.

Someone crouched beside the nearest bin.

Small.

Thin.

A young woman, judging by the shape of her beneath the oversized coat hanging from her shoulders. She had pulled a discarded takeout container from the trash and was eating with her fingers, quickly and silently, as though she expected every bite to be taken from her.

Malone released the pistol.

“Hey.”

The young woman spun around. The container fell from her hands. Her face caught the yellow light. Malone forgot how to breathe. The same green eyes. The same dark hair spilling around a narrow face. The same delicate mouth and sharp little chin. For one impossible moment, twenty years vanished, and another woman stood in the alley behind Helix—young, furious, beautiful, and alive.

“Iris,” Malone whispered.

The girl’s eyes widened.

Then she ran.

“Hey—hey!”

Malone stepped after her, holding both hands where she could see them.

“Wait! I’m not going to hurt you.”

She was already at the mouth of the alley.

“Kid, wait!”

She disappeared around the corner of the neighboring building. Malone followed, but by the time he reached the street, she was gone. Wolfwater stretched in both directions beneath flickering streetlights. A bus turned at the far intersection. Two men argued outside a liquor store. Somewhere down the block, a bottle shattered and someone laughed.

There was no sign of the girl.

Malone stood in the street, staring at the place where she had disappeared. He knew what grief could do to memory. He knew how easily a dead woman could place her face over a stranger’s when the night was late enough and a man was tired.

But he had seen those eyes.

Iris’s eyes.

Malone pulled out his phone and called Red.

She answered on the first ring.

“How nice of you to call a lady,” Red purred. Her voice was silk and smoke, the sound she used when she wanted something or wanted someone to believe she did. “And at this indecent hour. People will talk.”

“Did Iris have a child?”

Silence. The playfulness on the other end faltered.

“Everyone knew that, darling.”

Malone’s grip tightened around the phone. He turned back toward the alley. The ruined container lay near the trash bin, half its contents spilled across the pavement.

“What happened to her?”

“No one knows, darling. Not really.”

“Red.”

“I’m telling you the truth. Iris kept the girl away from most of us. After Iris died, the child disappeared. Some said family took her. Others said she entered the system. I heard three different names and twice as many stories.”

Malone wiped a hand across his mouth.

“I think I just saw her.”

Red went quiet again.

“The child?”

“Behind Helix. She was eating from my trash.” His voice lowered. “She turned around, and—Jesus Christ, Red. She looks so much like Iris. I swear to you.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“I frightened her. She ran.”

“Did you follow?”

“I tried. Lost her at the street.”

Red no longer sounded amused.

“What do you need?”

“I need to find her again.”

Malone looked down at the abandoned food.

“I need to know where she sleeps, whether anyone has a hold on her, whether she’s sick, whether she’s using. Everything.”

“I’ll put the girls on it tonight.”

“Quietly.”

“Of course.”

“No men approaching her. No one grabbing her or trying to drag her anywhere.”

“I know how to find a frightened girl, Malone.”

He closed his eyes.

“Anything you need, darling,” Red said softly. “I know how much Iris meant to you.”

Malone stared into the darkness beyond the alley.

“Thanks, honey.”

He ended the call.

Then he picked up the discarded container and carried it inside.

The next two weeks were the longest Malone could remember.

Red’s girls searched shelters, abandoned buildings, bus stations, alleys, clinics, and the places beneath the overpass where Wolfwater’s forgotten children gathered when the weather turned cruel.

They found rumors.

A small mute girl who slept beneath the stairs of an apartment building until the owner chased her away.

A dark-haired young woman who washed dishes in exchange for food but vanished when the cook tried to touch her.

A girl seen near the river.

A girl seen near the old train yard.

A girl who might have been nineteen.

Or sixteen.

Or twenty-five.

Every lead ended with nothing.

Malone began leaving food behind Helix after closing. Nothing that looked like charity. Nothing arranged too neatly. He placed sealed containers beside the bin with bottled water and clean napkins, then went inside before anyone could see him watching.

Each morning, the food was gone. He did not know whether she had taken it. He told himself it did not matter. On the second Friday, Helix emptied after last call while Malone stood behind the bar staring at a handwritten resignation.

Another waitress had quit. No notice. No explanation beyond three lines about the hours being too long and the customers being worse. Malone sighed and set the paper beside the register.

His phone rang.

RED flashed across the screen.

He answered immediately.

“Talk to me, honey.”

“It ain’t good, darling.”

Red’s voice was serious.

Malone leaned against the bar.

“What happened?”

“I found your girl. Fifth and Reinheart. She’s been sleeping behind that old bookstore near the condemned church.”

Malone closed his eyes. Fifth and Reinheart was six blocks beyond the boundary most of Helix’s regulars crossed without a weapon.

“Is she hurt?”

“Mara says she’s thin. Skittish. Won’t let anyone close enough to get a proper look.”

“Her name?”

“Femi.”

The name settled strangely in him.

Not Iris.

Femi.

“How old?”

“Word is she’s twenty.”

Malone frowned.

Twenty meant she had been only six when Iris died.

“How long has she been out there?”

Red hesitated.

“Two years that anyone can confirm.”

“Two years.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

“Jesus.”

“There’s more.”

“Tell me.”

“She doesn’t talk.”

“Won’t or can’t?”

“Can’t, according to the girls. Mara saw the scar at her throat. Femi understands people well enough, but no one has seen her use more than a few signs. She writes when she has paper.”

Malone looked toward the stage. The resignation remained beside the register. He thought of Femi crouched beside his trash. The fear in her eyes when he stepped outside. The way she had run before he could move toward her.

“Does Sandi still work for you?”

A small note of surprise entered Red’s voice.

“Sure.”

Everyone in Wolfwater knew Sandi. Sandi Tuuci They also knew what she did for money, but that had never been the most important thing about her. Sandi could sit beside a frightened girl for hours without asking a single question. She carried clean socks, bus passes, condoms, food, clinic numbers, and the names of three men who could make an abusive pimp disappear before breakfast. She never promised rescue. She gave women reasons to believe they could rescue themselves.

“Send Sandi,” Malone said. “Have her offer Femi a job at Helix.”

Red was silent for a moment.

“What kind of job?”

“Whatever she can do. Cleaning. Stocking. Working behind the bar if she wants.”

“You run nights.”

“I know.”

“And the girl’s been sleeping outside for two years.”

“Then offer room and board.”

“Malone—”

“I have the rooms. Two are empty. She can have one. Her own key, her own lock. Tell Sandi no debt. No repayment. She works, she gets paid. The room comes with the job.”

“And if she stops working?”

Malone looked toward the dark windows of Helix.

“We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

Red breathed softly into the phone.

“I gotcha, darling.”

“Red.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell her about Iris.”

“You sure?”

“She doesn’t know me. I’m not putting a dead woman between us before she walks through the door.”

“All right.”

“Tell Sandi not to push.”

“You know she won’t.”

“I know.”

“I’ll call you when she makes contact.”

Malone nodded, though Red could not see him.

“Thanks, honey.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The line went dead.

Two days later, Malone was scrubbing blood from the clubhouse floor.

A fight had started near the pool tables the previous night after one man mistook another man’s wife for a woman who might tolerate his hand on her ass. Three tables had overturned. Seven glasses had shattered. Someone had lost a tooth beneath the jukebox.

Malone had already decided both men would pay for the damages before they were allowed through his doors again. He was rinsing the mop when he heard something. A tiny sound from the front of the building.

He stopped.

There it was again.

A knock.

So soft he almost mistook it for the pipes settling.

Malone left the mop in the bucket and crossed the empty club. Sunlight entered through narrow gaps in the covered windows, cutting pale lines through the gloom. He unlocked the doors. Femi stood on the other side. She wore the same oversized coat he had seen in the alley. In daylight, he could see how badly it fit her. The sleeves swallowed half her hands. The hem hung nearly to her knees. Her black hair was tangled around her face, and exhaustion had carved shadows beneath her green eyes.

A battered canvas bag hung from one shoulder. Everything she owned, Malone realized. She held out a folded letter. Malone did not reach for it immediately. Sudden movements had frightened her before.

“Femi?”

Her chin dipped once.

“I’m Malone.”

Her expression did not change, but he saw recognition in her eyes. Sandi had told her his name. Malone accepted the letter. Femi stepped back the moment his fingers touched the paper. He gave her the distance without comment and opened it.

The note was brief.

Her name is Femi. She is twenty years old.

Femi is mute, Malone, and knows almost no sign language, but she understands you. Give her time to answer. She works hard. She is clean and healthy. And educated. And she’s looking for work.

Sandi.

Malone read it twice. When he looked up, Femi was watching his face as if waiting for him to discover the reason he should send her away. He folded the letter carefully.

“Sandi said you’re looking for work.”

Femi nodded.

Malone stepped aside.

“You can come in if you want.”

She looked beyond him into Helix. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. Malone moved farther away from the entrance, leaving the doorway completely open.

“You don’t have to decide fast,” he said. “Door stays open until you do.”

Femi looked at him. For one terrible moment, Iris was there again. Not in the shape of her face. In the suspicion. Iris had looked at kindness the same way—as if it were merely cruelty taking off its coat. Until she warmed up to Malone. Malone turned his gaze away so Femi would not feel studied.

A full minute passed.

Then she stepped inside.

Malone closed the door only after she had moved well beyond it. He did not lock it. The clubhouse looked uglier in daylight. Chairs remained upside down on half the tables. The floor near the pool tables was still wet. A cracked mirror waited behind the bar to be replaced. Femi surveyed everything.

“This is Helix,” Malone said. “Clubhouse, bar, music hall, occasional nursery for grown men who can’t hold their liquor.”

Her eyes moved to the bloody water in the mop bucket.

“Last night was louder than usual.”

Femi pointed toward the bucket, then toward herself.

“You want to finish the floor?”

She nodded.

“You haven’t taken the job yet.”

She pointed again.

Malone almost smiled.

“I’ll show you everything first. Then you decide.”

Femi lowered her hand. He kept several feet between them as he showed her the bar, kitchen, storeroom, employee entrance, office, and the emergency exits. He demonstrated every lock and made certain she saw that none required a key from the inside.

“This is the alarm,” he explained. “If it goes off, you leave. Don’t look for me. Don’t look for anyone. You use the nearest exit and get across the street.”

Femi watched closely. He showed her the camera monitors in his office, then the blind corners the cameras could not reach.

“If anyone takes you into one of those places and you don’t want to go, make noise.”

Her hand rose to her throat.

Malone regretted the words immediately.

“Right.”

Femi looked down. He reached for the notepad on his desk and placed it on the edge nearest her. Beside it, he set a pen. She waited until he stepped back before picking them up.

I can make noise.

The handwriting was small and precise.

Malone read the sentence.

“Good.”

Femi studied him, perhaps expecting an apology.

He gave her none.

“I don’t need you to scream,” he said. “Break something. Hit the alarm. Throw a bottle. There are plenty behind the bar.”

She wrote again.

Expensive?

“Some of them.”

A question appeared in her eyes.

“If the man deserves a bottle, use the expensive one.”

The corner of her mouth moved. Barely. But Malone saw it. He showed her the stairs at the back of the clubhouse.

“There are four rooms upstairs. Mine’s at the end when I stay here. Marta uses the one beside it sometimes. The other two are empty.”

Femi stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Malone remained several steps away.

“The job comes with a room,” he said. “Your own. Lock on the inside. Key stays with you.”

She wrote quickly.

How much?

“Nothing.”

Her face closed.

Malone recognized the change.

“The room is part of your pay,” he clarified. “You work here; you can use it. I don’t take money out of your wages.”

Femi’s gaze sharpened.

What do you want?

“Someone who arrives on time, doesn’t steal from me, and knows better than to put salt on the rim of a martini.”

She stared at him.

Malone nodded toward the page.

“That’s the whole list.”

She did not believe him.

He could not blame her.

“The room has a bed, a dresser, and a bathroom down the hall,” he continued. “You can inspect it alone. I’ll wait here.”

He took the key from his pocket and placed it on the bottom step. Then he walked away. Femi did not move until Malone reached the bar. He busied himself collecting broken glass while she approached the stairs. She picked up the key and climbed slowly, pausing every few steps to look back.

Malone kept his attention on the floor. He heard the room open. Then the bathroom. A window slid upward. The room opened again. Ten minutes passed before Femi returned. She came down holding the key so tightly its teeth pressed into her palm.

“All right?” Malone asked.

She nodded.

“Think working nights would be all right?”

Femi looked toward the darkened stage. Then the bar. Then the front doors. She opened the notebook.

Doing what?

“Cleaning at first. Stocking. Washing glasses. You can watch the bar until you learn it.”

She wrote another question.

People touch?

Malone read it twice.

“Some customers try.”

Her shoulders tightened.

“They get one warning,” he continued. “If they do it again, they leave.”

Femi’s pen remained above the paper.

“If one of my employees says no, the answer is no. Doesn’t matter how much the customer spends. Doesn’t matter who he knows.”

She searched his face.

Malone held still beneath the examination.

And if they touch after no?

“They answer to me.”

Femi looked toward the bloodstained mop water. Then back at Malone.

Her pen moved.

I can work nights.

He nodded as if they had completed an ordinary interview.

“Good.”

Femi pointed toward the bucket.

“You really want to clean that floor.”

She nodded.

“It can wait.”

Her expression suggested it could not. Malone surrendered the mop. Femi removed her coat. She wore three shirts beneath it despite the warmth inside the club. Every layer was too large. Her wrists looked fragile where the sleeves had been pushed back. Malone pretended not to notice. She began scrubbing the floor. Not cautiously. Not like someone completing a trial task.

Femi attacked the dried blood as though it had personally offended her. Malone watched for several seconds. Then he went into the kitchen. He made two sandwiches, poured a bowl of soup, and carried everything to a table near the bar. He sat on the opposite side of the room and worked through the previous night’s receipts.

Femi glanced at the food.

Then at him.

“That one’s yours.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t have to eat it.”

He returned to the receipts.

“It’ll stay there.”

Twenty minutes later, the sandwich was gone. Ten minutes after that, so was the soup. Malone said nothing. By late afternoon, Femi had cleaned the entire clubhouse. Not only the blood. She wiped the tables, lined the chairs, cleaned beneath the bar, reorganized a shelf in the storeroom, and repaired the loose hinge on a kitchen cabinet with a screwdriver she found in Malone’s office.

When she finished, she returned the notebook to his desk.

What time tomorrow?

“Six.”

She nodded.

“Femi.”

She paused.

Malone placed an envelope on the desk. Inside was enough cash for several days of food, clean clothes, and anything else she needed.

Her face hardened when she saw it.

“Advance on your wages.”

She pushed it back.

“You worked today.”

Femi pointed at the hallway.

“The room is part of the job. It isn’t your pay.”

She still did not touch the envelope.

Malone slid it toward the center of the desk and stood.

“You can leave it there if you want. It’ll still be yours tomorrow.”

He walked to the office door. Behind him, paper whispered. When Malone looked back, the envelope had disappeared into Femi’s coat. He pretended not to notice that either.

“Kitchen stays open,” he said. “If you’re hungry, eat.”

Femi looked at him suspiciously.

“I’ll write it down as employee theft if that makes you feel better.”

That almost-smile returned.

Small.

Uncertain.

Painfully familiar.

Malone’s chest tightened.

He had gone looking for Iris’s daughter because of a face glimpsed beneath a dirty alley light. Some part of him had believed helping Femi might settle an old grief. That he could offer the child what he had been unable to give her mother and perhaps quiet the guilt that had lived inside him for years.

Standing there, he understood how selfish that had been. Femi was not Iris returned to him. She was not a debt. She was not a second chance. She was a twenty-year-old woman who had survived two years on the streets, crossed Wolfwater carrying everything she owned in one battered bag, and still knocked so gently the world had nearly failed to hear her.

Malone moved aside, leaving the office doorway clear.

“If you need anything, write it down. If you don’t want to talk to me, leave the note on the bar.”

Femi nodded.

“And you don’t need permission to lock your door.”

Her hand closed around the room key. Malone returned to the clubhouse without saying anything more. A few minutes later, he heard her climb the stairs. The bedroom door opened.

Then closed.

The lock turned.

Malone stood beneath the stairs and listened to that small, decisive click.

He had never heard anything sound so much like trust.

Malone watched Femi work for weeks.

She scrubbed as though every stain had personally offended her.

Nothing escaped.

She washed the tables, the chairs, the windows, the bottles behind the bar, and the narrow shelves beneath them. She cleaned the beer taps until the brass shone beneath the lights. She pulled the refrigerator away from the wall and stared at what she found behind it with such profound disgust that Malone almost apologized.

He had owned Helix for twelve years.

Femi cleaned it as though she intended to discover what color the building had been before he bought it.

At first, Malone assumed the constant work came from fear.

Femi never sat unless he told her to. She never ate where customers could see her. If someone entered a room while she was resting, she immediately found something to carry, wipe, or rearrange.

She behaved like a woman who believed shelter had to be earned every minute or it would be taken away.

Malone tried paying her more. She worked harder. He tried shortening her shifts. She appeared early. He told her she did not need to clean the storeroom again. The following morning, he found every crate arranged by contents, date, and weight.

“You know I employ someone to do this,” he told her.

Femi looked toward the half-cleaned storeroom floor. Then she looked at Malone. The expression required no translation. Apparently, he did not employ anyone capable of doing it correctly.

Malone laughed.

That was when he thought of Iris.

Iris had kept everything tidy.

Not merely clean.

Ordered.

Their workshop had contained enough tools, wires, machinery, oil, and salvaged metal to build something illegal or dismantle something expensive. Yet no one entering would have believed they worked there. Iris returned every tool to its place the moment she finished using it. She wiped the tables after every project and swept metal shavings from the floor before they could settle beneath anything.

Malone had once left a wrench on the wrong shelf. Iris had stared at it for three full minutes before asking whether he had suffered a head injury. He smiled at the memory. Iris would have hurt him if she saw the condition he had allowed Helix to reach.

Perhaps that was why her daughter had come.

Not to haunt him.

To improve the place.

By the third week, the clubhouse smelled less like spilled liquor and old smoke. Sunlight entered through windows Malone had believed were permanently stained gray. The kitchen counters no longer felt vaguely sticky, and the office carpet turned out to be black rather than brown.

Then Femi started cooking. Malone came downstairs one afternoon and stopped halfway across the clubhouse. Something simmered in the kitchen. Not the usual smell of scorched coffee or whatever could be removed from the freezer and threatened into submission. This was garlic, onion, herbs, and roasted meat. Warm bread rested beneath a clean towel on the counter. Femi stood over the stove with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, stirring a large pot. Malone approached cautiously.

“What happened?”

Femi looked at him.

He pointed toward the stove.

“Is someone important coming?”

She frowned and shook her head.

“Did someone die?”

Her frown deepened. Malone lifted the pot lid. Steam rolled over his face. He looked at the stew.

Then at Femi.

“You made this?”

She nodded.

“For us?”

Another nod. Malone found a bowl. Femi slapped his hand away before he could serve himself.He stared at her.

She pointed toward the sink.

“Wash my hands?”

She pointed again.

Malone looked down at his hands.

“I own the building.”

Femi folded her arms. He washed his hands. She filled the bowl herself and placed it in front of him with a thick slice of bread. Then she remained beside the counter, watching with the tense attention of someone awaiting judgment.

Malone took one bite.

He closed his eyes.

Femi shifted nervously.

“Honey,” he said, “I think I just saw heaven.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

He took another bite.

“I may have to increase your wages.”

Femi shook her head.

“Then I’m charging the staff for meals and giving you the money.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re a terrifying little thing when someone attempts to pay you.”

That almost-smile appeared.

By the end of the week, the employees had stopped bringing food to work. Even Harlan, who claimed vegetables were decorative, ate two bowls of Femi’s soup and attempted to take a third home.

Femi learned everyone’s preferences without asking. Extra pepper for Malone. No onions for one bartender. Less salt for the singer with high blood pressure. A second sandwich wrapped and hidden beneath the counter for the dancer who always claimed she was not hungry.

She cooked the way she cleaned—with focus, precision, and an unwillingness to leave anything unfinished.

Helix began changing around her. The staff arrived earlier. They stayed in the kitchen after closing. Someone brought flowers and placed them in a bottle near the register. Someone else repaired the broken cabinet door Femi had been opening carefully for three weeks.

The clubhouse had always been loud.

For the first time, it began to feel warm.

A month after Femi arrived, Malone watched her meet Marta.

Marta had been away handling family business and had ignored every message Malone sent asking when she intended to return. She entered Helix shortly after noon carrying two suitcases and an expression warning the world that travel had disappointed her.

“Malone!”

“In the bar.”

“If you’ve allowed another idiot to use my room, I will bury you beneath the parking lot.”

“Good to see you too, sweetheart.”

Marta came through the back hall. She was still removing her gloves when she saw Femi standing behind the bar. Femi looked up from polishing a glass. Marta stopped. Her eyes widened.

Malone had known Marta for almost twenty years. He had seen her face armed men, burning buildings, police raids, and one deeply unfortunate wedding. He had never seen her look like that. The color left her face. She took one step backward and drew the sign of the cross in the air.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

Femi froze.

Marta stared at her as though a dead woman had walked out of the past and begun cleaning Malone’s glassware.

Malone laughed.

He could not help it.

“Marta, this is Femi. Femi, this is Marta.” He gestured between them. “Femi is my new waitress-slash-cook.”

Marta tore her gaze away from Femi.

“Malone, I swear, if you ever do something like this to me again—”

Femi flinched. It was small. A sharp contraction of her shoulders. Her head lowered, and the glass in her hand came protectively against her chest. Marta saw it. The anger disappeared from her face. Her eyes moved to Malone.

“Office. Now.”

The words came low. More dangerous for their quiet. Marta turned and walked away. Malone looked at Femi.

“Don’t mind Marta. That’s how she says hello.”

Femi gave a cautious nod. Then she set the glass down and returned to work. Malone followed Marta into the office. She waited until he entered before shutting the door. Even then, her gaze never left Femi through the wide interior window. Femi had begun wiping the front of the bar.

“Who in the name of God is that?” Marta demanded.

“Her name is Femi.”

“I heard the name.”

“She’s Iris’s daughter.”

Marta sat down hard in the chair across from his desk. For several seconds, she said nothing. Her gaze returned to the window. Femi had moved to the front tables. Afternoon light surrounded her, catching faint shades of blue in her midnight hair.

“Are you sure?” Marta asked.

“Do you doubt your own eyes?”

“Hell no, and you know it.” Marta looked back at him. “But, Malone—she is so thin. Where has she been?”

“On the street.”

Marta’s face changed.

“How long?”

“At least two years.”

“Two—” Marta stopped and pressed her lips together. “I thought the entire family was killed.”

“So did I.”

The words came out heavier than Malone intended. Marta heard the guilt in them. She always did. Her attention settled fully on him.

“No.”

Malone frowned.

“No what?”

“You do not get to do this.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you have found a new and inventive way to punish yourself.”

Malone leaned back against his desk.

“I gave her a job.”

“You gave Iris’s daughter a job, a room, and, judging by what I saw when I came in, unrestricted authority over your bar.”

“She knows where things belong.”

“Malone.”

“What?”

Marta rose from the chair.

“You do not let what happened between you and Iris color what happens between you and Femi. Do you hear me?”

His jaw tightened.

“She was eating out of my trash, Marta.”

Marta’s expression softened, but her voice did not.

“I know.”

“I saw her face and thought—”

“I know what you thought.”

“I should have known Iris had a daughter.”

“You did know.”

“I should have found her.”

“You believed she was dead.”

“I should have checked.”

“With whom? The family was gone. The records disappeared. Iris trusted almost no one.”

“She trusted me.”

Marta went still.

“That is not the same as telling you everything.”

Malone looked away. Through the office window, Femi pushed a chair aside and knelt to clean beneath it. Marta followed his gaze.

“She is not Iris,” she said.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Malone did not answer.

Marta stepped closer.

“Femi does not owe you forgiveness for something you did to her mother. She does not owe you affection because you loved Iris. And she does not need to become Iris so you can save her this time.”

Malone’s eyes returned to her.

“I’m not asking her for anything.”

“Good.”

“I don’t even know if she knows my history with Iris.”

“Keep it that way until you can tell her without expecting anything in return.”

Malone looked through the glass again.

Femi had finished beneath the tables and moved to the front windows.

“She works from sunup to sundown,” he said with a tired sigh. “I tell her to stop. She finds something else.”

“What is she doing now?”

“Cleaning, Marta.”

“You know what I mean.”

“She’s working. That’s all. I swear that girl does not know how to be still.” Malone nodded toward the kitchen. “Now she’s cooking.”

Marta looked toward him.

“Cooking?”

“She made stew last week.”

“And?”

“I nearly proposed.”

Marta’s eyes narrowed.

“To the stew.”

“Clarify faster next time.”

“She can cook, Marta.”

“Good. Your cooking was going to kill me.”

“My cooking is fine.”

“You once served me eggs with the shell still in them.”

“Calcium.”

“You are the reason God invented restaurants.”

Malone laughed.

The tension inside the office loosened.

“Good to have you back, Marta.”

Her expression softened.

“Good to be back.”

They stood together at the window.

Femi stretched toward the top corner of the front glass, wiping away the last gray film Helix had collected over the years. When she finished, afternoon sunlight poured through. It crossed the clubhouse in warm golden bands, revealing polished tables, shining bottles, and a floor so clean Malone could see the light reflected in it. Femi stepped back to examine her work. Marta watched her for a long moment.

“She needs proper shoes,” she said.

Malone glanced at the worn boots beneath Femi’s trousers.

“I offered.”

“And she refused.”

“Immediately.”

“She needs clothes that fit.”

“I offered those too.”

“She refused.”

“Violently.”

Marta sighed.

“You frighten her.”

“I give her space.”

“You are six and a half feet of beard, bad decisions, and unresolved guilt.”

“I am not six and a half feet.”

“That was the part you objected to?”

Malone smiled.

Marta opened the office door.

“Where are you going?”

“To say hello properly.”

“She doesn’t know much sign.”

“I have paper.”

“And don’t raise your voice.”

Marta looked over her shoulder.

“I know how to speak to frightened women.”

Her gaze softened as it found Femi again.

“Someone had to teach you.”

Malone watched her cross the clubhouse.

This time, Marta approached slowly. She stopped several feet from Femi and waited until the young woman noticed her. Femi turned. Marta held up both empty hands. Then she pointed toward the window and gave an approving nod. Femi glanced at the glass. A cautious smile touched her mouth. Marta smiled back. Malone remained in the office doorway, watching the two women beneath the afternoon light.

For years, Helix had been a shelter in name only—a place with strong locks, cheap drinks, and enough dangerous people inside to discourage worse ones from entering. Femi had been there one month. Already, the windows allowed light inside. The kitchen smelled like food instead of smoke. People sat together after closing because there was somewhere worth remaining.

Iris’s daughter had come through Helix’s doors carrying one battered bag and nothing else.

She did not know it yet, but she was not merely making the place cleaner.

She was making it a home.

Two months later, Malone saw Daemon enter the clubhouse.

He had not seen him for a year or more.

Malone saw everything.

At six foot two, Daemon was built from hard muscle and harder living. He had pale skin, long blond hair, and a scar cutting across his left cheek. He wore his hair loose, allowing it to conceal most of his face, as though shadows were preferable to the eyes of strangers.

A black leather jacket stretched across his broad shoulders. Faded jeans hung low on his hips. Heavy boots struck the floor with slow, deliberate steps.

Everyone at Helix knew Daemon. More importantly, everyone knew not to fuck with him. Conversation dipped when he entered. Several men glanced in his direction before quickly finding something else to look at.

The Devil stirred beneath Daemon’s skin.

They remember.

Daemon acknowledged no one. He crossed the clubhouse and claimed his usual table in the darkest corner, where the overhead lights barely reached.

Home, the Devil murmured.

Daemon ignored it.

Malone had his drink ready before he sat down.

Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

Femi collected the glass from the bar without being told. She knew the regulars and their habits better than most of them realized.

Daemon watched her approach.

Barely five foot three, she moved through the room with practiced silence. Her midnight hair hung to her waist, partially hiding her face. She avoided elbows, wandering hands, and men too drunk to understand the meaning of personal space without ever appearing hurried.

The Devil became attentive.

Who is that?

Daemon did not answer. Femi reached his table and placed the drink before him in one quick movement. The faint scent of strawberries followed her.

The Devil inhaled.

Sweet.

Femi immediately turned away.

Daemon watched her go.

Call her back.

He lifted his whiskey instead. He remembered Iris. The same dark hair. The same olive skin. The same green eyes that seemed too bright for the smoky darkness of Helix. But where Iris had filled every room she entered, Femi moved as though she hoped the room would forget she had ever been there.

The Devil followed her through Daemon’s eyes.

She does not want to be seen.

Daemon took a drink.

We see her.

Femi drifted toward a table occupied by three unfamiliar men. They had arrived shortly before Daemon, though none wore colors he recognized. She balanced several drinks on her tray as she approached them.

Then she stopped.

Only for a second.

Most of the clubhouse missed it.

Daemon did not.

One of the men rested his hand on the table. A heavy silver ring encircled his finger, shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail. Tiny dark stones formed the creature’s eyes. The serpent gleamed beneath the overhead light. Femi’s tray tilted. Not enough to spill anything. Enough for Daemon to notice.

The Devil leaned closer inside him.

There.

The man looked down at his hand.

Then he covered the ring with his other palm.

He knew she saw it.

Femi immediately placed the drinks on the table and turned away. She moved too quickly. Her shoulders had tightened. One hand trembled against the edge of the empty tray.

The Devil’s curiosity sharpened.

She knows the serpent.

Daemon’s gaze returned to the stranger. The man watched Femi retreat. Not with desire. With recognition. Something cold moved through Daemon.

The Devil smiled.

He knows her.

Daemon lifted his whiskey but did not drink.

Take him outside.

The stranger leaned toward his companions and whispered something.

Ask him why she trembles.

Moments later, all three rose, abandoned their nearly untouched drinks, and left Helix.

Follow.

Daemon remained seated.

Follow him.

The command came harder.

Daemon watched the men through the front window instead. A gray sedan waited across the street. The man with the serpent ring looked back once before climbing inside. Daemon committed his face to memory.

We will find him later.

Across the room, Femi returned to the bar. She placed the tray down and reached for another order as though nothing had happened. Malone glanced at her trembling hand. His brow furrowed, but a customer called for him before he could ask.

The Devil watched her attempt to hide the fear.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s fingers stilled around his glass. He did not know why the name felt right.

The night continued.

Hours passed before the crowd began to thin. Engines roared to life outside as bikers departed in scattered groups. Laughter faded. Music was lowered.

By closing time, only two customers remained besides Daemon. Both were drunk enough to believe the rules no longer applied. Malone poured himself a drink and stepped from behind the bar. He and Daemon had an old habit of sharing one after closing—a silent acknowledgment that both men had survived another day.

He had barely reached Daemon’s table when laughter erupted near the rear hallway.

Malone turned.

The two remaining customers had Femi trapped in a corner.

She stood with her back against the wall, an empty tray clutched against her chest. One man leaned too close while the other blocked her escape, both laughing at jokes only they found amusing.

The Devil rose so violently that Daemon’s vision narrowed.

No.

Femi’s green eyes darted toward Malone.

One of the men lifted his glass above her head, tilting it as though he meant to pour the contents over her.

Break his hand.

“Leave her be,” Malone shouted.

Before he could take another step, Daemon rose.

Break both of them.

He unfolded from the shadows to his full height and crossed the clubhouse with slow, measured strides. Something in the room changed as he approached. The drunken laughter weakened, though neither man possessed enough sense to understand why.

Daemon stopped behind them.

“He said leave her be.”

His voice was low and deep, edged with something far more dangerous than anger.

Touch her again.

The men turned.

Give us a reason.

One squinted up at him.

“Who are you to tell us what to do?”

“Yeah,” the other slurred. “We do what we want.”

The Devil laughed softly inside Daemon.

Not anymore.

“Not here,” Daemon said.

The first man sneered. Then he shoved Femi against the wall.

The Devil snarled.

Kill him.

“This dumb mute ain’t any good. She couldn’t even bring me the right beer.”

Rip out his tongue.

Daemon moved before Malone could. One moment, the man was standing. The next, Daemon had him lifted from the floor by his throat. The drunk’s legs kicked helplessly. His face reddened while his fingers clawed uselessly at Daemon’s wrist.

The Devil delighted in the pulse hammering beneath his palm.

Harder.

“I told you to leave her be.” Daemon’s voice remained frighteningly calm.

Crush it.

“Now take your girlfriend and get out.”

No. Let us keep him.

Daemon threw the man across the clubhouse. The drunk struck the floor hard and slid between two tables, overturning a chair before coming to a stop.

The Devil hissed its displeasure.

He still breathes.

His companion stared at Daemon in disbelief.

“Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted at Daemon’s chest. He did not appear foolish enough to look him in the eye. “She’s just some dumb broad Malone picked up.”

Another one.

“That is my daughter, you bastard.” Malone stormed toward them, fury burning through every word.

“Now get the hell out.”

He passed the men without another glance and went directly to Femi. His anger disappeared the instant he reached her.

Malone stopped several feet away.

“Are you hurt, Femi?”

The question came softly.

Softer than Daemon had ever heard Malone speak.

“Did they hurt you?”

Femi shook her head. Her fingers trembled around the tray, but she lowered it before Malone could notice. Daemon noticed.

The Devil did too.

They frightened her.

Its fury became something cold and patient.

We should have killed them.

Daemon seized one man by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright. The other scrambled to his feet without assistance. Daemon marched them to the entrance and threw them outside. The door slammed behind them.

They will return.

“No,” Daemon murmured.

The Devil quieted.

It knew a promise when it heard one.

When Daemon returned, Femi was collecting the glasses the men had knocked from a nearby table. He approached carefully. She stiffened when his shadow crossed the floor.

The Devil immediately went still.

She fears us.

Daemon stopped.

Femi continued gathering the glasses, though her movements were too quick.

The Devil watched her hands.

Do not make her run.

“You know the man who was wearing the serpent ring?”

Femi did not look up.

Her hand closed around one of the empty bottles.

“The one sitting near the jukebox,” Daemon continued. “You saw his ring.”

She shook her head.

Too quickly.

The Devil whispered.

Lie.

Daemon studied her.

“You’ve seen that symbol before.”

Another shake.

She is frightened.

Femi placed the bottle on her tray and tried to move past him. A possessive impulse surged through Daemon. Block her. Keep her there. Make her answer.

The Devil wanted all three.

Do not let her leave.

Daemon stepped aside.

Femi hurried past him.

The Devil growled.

Ours should not run from us.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. She was not theirs. He did not even know her. Yet the Devil continued watching as her free hand rose to her throat, as though remembering the pressure of someone else’s fingers.

Its anger returned instantly.

Someone put hands there.

Daemon watched until she disappeared into the kitchen.

Find them.

He did not believe her denial. More importantly, the man with the serpent ring had recognized her. That meant Femi’s fear had a face. Daemon intended to find it. The Devil settled beneath his skin, satisfied.

Then we will make it scream.

Malone was already sitting at the corner table when Daemon returned. Two fresh drinks waited between them.

“Good to see you back, Daemon.”

Malone lifted his glass and took a long swallow.

Daemon sat but did not reach for his whiskey. His eyes found Femi when she emerged from the kitchen.

She stood behind the bar, washing glasses with her head lowered. A curtain of black hair concealed her face but not the slight tremor still running through her hands.

The Devil watched every movement.

Little ghost.

“The girl?” Daemon asked.

Malone studied him over the rim of his glass.

“She is my daughter.”

The Devil considered that.

His.

Its attention returned to Femi.

Not by blood.

Daemon’s gaze remained fixed on her.

Malone leaned back, his expression becoming distant.

“You remember Iris, don’t you?”

Daemon went completely still.

“You haven’t spoken of her in years,” he said. “Didn’t she marry someone?”

“She did.” Malone looked into his drink. “Iris and her husband were murdered.”

Daemon turned toward him.

The Devil lifted its head.

Who?

“When?”

“Fourteen years ago.”

Across the clubhouse, Femi dried a glass and placed it beneath the bar.

“She’s Iris’s daughter,” Malone continued. “Iris is gone, Daemon. Femi is all I have left of her.”

Daemon looked at Femi again.

The resemblance became something painful once he knew where to find it.

“I’m sorry, my friend.”

He lifted his whiskey and drank deeply. When he lowered the glass, his attention returned to Femi. The Devil’s did not leave her.

“Where did you find her?”

A bitter laugh escaped Malone.

“She was eating out of my garbage.”

Daemon’s hand stilled around his drink.

The Devil became silent.

Not calm.

Silent.

The kind of silence that came before rooms filled with blood.

“When I saw her, I swear to you, I thought she was Iris. Same hair. Same eyes. Same damn face.” Malone stared toward the bar, his expression haunted. “For a moment, I thought the dead had come back looking for me.”

He shook his head.

“She ran the first time she saw me.”

“How did you find her again?”

“It took two weeks. I tracked her through an old friend of ours.”

Malone dragged one hand across his face.

“She’d been homeless since the foster system put her out at eighteen. Two years sleeping in alleys, abandoned buildings—wherever she could disappear for the night.”

The Devil spoke at last.

Alone?

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“She couldn’t ask anyone for help?”

Malone gave him a long look.

“She couldn’t.”

The answer settled heavily between them.

At the bar, Femi finished cleaning the last glass and placed it upside down on a towel. Her work done, she climbed onto one of the stools and pulled a battered paperback from beneath the counter.

“No one ever taught her sign language,” Malone said.

“She’s deaf?”

“No.”

Malone shook his head.

“She hears everything.”

Daemon remembered the silver serpent and the way Femi’s tray had tilted.

The Devil remembered too.

She heard those men laugh.

“She’s mute,” Malone continued, lowering his voice. “She can’t speak.”

“Born that way?”

“No.”

Malone rolled his glass between his palms.

“She witnessed her parents’ murders. Whatever she saw that night took her voice. She hasn’t spoken a word since.”

The Devil pressed against Daemon’s bones.

Who stole it?

Daemon studied her more carefully.

Femi sat with her legs tucked around the stool, midnight hair falling forward as she read. She appeared peaceful, sheltered within the quiet world between the pages. But she was not turning them.

She was listening.

Little ghost hears everything.

“Who killed them?” Daemon asked.

“The police never found out.”

They did not look hard enough.

“And Femi couldn’t tell them.”

“Wouldn’t,” Malone corrected quietly. “Or couldn’t. No one knows.”

“What was the official story?”

“The family came home after a night at the movies and interrupted a robbery. Iris, her husband, and Femi were attacked inside the house.”

“What kind of robbery ends with an entire family being slaughtered?”

“The kind that was never a robbery.”

Daemon waited.

Malone’s fingers tightened around his glass.

“They were shot and stabbed repeatedly. All three of them.”

The Devil moved closer.

How many touched her?

Daemon looked toward Femi.

“How old was she?”

“Six.”

Something dark moved behind Daemon’s eyes.

The Devil no longer whispered.

Names.

“They shot and stabbed that little girl and left her bleeding beside her mother.” Malone’s voice cracked. “By the gods, somehow she survived.”

Seven stab wounds. Not an accident. Not a frightened thief lashing out. Someone had tried to ensure no one left that house alive. The Devil imagined a six-year-old Femi bleeding beside her mother.

Its rage poured through Daemon’s veins like molten iron.

Find them.

“Unofficially?” Daemon asked.

Malone glanced toward Femi before leaning closer.

“Iris’s husband owed money to dangerous people.”

“How dangerous?”

“The kind who don’t send warnings twice.”

“Names?”

“I don’t have any.”

He knows something.

“Symbols?”

Malone frowned.

“What?”

Daemon looked toward the entrance through which the stranger had departed.

“A silver serpent.”

The color drained from Malone’s face.

It was slight.

Gone almost immediately.

But Daemon saw it.

The Devil did too.

Lie.

“You know it,” Daemon said.

“No.”

Malone reached for the bottle.

His denial had come as quickly as Femi’s.

Another lie.

Daemon looked from him to the silent woman at the bar. Two people had lied to him in less than an hour. Both had lied about the same serpent.

The Devil’s curiosity sharpened into hunger.

They are protecting the same secret.

Daemon picked up his glass. Across the room, Femi finally turned a page. The clubhouse had gone quiet, but Daemon could feel something moving beneath that silence. Something old. Something patient. And now that he had returned to Helix, something had begun watching Iris’s daughter again.

The Devil smiled inside him.

Let it come.

“What about writing?”

“She doesn’t write about that night. Ask her anything else and she’ll answer. Ask about Iris, her father, or what happened in that house…” Malone exhaled heavily. “She shuts down completely.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

“So that’s the story?”

“That’s the story.”

The way Malone said it made one thing clear. He did not believe it was the whole truth.

Neither did the Devil.

Ask him again.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, allowing the shadows to reclaim most of his face.

“What do you believe?”

Malone stared at the bottom of his glass for a long moment.

“I believe Femi saw something that frightened her more than death.”

Daemon looked toward the woman sitting alone beneath the low light. She turned another page. Her hand no longer trembled, but her shoulders remained tight.

Waiting.

Listening.

Hiding in plain sight.

The Devil studied her with possessive fascination.

Something tried to kill our little ghost.

Daemon’s grip tightened around his glass.

She was not theirs.

The Devil did not care.

Find it.

Its pleasure slipped through him—dark, eager, and wet with the promise of violence.

Then let us show her what monsters are supposed to do.

Daemon watched Femi from the darkest corner of Helix.

He had not intended to.

Liar.

The corner table was simply where Malone had always placed him—back against the wall, both exits visible, no one able to approach without crossing his line of sight. The overhead light had burned out years ago, and no one had bothered replacing it.

It suited him.

People left the Devil alone when they could not clearly see his face.

Femi did not.

She came to his table whenever his glass was empty. No hesitation. No nervous conversation. No attempt to flirt with him for a better tip. She placed the drink before him, collected the empty glass, and left.

The first time, Daemon barely noticed her.

The Devil did.

Quiet.

The second time, he noticed she made no sound when she moved.

Little ghost.

By the fourth night, he had begun watching for her. Once he started, he could not stop. Femi crossed Helix carrying a tray against one palm. She was small enough to disappear behind larger customers, but she seemed to anticipate their movements.

She turned sideways before a man could back into her. Slipped between tables before chairs blocked her path. Lowered the tray before a gesturing hand could strike it. She never touched anyone. Never allowed anyone to touch her.

The Devil found that interesting.

Why?

She moved through the crowded clubhouse as though she had learned to survive by occupying the spaces other people left behind.

Who taught her to move like prey?

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass.

Tonight, her black shirt was buttoned to her throat. The sleeves covered her arms to the wrists despite the heat inside Helix. Midnight hair was pulled into a loose knot, though several strands had escaped and clung to her face.

The Devil wanted the hair loose.

The thought arrived without warning.

Possessive.

Curious.

How long is it?

Daemon ignored the question.

The jukebox screamed something loud and angry from the far wall. Men shouted over it. Glasses struck tabletops. Pool balls cracked together. A woman laughed too loudly near the bar while the man beside her attempted to place his hand beneath her skirt.

Femi passed through all of it without appearing to hear anything. A customer at the nearest table lifted two fingers. She changed direction immediately.

The Devil disliked that.

She was coming this way.

Daemon watched her take the man’s order, nod once, and walk away before he could draw her into conversation.

She communicated with gestures and quick expressions. Most of Helix’s regulars had learned enough of her language to order a drink. The rest pointed at bottles and spoke slowly, as though muteness had made her stupid.

Femi endured them all with the same unreadable face.

She did not smile for the customers.

Daemon wondered whether she smiled for anyone.

Make her.

His gaze sharpened.

As if summoned by the thought, she approached his table.

A glass of whiskey rested on her tray.

The Devil stirred eagerly.

There she is.

Daemon watched her come. He made no effort to hide it. Femi’s eyes remained on the table as she lowered the drink in front of him. The glass touched the wood without a sound. Two fingers slid the ashtray farther from his elbow.

She gathered the empty glass and straightened.

Daemon’s gaze followed her face.

Look at us.

If she felt his attention, she gave no indication.

Look.

Femi turned away.

The Devil’s displeasure moved beneath Daemon’s skin.

Call her back.

He watched her cross the room instead. Watched the slight sway of her midnight hair. The careful placement of her feet. The way she kept the tray between herself and any man who came too close.

Good.

Daemon frowned at the approval in the Devil’s voice.

He lifted the whiskey.

It had been poured exactly as he preferred.

Ice.

No water.

She remembers.

He drank without tasting it.

Femi returned to the bar, where Malone leaned close enough to say something near her ear. She looked up at him. Malone gestured toward a customer near the stage, then moved his hand in a clumsy imitation of one of her signs.

Femi’s eyes narrowed. Malone repeated the gesture. Whatever it meant, he had apparently done it wrong. Femi corrected his fingers. Malone tried again. A smile threatened the corner of her mouth.

The Devil became utterly still.

There.

Daemon’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. It never fully appeared. Malone said something else, and Femi struck his arm with the order pad before walking away. The moment was gone. Daemon stared into his glass.

He wanted it back.

So do I.

The realization irritated him. Wanting made a man careless. It placed expectation in someone else’s hands and invited them to close their fingers around it. Daemon had learned that lesson young enough for it to become bone.

He did not want people.

Her.

He did not need them.

Her.

He especially did not sit in dark corners imagining what a silent waitress might look like when she laughed.

The Devil purred.

Make her laugh, and we will know.

“Be quiet,” Daemon muttered.

Yet his gaze found Femi again. She stood near the jukebox collecting empty bottles. Colored lights moved over her face—red, then blue, then gold. A drunken man stumbled into her path.

The Devil rose.

Move.

Femi stepped aside before the man reached her.

He never noticed her.

The Devil remained watchful until the man passed.

If he touches her, break his hand.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. That seemed to be the way Femi preferred it. Unseen. Untouched. Daemon understood the instinct. Being unseen had kept him alive too. Femi placed the bottles on her tray and headed toward the bar.

Daemon finished his whiskey.

He could have waited.

She would eventually pass his table again.

No.

Instead, he raised one hand.

Bring her back.

Malone noticed from behind the bar.

His eyebrows lifted.

After hours, Daemon watched as Malone approached Femi. The older man stopped several feet away from her. He did not crowd her. Daemon noticed that immediately. So did the Devil.

Malone remained beyond arm’s reach, leaving enough distance for Femi to breathe—and, if she needed to, escape.

He knows.

“Femi.”

Malone’s voice softened again. She lifted her eyes from the open book but did not look directly at him.

“Daemon is going to stay with us for a while,” Malone said. “Is that all right with you?”

Femi finally raised her head. Her green eyes moved from Malone to the shadowed corner where Daemon sat.

The Devil surged forward to meet her gaze.

There you are.

She studied him silently, taking in his size, the scar across his cheek, and the long blond hair concealing most of his expression. Daemon remained perfectly still. He did not smile at her. Men like him did not possess smiles that reassured frightened young women.

She is not frightened.

She was cautious.

There was a difference.

“He might look dangerous,” Malone continued, “but he’s a very good friend of mine.”

One eyebrow lifted beneath Daemon’s hair.

Might?

The Devil sounded offended.

We are dangerous.

Malone ignored him.

“Do you mind if he stays?”

Daemon looked at Femi. The question belonged to her.

The Devil understood that before he did.

She decides.

Femi looked down at her hands. Her fingers tightened briefly around the edges of her book before she shook her head.

No.

Something eased inside Daemon.

The Devil settled with a satisfied purr.

She wants us here.

“She said she does not mind,” Daemon corrected silently.

The Devil ignored him.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Malone did not touch her. He simply returned to the table and refilled his glass. Femi glanced at Daemon once more before lowering her eyes to the page. Within moments, she appeared absorbed in her book again, but Daemon noticed that she did not turn another page.

She was listening. Watching without looking. Waiting to learn what kind of danger had entered her home.

The Devil studied her bowed head.

Not danger for her.

The possessiveness in its voice made Daemon uneasy.

Never for her.

Daemon reached inside his leather jacket and pulled an old photograph from the inner pocket. Its edges were worn soft, the image faded from years of being carried. They were all younger in it. Malone stood near the center, grinning like a fool with one arm wrapped around Iris. She leaned against him, radiant and laughing, her dark hair caught by the wind. Daemon stood behind them with his arms crossed, wearing the same expression of mild contempt he wore now. Several others crowded around them—friends who had once believed themselves too wild to grow old and too stubborn to die.

Most of them had been proven wrong. His thumb passed over Iris’s face. Femi had her eyes. Not merely the same color. The same shape. The same quiet warmth rested within them, though Femi’s had been darkened by fear and sharpened by survival.

The Devil studied the resemblance through him.

Iris’s little ghost.

Daemon folded the photograph and slipped it back into his pocket.

“What was that?” Malone asked as he sat down.

“Nothing.”

Malone stared at the pocket.

“You still carry that damn picture?”

Daemon lifted his glass.

“Apparently.”

“After all these years?”

“Some ghosts don’t like being left behind.”

From the bar came the faint sound of a page turning. Daemon looked toward Femi. This time, she was watching him. Their eyes met. The Devil went silent. Not absent.

Fascinated.

She sees us.

Femi’s gaze dropped immediately, but not before Daemon saw the question there.She had recognized her mother’s face in the photograph.

Show her.

Daemon reached into his pocket again.

Then stopped himself.

Give it to her.

“Not tonight.”

Malone glanced at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The Devil pressed harder.

She wants it.

Femi had already endured two men cornering her. The memory returned with teeth. A man leaning too close. Another blocking her escape. A hand shoving her against the wall.

The Devil’s curiosity vanished beneath a rush of hunger.

We should have killed them.

Daemon’s fingers closed around the photograph inside his pocket. The last thing Femi needed was a stranger forcing memories into her hands. There would be time later.

If she allowed him to stay.

She will.

If whatever had killed Iris did not find them first.

The Devil smiled.

Slowly.

Terribly.

Let it come.

Daemon looked toward Femi.

She sat beneath the low light with her book open, pretending to read while listening to every breath in the clubhouse.

Small.

Silent.

Watchful.

The Devil curled possessively around the sight of her.

Let it come close enough to recognize her.

Something cold moved behind Daemon’s eyes.

Then we will paint Helix with its blood.

He watched Femi return to the bar.

She placed the glass in the sink and immediately found something else to do. Her hands moved faster than before. Her eyes stayed lowered. A voice rose near the pool tables. Femi flinched. She concealed it quickly. Daemon still saw.

The Devil did too.

Again.

Once he began looking, he noticed everything. The way she moved whenever a man stood too close. The way she kept furniture between herself and customers. The way her entire body tightened when a wandering hand passed near her waist.

She anticipated being hurt even when no one intended to touch her.

The Devil studied each reaction with terrible curiosity.

Who taught her that?

Daemon’s anger found edges.

He picked up the fresh whiskey but did not drink.

Find them.

Femi carried a tray toward the kitchen.

A man watched her go.

The Devil noticed him first.

That one.

Daemon recognized him as one of Helix’s regulars. He came in twice a week, drank cheap beer, tipped poorly, and behaved well enough that Malone had never thrown him out. The man waited until Femi disappeared through the kitchen doors.

Then he followed.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass.

There was nothing unusual about it. Regulars entered the kitchen all the time. They called through the service window, complained about orders, flirted with the cooks, and stole food whenever Malone looked away.

He did not follow the food.

No one else noticed. Daemon did. He stared at the kitchen entrance. One minute passed.

Too long.

Then two.

Go.

Femi did not return.

At three minutes, Daemon set his glass down.

The Devil pressed against his skin.

Now.

At four, he stood.

At five, he crossed the clubhouse.

If he touched her—

No one attempted to stop him. The music concealed his footsteps as he entered the back hall. The kitchen door stood partially open. Light spilled through the narrow gap. A man’s voice came from inside.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t understand me.”

Daemon stopped outside the door.

The Devil went silent.

“I’ve seen you looking at me.”

Silence answered.

The Devil listened to that silence.

She does not look at him.

The man laughed.

“Come on, sweetheart. Malone doesn’t have to know. You can’t tell him anyway, can you?”

Something inside Daemon went cold. The Devil did not.

It became ravenous.

Open the door.

Daemon pushed it open. Femi stood near the preparation counter. The man had placed himself between her and the exit. One hand braced against the counter beside her hip. His other hand held a strand of her midnight hair.

The Devil surged through Daemon so violently that the kitchen sharpened around him.

The man lifted Femi’s hair toward his face and breathed in as though she belonged to him.

Cut off the hand.

Femi did not move. Her body had gone rigid. Her green eyes remained fixed on the door behind him. The man continued talking.

“I bet you make some kind of sound when someone gives you a reason.”

Femi shuddered.

The Devil smiled inside Daemon.

Let him make a sound for her.

Daemon stepped fully into the kitchen. His boot struck the metal doorstop. The small noise cut through the man’s voice. Femi’s eyes found Daemon first. Fear moved through them. Then relief. It lasted less than a second. It was enough.

Something dark and possessive closed around Daemon’s ribs.

The Devil purred.

She knew we would come.

The man looked over his shoulder, still holding Femi’s hair near his face.

He smiled.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Step away from her.”

Daemon’s voice was quiet.

The Devil whispered beneath it.

Before I remove the part touching her.

The man laughed.

“Why? I think she likes it.”

Kill him.

Daemon looked at Femi.

She was staring at the hand holding her hair. Her fingers were pressed against the edge of the counter hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

The Devil saw every detail.

She cannot move.

Daemon returned his attention to the man.

“Let her go.”

The man released her hair but did not move away. The strand fell against her shoulder.

The Devil’s rage did not lessen.

He touched what was not offered.

“You her keeper now?”

Daemon cracked his knuckles. The sound was nearly lost beneath the music. Nearly. The man’s smile faltered.

The Devil felt his fear and delighted in it.

Yes. There it is.

He stepped back. Space opened between him and Femi. She moved immediately. Not toward Daemon. Past him. She fled through the kitchen door and disappeared into the main room.

The Devil twisted after her.

She is running.

“Let her.”

Follow her.

“She needs space.”

She needs us.

Daemon watched until she was gone.

Only when he knew the man could no longer reach her did he turn back. Then he closed the door. The latch settled into place. The man glanced toward it.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Daemon turned the lock. The quiet click changed the man’s posture.

The Devil laughed.

Now he understands.

The man recognized him then.

Not merely another customer sitting in a dark corner.

The scar.

The pale hair.

The gray eyes that held no hesitation.

“Wait,” the man said. “You’re—”

“Yes.”

Daemon crossed the kitchen.

The Devil moved with him.

Slowly.

The man raised both hands.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You frightened her.”

“I was talking.”

“You touched her.”

“It was her hair.”

The Devil curled around the words.

Her hair.

Daemon stopped in front of him.

The man attempted a smile.

“Come on. You know how these girls are. She wanted—”

Daemon struck him once. The man hit the floor. The music continued playing. No one in the clubhouse heard.

The Devil looked down at him through Daemon’s eyes.

Again.

The man groaned.

He spoke about her.

Daemon flexed his hand.

Again.

The man attempted to rise.

Daemon put him back on the floor.

Again.

Several minutes passed before the Devil stopped asking.

Daemon opened the back door and dragged the man into the alley. The night air was cold. The man tried to crawl after Daemon released him. Blood ran from his nose and mouth, darkening the pavement beneath his face.

The Devil watched it spread.

Not enough.

Daemon caught the back of his coat and pulled him upright against the brick wall.

The man whimpered.

“Please.”

Daemon studied him. He had heard that word from better men. It had not helped them either.

“You will not return to Helix.”

The man nodded quickly.

“You will not speak to her.”

Another nod.

“You will not look at her.”

“I won’t.”

The Devil leaned closer inside him.

He will.

“If I hear that you have followed her, approached her, or asked anyone about her, I will find you.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

Daemon brought his face nearer.

“But you will.”

The Devil smiled through his eyes.

Tell him.

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“If she sees you again, there will not be enough left for Malone to bury.”

The man stopped breathing.

The Devil purred.

Now he understands.

Daemon released him. His body collapsed beside the trash bins. The Devil wanted to watch him crawl. Daemon went inside instead. Blood covered his knuckles. He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt, stepped back into the kitchen, and washed beneath cold water until no red remained.

The Devil watched the diluted blood circle the drain.

He touched her hair.

Daemon scrubbed harder.

We should have kept the hand.

“He will not return.”

He should not breathe.

Daemon shut off the water. The Devil fell silent, but its hunger remained. When he returned to the clubhouse, no one looked twice at him. The jukebox was still playing.

Malone stood behind the bar arguing with a supplier on the telephone. Marta carried a tray toward the pool tables. The customers drank, shouted, and laughed as though nothing had happened.

Femi stood near the far end of the bar. She was working again. Of course she was. Her hands moved steadily now, but Daemon saw the tension in her shoulders. The way she kept glancing toward the kitchen without turning her head.

The Devil softened into watchfulness.

She is waiting.

Daemon returned to his dark corner and sat down. His untouched whiskey waited on the table. He lifted one hand. Malone did not see him. Femi did. Their eyes met across the room.

The Devil became attentive.

Will she come?

Daemon signaled for another drink. She looked toward the full glass already sitting before him. Then back at him. For a moment, he thought she might refuse.

The Devil pressed against his ribs.

Come here, little ghost.

Femi reached for a clean glass and the whiskey bottle.

Something dark inside Daemon settled.

Good.

She brought it to his table herself. Daemon watched her approach. The clubhouse faded around her again. The Devil watched differently now.

It searched for injuries.

A bruise.

A mark.

Anything the man might have left upon her.

Did he hurt her?

Femi stopped beside him and placed the new drink on the table. Her gaze moved over his face, searching for something she could not name. Daemon kept both hands visible. He did not reach for her.

The Devil wanted to.

Touch her hair.

“No.”

Femi’s eyes sharpened.

Daemon pretended he had spoken to the whiskey. He did not touch the glass until she stepped away. Femi lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The Devil counted it.

One.

Two.

Her gaze dropped briefly toward Daemon’s hands. The knuckles were clean. The skin was not. A faint redness remained where bone had met flesh. Femi looked at his face again.

She knows.

Then she returned to work. Daemon followed her with his eyes. The Devil followed with everything else. She never knew exactly what had happened in the kitchen after she fled. She never saw the man bleeding in the alley. But she had seen Daemon close the door. She had seen what lived behind his eyes before she ran. And the man never came back to Helix.

No one asked why. No one questioned the Devil about men who disappeared. Daemon sat in the darkest corner with a fresh whiskey beneath his hand and continued watching Femi move through the crowd. The same as before. Except it was not the same.

Before, Daemon had watched because he could not stop.

Now he watched because somewhere between her frightened eyes and that locked kitchen door, an old and violent part of him had made a decision.

Ours.

“No.”

The Devil ignored him.

No one would corner her again while he was there.

Ours to guard.

No one would place unwanted hands on her.

Ours to avenge.

Femi did not belong to him.

She belonged only to herself.

The Devil laughed softly.

Then we will belong to her.

Daemon stared across the crowded clubhouse. Femi slipped between two tables, untouched. Safe. For now. But her fear had come from somewhere. Someone had taught her to freeze. Someone had taught her that escape depended upon silence.

The Devil’s curiosity sharpened into hunger.

Find them.

Daemon lifted the whiskey but did not drink.

Find every hand that taught our little ghost to flinch.

His gray eyes followed Femi through the room.

Then give them to me.

Daemon knew two things when he woke.

It was late.

And someone was cooking bacon.

The Devil stirred beneath the remnants of sleep.

Little ghost.

Daemon stared at the clock beside the bed, frowned at the numbers, then dragged one hand down his face. Sunlight pressed through the edges of the heavy curtains, far too bright to belong to morning.

The scent of coffee, eggs, and bacon drifted beneath his door.

She feeds us.

“You do not know that.”

The Devil inhaled through him.

Her.

Daemon dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway, still fastening his belt. He had barely taken three steps toward the kitchen when Malone appeared at the other end.

“Morning,” Daemon mumbled.

“It’s afternoon, Daemon.”

Daemon grunted.

“Still morning to me.”

“That girl lets me sleep half the damn day, then cooks breakfast.” Malone shook his head as they headed toward the kitchen. “Doesn’t wake me. Doesn’t make a sound. Just lets me sleep until the day is nearly gone.”

“She’s mute, Malone. Making no sound seems fairly unavoidable.”

Malone shot him a look.

Daemon’s mouth almost curved.

Almost.

The Devil laughed softly.

They rounded the corner and entered the kitchen.

Two plates waited on the table, each filled with eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. A mug of coffee sat beside each plate, steam rising from the dark surface as though it had just been poured.

Daemon stopped in the doorway. Femi was nowhere to be seen. Yet the timing was exact.

“She heard us coming,” he said.

Malone pulled out a chair.

“She hears everything.”

Daemon glanced toward the hallway leading to the small room at the back of the clubhouse.

The Devil searched the shadows with him.

Where is she?

“Where’s hers?”

Malone paused. His gaze moved over the table. There were only two plates. The Devil’s pleasure vanished. A flicker of irritation crossed Malone’s face.

“Femi,” he called.

No answer came. Of course none did. The Devil still waited as though she might appear. Malone muttered beneath his breath and walked to the counter. He opened the warming oven and found a third plate inside, untouched.

“She does this sometimes,” he said.

“Cooks but doesn’t eat?”

“She’ll eat later.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Make her eat.

Daemon looked toward the hallway again.

Malone gave him a tired look.

“Don’t start.”

Daemon took a seat, but he did not touch the food.

The Devil disliked the empty chair.

Find her.

Daemon ignored it.

“She made sure we were fed, then disappeared before we could thank her.”

“She doesn’t like people making a fuss over her.”

“Gratitude isn’t a fuss.”

“To her, attention is attention. Doesn’t matter whether it’s kind or cruel.”

That answer settled badly in Daemon’s stomach. The Devil went quiet. Before the street, before the foster homes, perhaps even before the night her parents died, Femi had learned that being noticed came with consequences.

Who taught her?

Daemon’s gaze returned to the darkened hallway.

Give me the name.

He picked up his coffee.

It was black.

Exactly the way he drank it.

Daemon stared into the cup.

“I never told her how I take my coffee.”

The Devil purred.

She knows us.

Malone sat across from him and reached for the bacon.

“She watched you drink it last night.”

Daemon glanced toward the hallway once more. The girl did not merely hear everything. She remembered everything, too.

Good little ghost.

The possessive approval in the Devil’s voice should have disturbed him.

Instead, Daemon lifted the coffee and drank.

Daemon found Femi unnerving.

The Devil found her fascinating.

He had mentioned earlier, in passing, how much he wanted a thick steak cooked medium rare. He had not been speaking to her. He had been talking to Malone, and Femi had been on the opposite side of the clubhouse, wiping down tables.

Daemon had assumed she was too far away to hear him.

She hears us.

He should have known better.

When he and Malone returned that evening, dinner was waiting. Two thick, perfectly seared steaks rested on warmed plates, each cooked medium rare. Beside them sat the largest baked potatoes Daemon had ever seen, split open and steaming beneath generous amounts of butter.

Daemon looked at the meal.

Then at Malone.

Malone only laughed.

“Careful what you wish for around here.”

The Devil studied the steak with deep satisfaction.

She remembered.

“She remembered a meal.”

Ours.

“It is a steak.”

She made it for us.

Daemon cut into the meat.

Perfectly pink.

The Devil purred.

Daemon had to admit the girl was like her mother.

Femi could cook.

Iris had possessed the same quiet talent. She could turn whatever happened to be in a kitchen into something worth remembering. Men had invented excuses to linger at her table, while Malone hovered nearby, glaring at anyone foolish enough to praise her too enthusiastically.

Femi had inherited that gift. But where Iris had filled a room with warmth and laughter, her daughter moved through it like a ghost.

Silent.

Watchful.

Gone the moment anyone noticed her.

Bring her back.

Daemon glanced toward the empty kitchen doorway.

She did not return.

Now Daemon sat in his usual corner, observing her as she slipped through the crowded clubhouse. The room was loud with music, drunken arguments, scraping chairs, and the occasional roar of laughter. Femi passed through it all untouched, her expression calm and her eyes lowered.

The Devil tracked every body that came near her.

Too close.

A man shifted before reaching her.

That one is watching.

He turned toward the stage.

The hand near her waist.

Femi moved before it could reach her.

The Devil settled.

Good.

Yet nothing escaped those green eyes. Daemon had noticed that too. She remembered every regular and what they drank. The moment someone claimed his usual table, his preferred bottle or glass appeared before him.

Jack with no ice.

Beer with a lime.

Bourbon neat.

Whiskey watered down enough to flatter a man who wanted others to believe he could handle it straight. No one needed to order. Femi already knew. The Devil disliked the ease with which she cared for them all.

She remembers too much about other men.

Daemon frowned into his drink.

“That is her job.”

We do not care.

She remembered who tipped well and who pretended to forget. She knew which men became loud after three drinks and which became violent after five. She noticed hands before they reached for her and arguments before voices rose. She watched exits. Counted bottles. Measured distances. When a stranger entered, her gaze found him immediately.

Not his face.

His hands.

His waist.

His boots.

Places a man might conceal a weapon. The Devil’s possessiveness changed shape. Curiosity became recognition.

She hunts danger.

“No,” Daemon murmured.

Femi’s eyes tracked the stranger until he reached the bar.

“She expects it.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his glass untouched before him. That was not the awareness of a shy young woman. It was the vigilance of someone who had survived by noticing danger before danger noticed her.

The Devil pressed against his bones.

Someone hunted her first.

Femi approached a table of regulars and deposited three drinks in rapid succession. The men thanked her. One slid a generous tip across the table without attempting to touch her. The Devil allowed him to keep breathing. Femi nodded once and disappeared into the crowd again.

“You see it now, don’t you?”

Malone’s voice came from behind the bar.

Daemon glanced toward him.

“See what?”

“She takes care of everyone.”

The Devil growled softly.

Too many.

Daemon watched Femi pause near the entrance as a group of unfamiliar bikers walked in. Her green eyes moved over each of them, cataloguing every detail.

“No,” he said quietly. “She studies everyone.”

Malone stopped polishing the glass in his hand. Daemon’s gaze followed Femi as she moved toward the newcomers.

“She doesn’t remember their drinks because she’s trying to be helpful,” he continued. “She remembers because knowing what people want keeps them predictable.”

“And predictable people are safer,” Malone murmured.

The Devil understood.

Give them what they want before they become angry.

Daemon’s expression hardened.

Become useful so they let you remain.

The pattern was too familiar. It tasted like locked rooms. Like hands that offered kindness only when obedience came with it. Like surviving men by becoming whatever made them least likely to strike. Daemon finally picked up his whiskey.

“That girl has been living with you for two years, and she still moves as if one mistake will get her killed.”

The Devil spoke with sudden, terrible clarity.

Who punished her mistakes?

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass. Across the clubhouse, Femi suddenly looked toward him. Their eyes met through the smoke and shifting bodies. For one brief moment, Daemon had the unsettling certainty that she had read every word from his lips.

The Devil became still.

She knows we see her.

Femi’s gaze remained upon him.

Not long.

One heartbeat.

Then another.

She turned away and vanished into the crowd.

The Devil followed her through Daemon’s eyes.

She knows.

Daemon stared at the place where she had disappeared. Perhaps that was why she had looked at him. Not because she had read his lips. Because she had felt him studying the things everyone else accepted without question. The drinks remembered. The food prepared. The exits watched. The careful distance between her body and every other person in the room.

Femi took care of everyone. No one asked what it cost her.

The Devil curled possessively around the thought.

She feeds them so they will not bite.

Daemon swallowed the whiskey.

But they still frightened her.

Its curiosity sharpened.

Darkened.

Find the ones who taught her.

Femi emerged on the other side of the clubhouse carrying another tray.

Her green eyes found Daemon immediately.

The Devil purred.

There is our little ghost.

She lowered her gaze and continued walking.

Daemon watched until the crowd swallowed her again.

Find every hand that made her useful.

The whiskey glass creaked beneath his fingers.

Then make certain none of them can touch her again.

Daemon had never been good at talking to people. Women in particular. He frowned as he considered the things he had said to most of the women who had passed through his life.

Leave.

Get dressed.

Take the money.

Do not come back.

There had never been much need for anything else.

The women who approached him understood what he was. Some wanted the danger attached to his name. Others wanted the money in his pocket or the protection they believed sleeping beside the Devil might purchase.

The Devil had never cared which.

Gone, it would murmur when they left.

Daemon never asked about their childhoods. He did not wonder what made them smile. He certainly did not sit alone afterward, wishing he had found a reason for them to remain.

But none of them were Femi.

The Devil stirred.

No one is.

Once Daemon began watching her, wanting followed. He wanted to know everything. Why she wore long sleeves in the heat. What is she hiding? Why she flinched whenever a man raised his voice. Who shouted at her? Why she watched every doorway and never sat with her back to a room. Who taught her to expect pursuit? Why she worked until Malone ordered her to her room. Why does she believe she must earn the right to remain?

He wanted to know where she had learned to move so quietly. Who had frightened her. Who had hurt her. What had happened to her voice.

The questions were dangerous.

Not because Daemon feared the answers.

Because some part of him had already decided it wanted to punish whoever belonged to them.

The Devil’s hunger moved warmly through his blood.

Find them.

He wanted to protect her.

More than that, he wanted Femi to come closer without looking as though she might bolt the moment he moved.

She watches us.

“She watches everyone.”

Not the same way.

Daemon had no idea how to make her stop running.

So he sought out Sandi Tucci. Sandi could find a frightened girl in a city determined not to see her. She had found Femi. Daemon hated Red with a passion he reserved for very few people he had not yet killed, but he could speak to Sandi. Sandi had sense. More importantly, he believed she had a heart. Years earlier, Daemon had found her bleeding behind a motel after a pimp decided bruises were an acceptable business practice. Daemon had corrected the man’s thinking.

The Devil remembered the correction fondly.

He screamed well.

Sandi never forgot it.

Neither did the pimp, though his memory had become considerably less useful after Daemon finished with him. Daemon found Sandi near

Sandi was five feet five, with the long, elegant build of a runway model. Her mixed heritage lived beautifully in brown skin, hazel eyes, and blond hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wore a short red coat, black heels, and an expression suggesting the entire street belonged to her for as long as she chose to stand on it.

One moment, Sandi was alone.

The next, Daemon stepped out of the darkness beside the pharmacy.

She looked toward him without surprise.

“Well, if it isn’t the Devil himself.” Sandi took a slow pull from her cigarette. “How have you been, Daemon?”

“Fine.”

“You still tell lies with all the warmth of a gravestone.”

Daemon placed his hands in his coat pockets.

“The girl you found for Malone.”

The Devil growled.

Femi.

Sandi studied him.

It took less than a second for amusement to enter her hazel eyes.

“Her name is Femi, Daemon.”

His frown deepened.

She corrected us.

Sandi laughed softly and released a cloud of smoke.

“Oh, this is interesting.”

“What is?”

“You.”

“There is nothing interesting about me.”

“Usually, no.” She tapped ash onto the pavement. “What about Femi? Is she all right?”

“Fine.”

“Has someone bothered her?”

“Not anymore.”

The Devil purred. Sandi looked at his hands. The bruising across his knuckles had almost disappeared.

“That would explain why Cole Mason left Wolfwater.”

Daemon said nothing.

Sandi smiled.

“You always were subtle, handsome.”

“He touched her.”

The Devil remembered fingers tangled in midnight hair.

Its pleasure vanished.

He should have lost the hand.

“That sounds like Cole.”

“He will not do it again.”

“That sounds like you.”

“He still breathes,” the Devil complained.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“I want to know about her.”

Sandi’s amusement vanished.

“Why?”

Daemon looked across the street. Cars passed through the wet intersection, their headlights breaking across the pavement.

“I asked her questions.”

“And?”

“She couldn’t answer.”

“You did not know she was mute?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“I continued asking.”

The Devil became quiet.

Sandi winced.

Daemon looked at her.

“That bad?”

“For a frightened woman who has spent years learning that men become angry when they do not receive what they want?” Sandi took another pull from the cigarette. “Yes, handsome. That bad.”

The Devil pressed uneasily against his bones.

We frightened her.

“I apologized.”

“Did you expect her to make you feel better about it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I told her she did not have to answer.”

Sandi’s expression softened slightly.

“And?”

“She wrote her name.”

The memory returned.

The careful letters.

Her hand trembling around the pen.

Femi.

The Devil curled around the name.

She gave it to us.

That brought Sandi’s smile back.

“She chose to introduce herself.”

“Yes.”

“Then you did one thing right.”

“I need to know how to speak to her.”

Sandi tilted her head.

“Why?”

Daemon frowned.

“I already answered that.”

“No, you said you wanted to know about her. That isn’t the same thing.”

He stared at the dark windows of the pharmacy. Sandi waited. She had always been good at silence. She could make it feel less like absence and more like a door someone might walk through when ready.

The Devil did not possess the same patience.

Tell her.

“I want Femi to stop looking afraid when she sees me,” Daemon said at last.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop giving her reasons to be.”

His gray eyes returned to her.

“I released her wrist.”

“You should not have taken it.”

The Devil remembered Femi’s pulse beneath his fingers.

Too fast.

Soft.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Daemon’s mouth hardened. Sandi did not retreat from the expression. She had seen worse men wearing kinder faces.

“I know,” he repeated.

The Devil spoke more quietly.

Do not make her fear our hands.

“All right.”

Sandi dropped ash from the end of her cigarette.

“Then start by not requiring an answer. Say what you need to say and let the silence belong to her. Don’t fill it because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Silence does not make me uncomfortable.”

“No. But wanting does.”

Daemon went still.

The Devil laughed.

Sandi smiled without humor.

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The one men get when they discover a woman has become important before they gave her permission.”

“She is not important.”

Liar.

Sandi laughed so loudly that a man across the street turned to look.

Daemon’s frown became dangerous.

“Oh, handsome.” She wiped beneath one eye. “You hunted me down in the rain to ask how to speak to one waitress, and you expect me to believe she is not important?”

“She is Malone’s responsibility.”

Ours.

“Then why are you here instead of Malone?”

Daemon did not answer.

The Devil did.

Because she watches us.

Sandi took pity on him. Foolishly, perhaps. But Sandi had always been generous with hopeless things.

“Femi is twenty,” she said. “She has been on the streets for approximately two years, most of that time around the homeless camp beneath Wolfwater Bridge.”

Daemon’s expression changed.

“Two years?”

The Devil went silent.

“That is how long we can confirm. She worked odd jobs for cash. Washed dishes. Cleaned motel rooms. Carried boxes at the markets. Sometimes she worked only for leftovers.”

Daemon looked away. The image came too easily. Femi sleeping beneath the bridge. Femi eating from Malone’s trash. Femi working until her hands ached because some part of her still believed food and shelter could be withdrawn if she stopped.

The Devil’s rage moved through him like something waking beneath deep water.

Who let her starve?

“What happened to her voice?”

“The few records we found call it selective mutism. Whatever caused it began after something she witnessed—or something done to her. We do not know.”

Something done to her.

The Devil seized upon the words.

Who?

“She has a scar.”

Sandi’s gaze sharpened.

“You saw it?”

“Only part of it. Above her collar.”

The Devil remembered the glimpse of damaged skin.

Someone marked her.

“The records mention several hospitalizations. Throat trauma may have worsened what was already there. The files contradict one another.”

Daemon’s gray eyes became cold.

“Why?”

“Because most of the real ones are gone.”

Daemon looked at her.

Sandi’s cigarette burned unnoticed between her fingers.

“Femi has been in and out of foster homes since she was seven,” she continued. “Before that, there were hospitals. Lots and lots of hospitals. Different cities. Different names attached to the paperwork. Then the records disappear completely.”

“Someone removed them.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Name them.

“If I knew, I would have told Malone.”

Daemon’s expression darkened.

Sandi watched him carefully.

“Someone tried to erase that child,” she said. “Not just lose her in the system. Erase her.”

The Devil snarled.

Daemon felt it in his teeth.

“Are you sure?”

Sandi gave him a look.

“When have I been wrong, handsome?”

“Twice.”

“Those men resembled each other.”

“They were different races.”

“It was dark.”

“It was noon.”

Sandi smiled.

The Devil did not appreciate the delay.

Ask her what else.

Daemon did not smile.

The humor faded again.

“What else can you tell me?”

“I know she has nightmares. I know she hardly sleeps. I know men have made the streets difficult for her.”

His hands curled inside his pockets.

The Devil’s curiosity became something lethal.

Names.

“You remember Ray Bitro?”

“Yes.”

“I called him after I found her.”

“Why?”

“Because a group of men had begun circling the bookstore where she slept. They knew she was alone. They knew she couldn’t call for help.”

Daemon’s face became very still.

The Devil rose behind his eyes.

Names.

Sandi saw it and lifted one finger.

“No.”

“Names.”

Give them to us.

“Ray handled it.”

“Names, Sandi.”

“They are gone.”

“Dead?”

“Gone from Wolfwater. That is enough.”

“Not for me.”

Not for us.

“This is not about what is enough for you.”

Daemon looked toward her.

Sandi held his gaze.

“I found Femi sleeping behind an old bookstore with everything she owned beneath her head. She barely let me come within ten feet of her. It took me two hours to convince her the food wasn’t poisoned.”

The Devil recoiled.

Poisoned?

Daemon imagined Femi alone behind the building. Watching Sandi approach. Prepared to run even while starving. How many times had someone offered kindness only to turn it into a trap? How many hands had reached toward her with food before demanding something in return?

The Devil wanted every answer. It wanted every name. It wanted a room without windows and enough time to ask properly.

“She did not need another violent man deciding what was best for her,” Sandi continued. “She needed space. Ray gave her that after he convinced those men to stay away.”

“How?”

“More politely than you would have.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It is the only answer you’re getting.”

The Devil pressed against Daemon’s restraint.

Make her answer.

“No,” Daemon told it silently.

Sandi watched his expression change but said nothing. She took the final pull from her cigarette. Daemon stared across the intersection.

“Her real name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Femi is not real?”

“Femi is the name she uses. That makes it real enough.”

The Devil agreed immediately.

Femi.

“You know what I mean.”

Sandi dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it beneath her heel.

“Iris was private about her life. She told people she had a daughter, but she never told anyone the child’s name. Not Red. Not me. Not even Malone.”

“Last name?”

“Vale.”

Daemon turned slowly.

The Devil became still.

Sandi watched recognition enter his face.

“The Vale murders?”

“Yes, handsome.”

“That was Iris?”

“Yes.”

“They said the entire family was killed.”

“They were wrong.”

“Or someone wanted everyone to believe it.”

Sandi nodded.

“Someone made certain Femi disappeared into the system. They scrubbed her real name from the records and moved her often enough that no one could follow.”

The Devil understood before Daemon spoke.

They were hiding what survived.

“Why?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?”

Daemon looked down the wet street. He remembered the case. Everyone in Ravenside did. A family slaughtered in their home. An old debt. A fire intended to destroy whatever the bullets left behind. The newspapers had published photographs for weeks before the city found another dead family to discuss. Femi had been six. The Devil imagined a little girl with midnight hair lying among the dead.

Its rage became vast.

Six.

“She survived,” Daemon said.

“Somehow.”

The Devil’s voice lowered with dark reverence.

Our little ghost survived them.

“Who found her?”

“No one knows.”

“Who put her in the hospital?”

“No one knows.”

“Who changed her name?”

“No one knows.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened with every answer.

The Devil answered each one differently.

Find out.

Sandi stepped into his line of sight.

“You listen to me.”

Daemon looked at her.

“You do not take this back to Femi.”

“I won’t.”

“You do not ask her about Iris, the murders, the hospitals, or the name someone stole from her.”

“I said I won’t.”

“You have a way of believing your concern gives you rights it does not.”

The Devil bristled.

We have the right to know who hunts her.

Daemon’s face became cold.

Sandi did not care.

“She is not a mystery for you to solve,” she said. “She is a woman trying to survive whatever the answer is.”

The Devil quieted.

Daemon looked toward the rain.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you intend to do with what I told you?”

Daemon looked in the direction of Helix. Femi would be there now. Moving between tables. Watching hands. Remembering drinks. Making herself useful enough to keep.

“Nothing,” he said.

Sandi studied him.

The Devil disagreed.

Watch her.

Daemon would.

Guard her.

He intended to.

Find them.

Not yet.

Then Sandi nodded.

“Good.”

Daemon stepped away from the awning.

“Daemon.”

He stopped.

“If you want her to come closer, do not pull.”

His gaze returned to Sandi.

The Devil listened.

“Become somewhere she does not need to run from.”

Sandi lit another cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated her hazel eyes.

“Do you think you can manage that, Devil?”

Daemon disappeared into the rain without answering. The Devil followed him through the darkness. For once, it did not whisper about blood. It thought of frightened green eyes. A trembling hand writing one name.

Femi.

For her, it said.

And Daemon understood.

He returned to Helix unhurried.

At least, that was how he appeared.

Inside, something drove him toward the clubhouse with an urgency he refused to name.

Faster.

Daemon ignored it. He needed to see Femi standing behind the bar. Needed proof that she was still there. Still safe. Still untouched by the history Sandi had placed inside his hands.

Find her.

Helix was crowded when he entered. Daemon crossed the room and took his usual table in the darkest corner. He did not search for Femi.

Not immediately.

Liar.

He removed his coat, sat with his back against the wall, and waited.

The Devil prowled beneath his skin.

Where is she?

A moment later, he felt her looking at him.

The pressure inside him eased.

There.

Daemon lifted his eyes. Femi stood near the bar carrying a tray. Alive. Unharmed.

Watching him.

The Devil curled possessively around the sight of her.

Our little ghost.

Their gazes met. He raised two fingers. The Devil purred.

Come closer.

Femi looked toward his empty table. Then she nodded. No words. No demand for them. Femi collected a glass and poured his whiskey. Daemon watched her approach. He noticed everything Sandi had told him.

The thinness of her wrists beneath the cuffs. Too thin. The exhaustion carefully concealed beneath her eyes.

She did not sleep.

The way her gaze moved toward the nearest exit before she crossed between crowded tables.

She still expects to run.

Sandi’s words moved through him.

Six years old.

The Devil went silent.

Hospitals.

Its rage stirred.

Foster homes.

Something dark pressed against Daemon’s bones.

Two years beneath Wolfwater Bridge.

The Devil imagined her cold. Hungry. Sleeping with everything she owned beneath her head.

Someone tried to erase that child.

The Devil’s voice returned as a snarl.

Names.

Anger gathered inside Daemon.

Find them.

He buried it.

Give them to me.

Not now.

The words remained inside him.

Femi stopped beside the table and placed his drink before him. She reached for the empty glass that was not there. Her hand paused. Daemon kept both palms against the tabletop. Visible. Still.

The Devil disliked the distance.

Touch her.

“No.

Femi’s gaze flickered toward his hands.

Daemon remembered Sandi’s warning.

Do not pull.

He forced himself to remain motionless.

“Thank you, Femi.”

Her green eyes rose to his.

The Devil became attentive.

She looked at us.

Daemon did not ask how she was. Did not ask whether she remembered Iris. Did not ask what had happened in the house where everyone else died. Did not ask who had found her bleeding. Who had changed her name. Who had hidden her among strangers until no one remembered to search.

The Devil demanded every answer.

Ask her.

Daemon allowed the silence to remain hers.

Ask.

No.

Femi waited. Daemon said nothing more. Slowly, the tension left her shoulders. The Devil felt it happen. Its hunger quieted.

She is not afraid.

Not entirely. But less than before. Femi gave him a small nod. Then she turned to go.

The Devil followed her with Daemon’s eyes.

Stay.

At the next table, a man leaned backward without looking. Femi shifted to avoid him, but the tray tilted.

Daemon’s hand lifted instinctively.

Catch her.

He stopped before touching her.

Femi caught the tray herself. Not a single glass fell. She looked at his suspended hand. Daemon held himself still.

The Devil pressed forward.

She might fall.

“She did not.”

We should have caught her.

“She did not need us to.”

Daemon lowered his hand to the table.

“You had it.”

Her gaze returned to his face. The Devil studied the surprise in her eyes. Femi nodded. She should have walked away. Instead, she remained beside the table for another moment. Then another.

The Devil went utterly still.

She stayed.

Daemon did not move.

Sandi’s words returned.

If you want her to come closer, do not pull.

The Devil wanted to reach for her. To close a hand around her wrist and keep her within the darkness of his corner. To feel the small pulse beneath her skin. To know she was real.

Safe.

His. Keep her.

Daemon flattened his palms against the table.

“No.”

Femi took one small step nearer. The Devil quieted. She reached across the table to retrieve a napkin. There were napkins at every station in Helix. She did not need his. Daemon pretended not to notice.

The Devil noticed everything.

She came closer.

Femi wiped a drop of whiskey from the wood. She could have left it. Daemon would not have cared. Still, she lingered within reach. The scent of strawberries moved faintly through the whiskey and smoke.

The Devil inhaled.

Sweet little ghost.

Then Femi straightened and returned to the bar. Daemon watched her go. The Devil did not command him to follow. For the first time, it understood. He had remained still. She had come closer. He had given her an open path.

She had stayed.

Again, it whispered.

Daemon wanted to know everything about her.

He wanted to find the person who had erased her name.

Find them.

He wanted to kill every man who had taught her to fear wandering hands and raised voices.

Slowly.

But more than any of it, he wanted Femi to look at him without preparing to run.

The Devil wanted that too. Its desire felt stranger than bloodlust. Deeper.

We frightened her once.

“Yes.”

Never again.

Daemon looked toward the bar. Femi was placing an order beside Malone, but her attention shifted toward the corner when another customer passed too close to Daemon’s table. Watching him. Checking.

For the first time, Daemon understood that protecting her would not begin with violence.

The Devil resisted the thought.

Blood is simpler.

“Not for her.”

It would begin with restraint. With visible hands. With unanswered questions. With resisting the urge to break every person who made her flinch long enough to learn whether she wanted him to act. With sitting in the dark and allowing Femi to decide how close she wished to come.

The Devil considered this new kind of protection.

Wait for her.

Daemon lifted the whiskey.

Across the room, Femi glanced back at him. She did not look away immediately. Neither did he. The noise of Helix faded. For one suspended moment, there was only Femi beneath the light and Daemon inside the shadows. Watching one another.

The Devil moved warmly through his blood.

There you are.

Femi’s expression softened.

Barely.

Enough.

The Devil purred.

She sees us.

Daemon drank. Femi returned to her work, but she looked toward his corner once more before disappearing into the kitchen.

The Devil settled.

Not satisfied.

It would never be satisfied where Femi was concerned.

But patient.

For her, it could learn patience.

She will come back.

Daemon placed the glass on the table.

“Yes.”

He remained in the darkness with both hands visible.

And waited.

Daemon woke before noon.

It was an unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant experience.

For several moments, he lay motionless in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling as though it were personally responsible for dragging him from sleep. The clubhouse was quiet. No music shook the walls. No engines growled in the parking lot. Even the pipes seemed to have agreed to leave him alone. Then he smelled something cooking. Rich broth. Roasted meat. Onions, garlic, and herbs simmering slowly enough to fill the entire building with warmth.

The Devil stirred.

Little ghost.

Daemon sat up.

His stomach made the decision for him. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then stepped into the hallway. The aroma strengthened as he approached the kitchen. Something else lingered beneath the scent of stew. Fresh dough. Strawberries.

The Devil inhaled through him.

There she is.

Daemon stopped in the doorway.

Femi stood at the stove with her back partially turned to him. Her midnight hair had been gathered into a loose braid that fell nearly to her waist. She wore an oversized gray shirt and dark leggings, her feet bare against the kitchen floor.

One hand held the wooden spoon while the other rested lightly against the side of the pot.

Steam curled around her face as she stirred.

The Devil became fascinated.

Soft.

Daemon remained in the doorway.

He was not trying to conceal himself, but something about the quiet domestic scene made entering feel like an intrusion.

The Devil disagreed.

Closer.

Femi lifted the spoon and tasted the broth. Her brows drew together in concentration. She reached for a small glass jar, added a pinch of something, then stirred again.

Daemon’s mouth watered. The girl could cook. That fact had been established by the steaks, but this smelled like something else entirely. It smelled like winter nights. Heavy blankets. A fire burning low. A home he could no longer remember clearly enough to miss.

The Devil curled around the warmth.

Ours.

“It is stew.”

She made it.

“That does not make it ours.”

She will feed us.

The certainty in its voice irritated him.

His phone rang. The sharp sound tore through the silence. The Devil snarled at the interruption. Femi did not startle. She merely looked up. Her green eyes found Daemon immediately, confirming what he already suspected. She had known he was there the entire time.

The Devil purred.

She always knows where we are.

Daemon pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Malone.

He answered without taking his eyes off Femi.

“What?”

“Well, good morning to you too,” Malone said.

“It’s early.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“Exactly.”

Femi returned her attention to the pot. Daemon stepped into the kitchen while Malone spoke.

The Devil approved.

Closer.

On the counter waited a mound of dough dusted with flour. Femi moved around the counter and began kneading it, her small hands working with practiced confidence.

Press.

Fold.

Turn.

Daemon leaned against the opposite counter and watched.

The Devil watched her fingers.

What else can those hands make?

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Behave.”

Femi looked toward him.

He pretended the word had been meant for Malone.

“Is she awake?” Malone asked.

“She’s cooking.”

“Of course she is.”

“What do you need?”

“I’m picking something up for her. I should be back in an hour.”

Daemon glanced at Femi. She did not appear to be listening. Her eyes remained on the dough, but he had learned enough about her to know appearances meant very little.

The Devil knew too.

She hears everything.

“What are you picking up?”

“It’s a surprise.”

The Devil became attentive.

What surprise?

Daemon grunted.

Malone sighed through the phone.

“Don’t tell her what it is.”

“I don’t know what it is.”

“Good. Then you can’t ruin it.”

“I could try.”

“Just tell her I have a surprise for her.”

Daemon looked at Femi again.

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

“Because I’m asking you.”

Before Daemon could respond, Malone ended the call.

He stared at the phone.

“He does that because he knows I won’t call him back.”

Femi continued kneading. Daemon slipped the phone into his pocket and waited. He did not know why. Perhaps he expected her to look up or offer some acknowledgment that she had heard him. She gave him nothing.

The Devil whispered impatiently.

Tell her.

“Malone says he has a surprise for you, Femi.”

Her hands stopped. Only for a second. The dough rested beneath her fingers while a strange stillness passed through her body.

The Devil felt it immediately.

Wrong.

Her expression did not change, but Daemon saw the sudden tension in her shoulders.

Then her hands resumed their rhythm.

Press.

Fold.

Turn.

The Devil’s curiosity sharpened.

She is afraid.

Daemon studied her. Most people would have shown curiosity. They would have smiled, questioned him, or tried to guess what Malone was bringing. Femi reacted as though a surprise were something to endure.

Why?

“You don’t like surprises,” Daemon said.

She gave no answer.

He had not expected one.

The Devil wanted it anyway.

Ask her why.

“No.”

Femi’s eyes lifted briefly.

Daemon kept his hands against the opposite counter.

Visible.

Still.

Femi shaped the dough into a neat loaf and placed it in a dark metal pan. She brushed the top with melted butter before sliding it into the oven. The stew continued bubbling softly on the stove. Daemon expected her to check it again. Instead, she washed her hands, dried them on a towel, and walked past him.

The Devil moved toward her.

Stop her.

Daemon stepped aside.

Femi did not look at him as she crossed the kitchen.

She is leaving.

“Let her.”

She slipped into the hallway, disappearing into the darkness that led toward her room. Seconds later, he heard her door close.

The Devil surged against his restraint.

Follow.

“No.”

She is afraid.

“That is why we stay here.”

The Devil did not understand. Not yet. Daemon remained beside the counter, staring after her. He had seen fear in many forms. Some people shouted when they were afraid. Some fought. Others ran or pleaded. Femi simply vanished, retreating so quietly that anyone less observant might have mistaken her absence for coincidence.

The Devil hated how practiced she was at disappearing.

Who made her hide?

Daemon turned toward the oven.

The bread had only just begun to rise.

Whatever Malone was bringing, Femi did not want to be present when it arrived.

Find out why.

Daemon looked toward the darkened hallway.

“I intend to.”

Malone returned nearly an hour later. Daemon heard his truck pull into the lot, followed by the side door opening and closing. By then, the bread was cooling on the counter, and the stew had filled the kitchen with a scent strong enough to make patience feel unreasonable. Malone entered carrying a large brown paper bag with twisted handles.

The Devil became curious again.

Open it.

Daemon looked at the bag.

“That’s the surprise?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you called me.”

“I asked you to deliver a message.”

“You asked the wrong man.”

Malone set the bag on the counter and looked around.

“Where is she?”

“Her room.”

“She eat?”

Daemon glanced at the untouched pot.

“What do you think?”

Malone’s expression tightened.

“She heard about the surprise and disappeared,” Daemon said.

The Devil resented the words.

We frightened her.

Malone stared toward the hallway.

“Damn.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing bad.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Show us.

Malone ignored them both.

He removed two bowls from the cupboard and filled them with stew. Then he cut thick slices from the warm loaf, spreading butter across each one while the bread was still hot enough to melt it.

Daemon watched Malone place one bowl and two slices of bread on a tray.

“You planning to leave food outside her door like she’s a frightened animal?”

“No.” Malone’s voice turned hard. “I’m showing her she doesn’t have to come out until she’s ready.”

That silenced him.

The Devil considered the answer.

Wait?

“Yes.”

Outside the door?

“Yes.”

It disliked the distance. But it remembered Femi taking a napkin she did not need because Daemon had kept his hands still.

She comes closer when we do not pull.

Malone carried the tray down the hallway. Daemon followed several paces behind, though neither man acknowledged it. The Devil watched the closed door grow nearer. Femi’s room was dark. No light showed beneath it. Malone placed the tray carefully on the floor. Then he set the brown bag beside it. He did not knock. He did not call her name or demand that she open the door. He only adjusted the bag until it stood upright, then rested his palm against the wood for a brief moment.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” he said softly.

There was no response from inside.

The Devil listened.

She is there.

Daemon knew.

Open the door.

“No.”

Make certain she is safe.

“She closed it because she wants us outside.”

The Devil pressed against him.

Then Malone stepped away. No anger. No wounded demand for gratitude. No punishment for the closed door.

The Devil slowly settled.

We leave her?

“We wait.”

Malone returned to the kitchen. Daemon remained in the hallway, studying the closed door and the bag waiting beside it. A small piece of pale-blue fabric peeked between the folded edges of the paper. Clothing, perhaps. Something new. Something chosen especially for her.

The Devil’s curiosity returned.

Blue.

Daemon imagined the color against Femi’s olive skin and midnight hair.

The Devil purred.

Pretty little ghost.

Daemon understood then. Femi had spent too long learning that gifts carried debts. That kindness was bait. That every pleasant surprise eventually revealed its teeth.

The Devil’s voice darkened.

Who taught her that?

A bag left outside her door, with no demand attached to it, might appear insignificant to anyone else. For Femi, it was proof of something she did not yet know how to trust. She could say no. She could hide. She could take her time. And Malone would still leave bread outside her door. The Devil stared at the tray through Daemon’s eyes. It had always understood offerings as promises. Blood for loyalty. Pain for obedience. Violence for protection. This was different. Bread. Warm stew. A gift left unopened.

No demand.

This is how he keeps her?

“No,” Daemon murmured.

The Devil waited.

“This is how he lets her stay.”

Silence came from behind the door. Daemon returned to the kitchen and found the second bowl of stew waiting for him. He sat across from Malone and tasted it. The meat fell apart against his tongue. The broth was rich, balanced, and warm.

The Devil purred.

She feeds us.

Daemon tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the bowl.

Malone watched him expectantly.

“Well?”

Daemon took another bite.

“The girl can cook.”

Malone smiled.

“Just like her mother.”

Neither man spoke after that.

Much later, when Daemon passed through the hallway again, the bowl, bread, and brown paper bag were gone. He stopped. The Devil stirred with quiet satisfaction.

She took them.

Femi’s door remained closed. Daemon did not knock. He did not ask whether she liked the gift. He did not demand that she come out and prove Malone’s kindness had been accepted.

The Devil listened to the silence behind the door.

She is still here.

Daemon continued down the hallway.

“Yes.”

For now, that was enough.

The evening had been louder than usual.

Nearly every table was occupied. Music rattled the glasses behind the bar while bikers shouted over one another, trading stories, insults, and arguments that grew less intelligent with every drink.

Daemon sat in his usual corner.

He appeared to be reading, but his attention moved with Femi as she crossed the clubhouse.

The Devil followed her too.

There.

She had grown more comfortable around him over the past few weeks. She no longer fled the moment he looked at her. Sometimes she even remained at his table long enough to collect his empty glass before replacing it.

The Devil treasured those stolen moments.

She stays now.

Tonight, however, something was different. Femi kept watching the entrance. Every time the door opened, her shoulders tightened. Her gaze went first to the newcomer’s hands, then to his face. She was looking for the serpent. Daemon knew because he had begun doing the same. No silver rings appeared. No gray sedan waited outside. Still, Femi did not relax.

The Devil grew restless.

She expects it.

Daemon turned a page he had not read.

Let it come.

Femi approached a table occupied by two customers Daemon had seen only once before. Both men were already drunk, their voices carrying above the music as she gathered the empty bottles scattered between them.

“Whole city’s changing,” one man said. “Old names crawling out of their graves.”

His companion laughed.

“They never went anywhere. Men like that just get quieter when the police start looking.”

“I heard Dusse is rebuilding.”

The second man stopped laughing.

“Keep your voice down.”

Femi reached for the last bottle.The first man leaned closer, though not nearly close enough to keep Daemon from hearing.

“Otis is back in the city.”

The bottle slipped from Femi’s hand. The Devil went completely still. The glass struck the table but did not break. Conversation continued around her. No one appeared to notice. Daemon did.

Femi stared at the bottle as it rolled across the scarred wood. Her face had gone pale beneath her olive skin.

Otis.

The name moved through the Devil like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

She knows him.

One of the men caught the bottle before it fell.

“Careful, mute.”

Femi did not react to the insult. Her eyes remained fixed on the man who had spoken Otis’s name.

Daemon closed his book.

The Devil whispered with sudden hunger.

Bring him here.

The drunk lifted the bottle and waved it before her face.

“You want this or not?”

Femi took it. Her fingers trembled so violently that glass clicked against the metal edge of her tray. The second customer noticed.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Who knows? Malone’s stray is always acting strange.”

The Devil’s voice lowered.

Stray?

Femi turned away. The first man caught her wrist. Daemon rose.

The Devil surged against his bones.

Take the hand.

He did not move from the corner yet, but something in his posture changed. The man saw it. He released Femi before Daemon reached him.

“Relax. I was giving her the bottle.”

Liar.

Femi hurried toward the bar. Daemon watched her place the tray on the counter. Malone was busy pouring drinks at the opposite end and did not see her grip the wood until her knuckles paled.

Otis.

The name meant something to her. It belonged to the night she refused to remember.

The Devil understood only one thing.

He frightened her.

Daemon crossed the room and stopped several feet behind her.

“Femi.”

She did not turn.

The Devil pressed him forward.

Closer.

Daemon remained where he was.

“Look at me.”

Her shoulders rose with a shallow breath. After a moment, she faced him. Daemon kept his voice low.

“You know that name.”

She shook her head.

Too quickly.

The Devil whispered.

Lie.

“The men said Otis.”

Another shake. Daemon studied her frightened green eyes. He wanted to demand the truth. Every unanswered question left her exposed to a threat he could neither find nor kill. The Devil wanted answers for the same reason.

Make her tell us.

But forcing Femi into the memory would only make Daemon another man taking something she had not chosen to give. He remembered her pulse racing beneath his fingers. The way she watched open doors. The relief that entered her body whenever he stepped aside.

“No,” he told the Devil.

It growled.

Daemon moved out of her path.

“All right.”

Femi’s expression changed. She had expected him to keep asking.

The Devil noticed the surprise.

She thought we would take it.

Daemon glanced toward the two customers.

“But you stay away from that table.”

Femi looked at him.

“If they want another drink, Malone can serve them.”

Her gaze hardened slightly. She pointed to herself and then toward the crowded clubhouse.

It was her job.

“I know.”

She folded her arms.

The Devil found the defiance fascinating.

She challenges us.

Daemon almost smiled.

“Fine. Then I’ll serve them.”

Her eyes moved over his massive frame, scarred face, and leather jacket. The suggestion was absurd enough to loosen some of the fear in her expression.

The Devil became attentive.

There.

“You don’t believe I can carry a tray?”

Femi tilted one hand from side to side.

Maybe.

Daemon leaned closer.

“I have many talents.”

One eyebrow rose.

“Most of them are unsuitable for customer service.”

The faintest smile touched her mouth.

The Devil purred through Daemon’s blood.

Again.

There.

Gone almost immediately. But Daemon saw it. The Devil wanted it back. Femi picked up the tray again. Before she could leave, Daemon placed one hand against its edge—not taking it from her, only stopping her for a moment.

The Devil wanted his fingers around her wrist instead.

Keep her.

Daemon ignored it.

“If you see the silver serpent again, you come to me.”

Her smile disappeared.

The Devil felt the fear return and hated it.

We will kill it.

“Or Malone,” Daemon added.

Femi looked toward the bar. Malone was laughing with a regular, unaware of the name that had nearly brought his daughter to her knees. She nodded once.

Daemon released the tray.

The Devil resisted.

Do not let her go near them.

“She chooses.”

Femi returned to work, avoiding the table where Otis’s name had been spoken. Daemon returned to his corner but did not reopen his book. The two strangers had stopped talking. One now watched Femi. The other watched Daemon.

The Devil smiled.

Good. Watch us.

They whispered to each other before ordering another round. Then another. By the fourth, their laughter had grown louder. By the fifth, one had begun insulting a regular at the neighboring table.

Daemon watched the man shove his chair backward. Wood scraped sharply across the floor. The fight began. Daemon looked up from his drink. Two men stood near the center of the clubhouse, shouting at one another over something neither would remember by morning. One was a regular. The other belonged to a group of strangers who had arrived already drunk and spent the evening becoming worse.

Malone came out from behind the bar.

“Take it outside.”

Neither man listened. The stranger shoved the regular. The regular swung first. His fist struck the stranger across the jaw, sending him staggering into a nearby table. Drinks toppled. Glass shattered. Someone shouted. A second man lunged into the fight. Within seconds, the entire center of the clubhouse erupted. Tables overturned. Fists flew. A bottle broke against the edge of the bar. Daemon rose slowly from his corner.

The Devil stirred with interest.

Finally.

Daemon had no intention of joining the stupidity. Malone and several regulars were already separating men and forcing them toward the entrance. Then Daemon saw Femi. She had been gathering empty glasses when the fight broke out. Now she was trapped between the brawl and the wall, clutching her tray against her chest as bodies crashed around her.

The Devil’s amusement vanished.

Little ghost.

Femi lowered her head and tried to slip past them. One of the drunken strangers stumbled into her path. Femi moved to avoid him. He turned. And struck her. The slap cracked through the clubhouse. Her head snapped to the side. The tray fell from her hands, striking the floor with a metallic crash. Femi lost her balance and went down among the broken glass. Everything inside Daemon went red.

The Devil rose screaming.

Kill him.

Daemon crossed the room before the man had time to lower his hand. He seized him by the front of his shirt and drove his fist into the man’s face. Bone gave beneath his knuckles. Blood sprayed across the floor.

The Devil exulted.

Again.

The man collapsed, but Daemon did not let him fall.

He hit him again.

Again.

And again.

Break everything.

“Daemon!”

Malone’s voice barely reached him.

Another stranger came from the side.

The Devil saw him.

Left.

Daemon turned and buried his fist in the man’s stomach. When he doubled over, Daemon caught him across the jaw, sending him crashing into an overturned table.

The clubhouse dissolved into violence.

Malone broke a bottle over the bar and used the jagged remains to persuade two men toward the exit. Several regulars joined him, dragging the worst of the drunks from the fight while Daemon dealt with anyone foolish enough to resist.

The Devil moved with delighted precision.

That one.

Daemon broke his nose.

The one behind us.

He drove an elbow into the man’s throat.

No one reaches her.

It was not a long brawl. It was bloody. By the time the last stranger was thrown through the door, blood streaked the floor, chairs lay broken, and half the clubhouse looked as though a storm had passed through it. Daemon stood in the center of the wreckage, chest heaving and fists red. The man who had struck Femi lay near his boots.

The Devil looked down at him.

He breathes.

Daemon reached for him again.

“Daemon.”

Something in Malone’s voice stopped him.

Not fear.

A warning.

Daemon followed Malone’s gaze.

Femi had not moved.

She still sat where she had fallen, one hand pressed against her cheek. Broken glass surrounded her. Her midnight hair hung over her face like a curtain, concealing everything except the violent trembling of her shoulders.

The Devil became silent.

The rage drained from Daemon so quickly it left him cold.

She is afraid.

He released the man and crossed the room.

“Clear this trash out,” Malone ordered the regulars.

Daemon barely heard him. He stopped several feet from Femi. For one uncertain moment, he did not know what to do. He had comforted no one in years. Perhaps he never had.

The Devil pressed toward her.

Pick her up.

“No.”

Take her away from the glass.

“She has to choose.”

The Devil resisted.

Then it saw the tremor moving through her body.

Do not frighten her.

Daemon lowered himself carefully, dropping to his knees in front of her without touching her.

“Femi.”

She did not look up.

Daemon could hear the shallow rhythm of her breathing. Her fingers pressed harder against her cheek as though she were trying to hold herself together.

The Devil watched her struggle for air.

Come back, little ghost.

“Femi,” Daemon tried again.

Still nothing.

His bloodied hands curled against his thighs.

“Are you hurt?”

His voice came low, stripped of the violence that had filled it moments before. Femi shook her head slowly. Daemon glanced at the glass around her. There was no blood on her clothes that he could see, but the mark on her cheek had already begun to darken beneath her olive skin.

The Devil saw it.

Red.

Fresh murder moved through him.

He marked her.

Daemon forced his hands to relax.

“Look at me, Femi.”

She became very still.

The Devil wanted him to say it again.

Call her.

Daemon waited.

He did not repeat the command. He did not move closer. After several long seconds, Femi raised her head. Her green eyes were wide with terror. The sight struck harder than any fist could have. For one terrible instant, Daemon knew she was not seeing him.

She was seeing someone else. Another man. Another room. Another night filled with blood.

The Devil recoiled from the fear in her eyes.

Not us.

Daemon kept his voice quiet.

“They will not hurt you again.”

Her gaze moved over his face before falling to the blood covering his hands. The Devil followed her attention. For the first time, it did not delight in the red. Daemon wondered whether he had become another thing for her to fear.

The thought hollowed something inside him.

No.

“I swear it,” he said.

He extended one hand toward her.

Palm up.

Offering.

Not demanding.

The Devil held perfectly still.

Take it.

Femi stared at his hand.

Around them, the remaining men cleared broken furniture and dragged the unconscious drunks outside. Malone stood near the bar, watching but keeping his distance.

No one spoke. Daemon remained on his knees with his hand held between them. Femi’s fingers shifted against her cheek. Slowly, she lowered her arm. A red handprint marred the left side of her face. Fresh rage stirred in Daemon’s chest.

The Devil snarled.

Kill him now.

Daemon buried it before it reached his eyes. Femi looked at his hand again. Then she placed her fingers in his palm. The Devil went quiet. Her hand was impossibly small within his. Warm. Trembling. Trusting him despite the blood.

She chose us.

Daemon closed his fingers carefully around hers and rose, drawing her to her feet. The moment she was standing, he loosened his grip, giving her the chance to pull away. She did not. Not immediately.

The Devil curled possessively around the fragile pressure of her fingers.

Ours.

“No,” Daemon told it.

The Devil did not argue.

Not while she was holding his hand.

Daemon looked her over without turning her or touching her anywhere else. Her clothes were intact. No blood seeped through the fabric. A shallow cut marked one palm, probably from the glass, but the injury appeared minor.

“You’re bleeding.”

Femi looked down at her hand as though she had not noticed. Malone approached with a clean towel and the first-aid kit. Murder lived openly in his expression when his gaze fell upon the bruise forming on her cheek.

“Let me see, sweetheart.”

Femi flinched. Malone stopped at once. Daemon felt her fingers tighten around his. The movement was slight. He doubted anyone else noticed.

The Devil did.

She holds us.

Malone noticed too.

Pain crossed the older man’s face, but he concealed it quickly.

“All right,” Malone said softly. “No one is going to touch you. I’ll leave the kit on the bar.”

Femi looked toward the hallway.

“You can go to your room,” Malone told her. “You don’t have to clean any of this.”

She took one step. Then stopped. Her hand was still inside Daemon’s. He opened his fingers, expecting her to retreat. Instead, Femi turned his hand over and stared at his torn knuckles. Blood ran along his fingers and gathered at his wrist. Daemon watched her expression change. Her fear did not disappear, but something else moved alongside it. Concern.

The Devil was fascinated.

She worries for us.

“I’m fine,” Daemon said.

Femi looked up at him.

“I’ve had worse.”

Her gaze hardened slightly, as though she found that answer inadequate. For the first time since the fight began, Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

The Devil purred.

Femi released his hand and walked toward the hallway.

The Devil followed her retreat.

Go with her.

She needs space.

She moved unsteadily at first, then gathered herself and disappeared into the darkness leading to her room. A door closed quietly. Daemon stood staring after her. Behind him, the man who had slapped her groaned.

The Devil turned first.

He is awake.

Daemon followed.

Malone stepped between them.

“Not here,” he warned.

Daemon wiped the blood from his knuckles onto his jeans.

“He put his hands on her.”

“I know.”

“He frightened her.”

“I know.”

The Devil pressed against Daemon’s ribs.

Move.

Daemon looked toward the hallway once more. The memory of Femi’s terrified green eyes burned through him. So did the fragile pressure of her fingers slipping into his palm.

“I promised her he would never hurt her again.”

Malone studied him for a long moment.

Then he stepped aside.

“Make sure he understands.”

The Devil smiled.

Daemon dragged the man into the parking lot by the back of his shirt.

The drunk had begun to recover, though not enough to understand the depth of his mistake. His boots scraped across the pavement as he cursed, clawing at Daemon’s arm and demanding to be released.

The Devil relished every sound.

Louder.

Daemon threw him against the side of his motorcycle. Metal rattled beneath the impact. The man slid to the ground, blood running freely from his broken nose.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spat.

Daemon stood over him, his face hidden behind the fall of his long blond hair.

“You struck her.”

The Devil whispered beneath the words.

Our little ghost.

“She got in the damn way.”

The answer sealed his fate.

The Devil laughed.

There it is.

Daemon hauled him upright and drove a fist into his stomach. Air burst from the man’s lungs. Before he could collapse, Daemon caught him by the shirt and struck him across the jaw.

Once.

Again.

Twice.

Again.

The third blow sent him sprawling across the pavement. A few Helix regulars gathered near the entrance. No one interfered. They watched in silence, arms folded, their expressions making it clear that if Daemon stopped too soon, they would happily finish. The man tried to crawl away. Daemon seized one ankle and dragged him back.

“No—wait. Man, I’m sorry.”

Daemon released his leg and crouched beside him.

“Don’t apologize to me.”

“I didn’t mean to hit her.”

“You raised your hand.”

“I was drunk.”

“So?”

The man stared up at him. Daemon’s voice remained calm. That frightened the man far more than shouting would have.

The Devil tasted his fear.

Good.

“Being drunk doesn’t change what you are,” Daemon said. “It only makes you careless enough to show everyone.”

“I swear, I won’t touch her again.”

“No. You won’t.”

Daemon grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close.

“You will never enter Helix again. You will never approach Femi. You will not speak to her, follow her, or so much as look in her direction if you see her on the street.”

The Devil wanted more.

Tell him what happens if he does.

The man nodded frantically.

“If I hear her name came out of your mouth, I will find you.”

“I understand.”

Daemon tightened his fist in the man’s shirt.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

The Devil whispered.

No.

Daemon drove one final fist into his face and let him fall. The man crumpled onto the pavement.

“Now you understand.”

The Devil remained dissatisfied.

He still breathes.

Daemon stood and looked toward the other drunken fools scattered around the parking lot.

“The same message applies to all of you.”

No one argued. One of the men scrambled to his feet and helped the others stagger toward their motorcycles. The man Daemon had beaten could barely stand. His companions dragged him between them, glancing back as though they expected Daemon to change his mind and follow.

The Devil urged him forward.

Finish it.

Daemon considered it. Then he remembered Femi staring at the blood on his hands. He remained where he was.

Malone emerged from the clubhouse and stopped beside him.

“You done?”

“For now.”

The Devil growled.

“Can he walk?”

“Someone will carry him.”

Malone looked at the blood on Daemon’s knuckles, then at the men retreating from the parking lot.

“You always did have a talent for making things clear.”

“He blamed her.”

Malone’s expression darkened.

“Said she got in the way.”

“Then he’s lucky you left him breathing.”

We agree.

Daemon turned toward the clubhouse.

Through one of the narrow rear windows, he could see the faint glow of light beneath Femi’s bedroom door.

“Is she all right?”

“She locked herself in her room.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil became restless.

Go to her.

“Leave her be tonight,” Malone said. “She’ll come out when she feels safe.”

Make her safe.

We cannot force safety through a locked door, Daemon answered silently.

The Devil hated the truth of it.

Daemon looked down at his bloodied hands. He had promised Femi those men would never hurt her again. Then he had walked outside and answered violence with more violence. He did not regret it. The Devil regretted only that the man still possessed a pulse. But when Daemon remembered the way Femi had stared at the blood covering his hands, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest.

“Did she see me bring him outside?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon glanced toward the door again.

A shadow passed behind the thin curtain covering her window.

Yes.

She had seen.

The Devil quieted.

She watched us.

Daemon walked back inside without another word. The clubhouse had emptied. Broken chairs had been pushed aside, shattered glass swept into piles, and dark streaks of blood remained across the floor. Daemon stopped near the place where Femi had fallen. Her tray lay beneath an overturned table, bent along one edge.

The Devil saw it.

Hers.

Daemon picked it up.

Malone watched him carry it to the bar.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

“It’s a serving tray.”

“It’s hers.”

The Devil approved. Daemon pressed the bent metal carefully against the edge of the counter until it straightened. Then he washed the blood from its surface. Every dark streak disappeared beneath the water. He dried the tray and placed it in its usual position. Ready for her. Unbroken. Only after that did he clean his hands.

The Devil watched the blood spiral into the drain.

She held these.

Daemon scrubbed carefully around the torn skin. Neither man mentioned the quiet sound of a bedroom door opening somewhere down the hall.

The Devil heard it.

It lifted its head inside Daemon.

Little ghost.

Daemon did not turn toward the sound.

He kept his hands beneath the running water and allowed Femi to choose whether she came closer.

A floorboard shifted behind him.

The Devil purred.

There you are.

Neither man turned toward the hallway.

The sound had been faint—the gentle click of a latch, followed by the nearly silent movement of bare feet across the floor.

Daemon heard it.

Malone did too.

They pretended otherwise.

The Devil did not.

Little ghost.

Daemon stood at the sink with his back to the room, washing the blood from his hands. The water had already turned pink. His knuckles were split in several places, and one had swollen enough to make closing his fist difficult.

He ignored it.

Behind him, Malone continued arranging bottles that did not need arranging. Femi stopped at the edge of the hallway. Daemon could feel her watching him.

The Devil stirred with quiet satisfaction.

She came back.

Daemon rinsed his hands once more, shut off the faucet, and reached for a towel.

Malone finally glanced up.

Femi had changed into an oversized black shirt and loose gray pants. Her hair fell around her face, obscuring the bruise on her cheek.

She held the first-aid kit Malone had left for her.

The Devil focused upon it.

For us?

“Hey, sweetheart.”

She looked toward Malone.

“You need anything?”

Femi shook her head. Her gaze shifted to Daemon. The Devil purred. Daemon leaned against the counter, drying his hands carefully. The towel came away stained red.

“I’m fine,” he told her.

Femi remained where she was.

Daemon set the towel aside.

“I’ve had worse.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil became fascinated.

She does not believe us.

Malone disguised a laugh as a cough.

Daemon looked at him.

“Something amusing?”

“No.”

Femi walked into the clubhouse. She kept close to the wall, avoiding the bloodstains and the places where broken furniture had been stacked.

The Devil tracked every careful step.

She should not have to walk through this.

When Femi reached the bar, she placed the first-aid kit on the counter. Then she pointed toward a stool. Daemon looked at it. Femi pointed again.

The Devil delighted in the command.

She orders us.

“Are you ordering me to sit?”

She stared at him.

Malone’s mouth twitched.

“Looks that way.”

Daemon pulled out the stool and sat.

The Devil settled beneath his skin, absurdly pleased.

Good.

Femi opened the kit. She removed antiseptic, clean cloths, gauze, and a roll of bandages. Every item was placed in a precise line across the counter. Her hands still trembled. Daemon noticed.

So did the Devil.

She is afraid, but she came anyway.

Daemon kept his own hands flat on the bar and waited. Femi picked up one of them. Her touch was cautious. Almost weightless. The Devil went completely still. She turned his hand over and inspected the damage. Her fingertips moved carefully against his palm.

Warm.

Soft.

Voluntary.

She is touching us.

Daemon watched her face.

The bruise stood out clearly now—a darkening mark along her cheekbone that made his anger rise all over again.

The Devil snarled.

He marked her.

Femi soaked a cloth in antiseptic and pressed it against his knuckles.

It burned.

Daemon did not react.

She pressed harder.

His eyebrow lifted.

“That was deliberate.”

Femi glanced at him, entirely innocent.

The Devil laughed inside him.

Again.

Malone laughed outright.

“You deserved that.”

Daemon ignored him. Femi cleaned each cut slowly, removing dried blood from his fingers and beneath his nails. Her fear had not disappeared. Daemon could see it in the tension of her shoulders and the way her eyes flicked toward sudden noises. But she had left the safety of her room. For him.

The Devil curled possessively around the thought.

She came for us.

Daemon looked down at her hands.

A small bandage covered the cut in her palm.

“You took care of yours?”

Femi nodded.

“What about your face?”

She stiffened. The Devil wanted Daemon’s hand against the bruise. To measure the swelling. To feel the damage. To remember precisely what the man had done before returning to finish him.

Touch her.

Daemon immediately lowered his voice.

“I’m not going to touch you.”

Her eyes rose to his.

The Devil resisted.

We need to know.

“I only want to know if you’re hurt anywhere else.”

Femi shook her head.

“Dizzy?”

No.

“Sick?”

No.

“Does your jaw hurt?”

A pause.

Then a small nod.

The Devil’s fury moved through Daemon’s blood.

Break his.

Malone’s expression sharpened. He reached for the keys beneath the bar.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Femi stepped back so quickly that the stool behind her nearly overturned.

The Devil reacted with her.

No.

“No hospital,” Daemon said.

Malone glared at him.

“She could have a concussion.”

“Then we watch her. If she gets worse, we take her.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“And she’s terrified.”

The Devil focused upon Femi.

She stood between them, clutching the roll of gauze.

Do not make her run.

Daemon turned his attention back to her.

“May I look?”

She stared at him.

The Devil pressed closer.

Say yes, little ghost.

“Nothing else,” Daemon promised. “Just look.”

After several seconds, Femi nodded. Daemon remained seated so he would not tower over her. The Devil disliked being lower. For Femi, it accepted the position. He tilted his head, studying the mark without touching it. The skin was swollen, but her jaw appeared straight. Her eyes followed his movements without losing focus.

The Devil examined every detail through him.

Too dark.

“Open your mouth.”

Femi tried. Pain tightened her expression before she could hide it. Daemon’s hands curled against the bar.

The Devil’s voice descended into something inhuman.

Kill him.

“Later.”

Femi’s eyes flicked toward him.

Daemon pretended he had not spoken.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions. Nod or shake your head. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Did you lose consciousness?”

No.

“Does your head hurt?”

A small nod.

“Badly?”

No.

“Are you seeing two of me?”

Femi shook her head.

“Good. One is usually more than enough.”

Her lips moved. It was barely there. Gone almost before it appeared. But Daemon saw it. A smile. Small. Uncertain. Beautiful. The Devil fell silent. Something in Daemon’s chest tightened so sharply that he forgot his next question.

The Devil found its voice first.

Again.

Malone stared at Femi as though sunlight had broken through the roof. She noticed. The smile vanished immediately.

The Devil growled at him.

Do not stare.

Malone looked away, pretending to inspect the shelves.

Daemon understood.

Attention frightened her, even when it was kind.

He forced his expression to remain unchanged.

“Any ringing in your ears?” he continued.

No.

“If anything changes, you tell Malone.”

Femi nodded.

“You don’t hide it.”

Her gaze drifted away.

The Devil knew that look.

She will hide it.

“Femi.”

She looked back at him.

“You don’t hide it.”

After a moment, she nodded again.

The Devil remained suspicious.

Watch her.

Daemon intended to.

Satisfied for now, he placed his hand back on the counter. Femi returned to bandaging his knuckles, wrapping the gauze with delicate concentration. The Devil watched white cloth cover the damage inflicted in her name.

She tends what belongs to her.

Daemon almost objected. Then Femi’s thumb brushed the center of his palm. The words disappeared. When she finished, she secured the end and inspected her work.

“It’s too neat,” Daemon said.

Her brow furrowed.

“No one will believe I’ve been in a fight.”

Femi looked at his bruised face, split lip, and bloodstained shirt. Then she gave him a look so dry that Malone turned away to hide another laugh.

The Devil purred.

She thinks we are foolish.

Daemon almost smiled.

Again.

Femi began returning the supplies to the kit.

“I meant what I said,” Daemon told her.

Her hands slowed.

“Those men will not hurt you again.”

She looked toward the clubhouse entrance.

“They’re gone.”

Her gaze shifted to his torn knuckles.

Daemon knew what she was thinking.

“Men like that understand one language.”

The Devil agreed.

Blood.

Femi’s expression changed. Not agreement. Not judgment. Sadness. The Devil recoiled from it. Daemon did not know what to do with that sadness. He had expected fear. Perhaps disgust. He had not expected her to mourn what violence required from him.

Femi closed the first-aid kit and lifted it from the counter. Before walking away, she touched two fingers to the bandage around his hand.

The Devil became still beneath the contact.

Thank you.

She could not say it, but Daemon understood.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Femi looked up.

“No one gets to put their hands on you.”

The Devil rose behind the promise.

No one.

Her gaze held his for several seconds.

Then she turned and walked toward the hallway.

The Devil followed her with Daemon’s eyes.

“Femi,” Malone called softly.

She stopped. Malone reached beneath the bar and lifted the repaired tray. Daemon had cleaned it, but Malone had polished the metal until it shone. He carried it toward her, stopping several feet away.

“Thought you might want this.”

Femi stared at the tray. Her fingers tightened around the first-aid kit. Then she approached and accepted it. She ran one thumb over the edge Daemon had straightened.

The Devil watched her discover his work.

She knows.

Her eyes moved from Malone to Daemon.

He did not look away.

“You don’t have to work tomorrow,” Malone said. “Or the day after. Take all the time you need.”

Femi lowered her gaze.

“She’ll work,” Daemon said.

Malone frowned.

“She needs rest.”

“She needs to know they didn’t take this place from her.”

The Devil understood.

Helix is hers.

Femi looked at Daemon.

“If you want to work,” he added. “Not because anyone expects you to.”

She stood silently with the tray pressed to her chest. Then she nodded. Malone sighed but did not argue. Femi disappeared down the hallway again. Her door closed moments later. The Devil did not demand that Daemon follow.

It looked at the careful bandage around his hand.

She touched us.

“She smiled,” Malone whispered.

“I saw.”

“She hasn’t done that since she came here.”

Daemon lifted his gaze.

“Not once?”

“Not where I could see.”

The clubhouse fell quiet. Malone stared toward the dark hallway, his eyes suspiciously bright.

The Devil whispered with possessive satisfaction.

She smiled for us.

Daemon reached for his abandoned whiskey. Then he reconsidered and pushed it away.

“What are you doing?” Malone asked.

“Going to bed.”

“It’s barely midnight.”

Daemon rose from the stool.

“She’ll be listening.”

“For what?”

“To see if the fighting starts again.”

The Devil turned its attention toward the hallway. It imagined Femi lying rigid beneath her blankets, listening for raised voices. Breaking glass. Boots crossing the floor. Waiting to learn whether the danger had truly ended. Daemon began turning off the clubhouse lights, leaving only the small lamp behind the bar burning.

“So tonight,” Daemon said, “this place stays quiet.”

The Devil wanted to hunt the men who had escaped. It wanted to drag the one who struck her back to Helix and finish what Daemon had begun. Instead, it listened to the silence surrounding Femi’s room.

Quiet for our little ghost.

Malone looked toward the hallway.

Then he locked the front door.

Femi’s room was the smallest in Helix.

It had once been Malone’s office, though little evidence of that remained beyond several sealed nail holes and a faded rectangle on the wall where an old calendar had hung.

A narrow bed rested beneath the single window. The mattress was soft, but Femi slept close to the edge, leaving most of it untouched. A small wooden table stood beside it, holding a lamp, a cracked alarm clock, and three books stacked in order from largest to smallest.

Malone had given her a wardrobe during her first week. Most of the clothes inside were dark and loose. Black shirts. Gray sweaters. Jeans chosen for durability rather than appearance. At the bottom sat a pair of blue shoes she had never worn. Several more books occupied the shelf above her clothing. Some were battered paperbacks purchased secondhand. Others had been left behind by customers who noticed she read between drink orders.

The room contained no photographs. Femi had possessed none when Malone found her. No pictures of Iris. No images of her father. No proof that the child she had once been existed anywhere beyond police files and newspaper archives.

A small canvas bag remained beneath the bed. Packed. It contained two changes of clothing, bottled water, cash, a flashlight, and the folding knife Malone had given her. Femi had lived at Helix for two years. She still kept the bag ready. Some habits survived kindness.

That night, she sat against the wall with her knees drawn to her chest. The lamp was off. Darkness filled the room, softened only by the pale glow of the streetlight outside. Rain traced crooked paths down the window, tapping against the glass in a rhythm too familiar to ignore.

It had rained the night her parents died.

Femi remembered running from the car while Iris held her coat above their heads. Her mother had been laughing. Her father had dropped the keys. The porch light had flickered. The front door had already been unlocked.

Femi pressed her palms against her ears.

The rain remained.

She could still hear it through her hands. She could hear everything. The pipes groaning inside the walls. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Water dripping from the damaged gutter outside.

Malone moving through the clubhouse, checking doors and turning off lights.

A chair scraping across the floor. Glass clinking behind the bar. Each sound entered her room and settled around her. Femi listened because listening had kept her alive.

The night her parents died, she had heard boots in the hallway before the men entered the living room. She had heard her father beg. She had heard her mother tell her to run. She had not run quickly enough. Now every unfamiliar sound became a warning. Every silence concealed someone waiting.

Femi looked toward the door. The lock was turned. A chair had been positioned beneath the handle. Malone did not know she did that every night. He would have been hurt. He had never entered without knocking. He had never opened the door after she locked it. He had never demanded proof that she trusted him.

Femi did trust Malone.

The chair was not about him. It was about all the doors before his. Her cheek throbbed where the drunken man had struck her. She touched it carefully, feeling the heat beneath her skin. When she closed her eyes, she saw Daemon’s bloodied hands.

She saw him kneeling before her amid the broken glass.

Look at me, Femi.

His voice had been low.

Not demanding.

Anchoring.

They will not hurt you again. I swear it.

Daemon had held out his hand.

He had waited until she chose to take it.

Femi lowered her head to her knees. She was tired. Exhaustion pressed against her from every direction, heavy enough to make her body ache. But sleep meant the house.

Not Helix.

The other house.

The one that waited inside her.

Sleep meant returning to the front hall while rain struck the windows. It meant seeing her mother fall. It meant blood warming her clothes while a man pressed two fingers against her throat. Everyone died. Everyone except her. Femi forced her eyes open. The alarm clock read 1:13 a.m. If she remained awake long enough, dawn would come.

It always did. Her body began to weaken. Her head dipped once. Femi jerked awake and dug her nails into her palms. Pain helped. She counted the sounds.

One: rain against the window.

Two: pipes in the wall.

Three: the old refrigerator.

Four: Malone’s bedroom door closing.

Five—

A lock turned near the front of the clubhouse.

Then another. Femi held her breath. Footsteps crossed the main room. Heavy. Measured. Daemon. She knew the rhythm of his walk already. His steps moved toward the hallway. Femi stared at her door. He stopped outside. The shadow beneath the frame changed. Daemon remained there for several seconds.

He did not knock. He did not call her name. Then his footsteps retreated.

Femi listened as he returned to the main room.

Springs groaned beneath his weight when he sat on the sofa.

After that, nothing moved.

He had not gone to bed.

Femi slowly lowered her hands from her ears.

Daemon sat facing the front door. The sofa was too small for him. Its cushions had collapsed years ago, and one spring pressed against his lower back. He did not care. From the sofa, he could see the entrance, the hallway leading to Femi’s room, and the rear passage beside the kitchen. Anyone entering Helix would have to pass him before reaching her.

The Devil approved.

Let them try.

The clubhouse was quiet.

Rain moved steadily across the roof.

Daemon rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the locked door.

The Devil stared with him.

No one enters.

He had heard Femi moving inside her room.

Not pacing.

Shifting.

Stopping.

Shifting again.

She was awake.

The Devil listened to every faint sound.

Go to her.

“No.”

She is afraid.

“That is why we stay here.”

The Devil pressed against him. It wanted to cross the hallway. Open the door. See the bruise darkening along her cheek. Make certain she was breathing. Make certain she understood that the man who struck her would never touch her again.

Tell her.

Daemon remained on the sofa.

“She did not ask.”

The Devil disliked that answer. Femi never asked for anything. Daemon wondered whether she slept at all. Malone said she had nightmares but never described them. Perhaps he did not know enough to describe them. Daemon suspected Femi protected Malone from the worst of what she carried.

She cooked for him. Cleaned his clubhouse. Smiled when she believed he needed reassurance. Then she locked herself inside a dark room and fought the dead alone.

The Devil’s voice lowered.

She should not fight alone.

Daemon looked toward the hallway. He could walk to her door. He could tell her no one would enter Helix tonight. That the front door was locked. That Malone was upstairs. That Daemon sat between her and every entrance. But promises meant little to someone who had learned that locked houses could still fill with blood.

The Devil remembered Sandi’s words.

Six years old.

A house entered despite its locks. A mother who could not protect her. Men who left a child bleeding among the dead.

The Devil’s rage moved slowly through Daemon’s veins.

Find them.

Words would not help Femi. Presence might. Daemon removed his jacket and placed it beside him. He leaned back without taking his eyes from the entrance. He would remain there until dawn. Not because Femi had asked. She never asked for anything.

The Devil resented that too.

She should ask us.

“She does not know she can.”

The answer quieted it. Daemon would stay because the man who struck her had reminded him how quickly a crowded room could become dangerous. Because someone had spoken Otis’s name. The Devil stirred.

Otis.

Because a silver serpent had entered Helix and left after recognizing her.

Let it return.

Because Femi was afraid to sleep.

And because Daemon had begun to understand that protecting her did not always require breaking bones.

The Devil disagreed.

Bones are effective.

“Not tonight.”

Blood would warn them.

“Silence will reassure her.”

The Devil listened toward Femi’s room. Another small movement. Bedsprings shifting. A breath caught and released. It considered the difference. Sometimes protection meant sitting in the dark. Sometimes it meant becoming one more familiar sound in the house.

The soft creak of the ruined sofa. The slow rhythm of Daemon’s breathing. The occasional whisper of fabric whenever he shifted. Proof that he remained between Femi and the door.

The rain continued.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

The Devil grew restless.

Hunt the serpent.

“Tomorrow.”

Find Otis.

“Tomorrow.”

Kill the man who struck her.

“He understands.”

He breathes.

Daemon looked toward the hallway.

“Quiet.”

The Devil fell silent. Not obediently. But for Femi. From her room came another faint movement. The bedsprings creaked. Silence followed. Daemon listened carefully. No scream. No sudden breath. No frightened movement toward the door. Only the quiet rhythm of someone finally beginning to sleep.

The Devil became still.

She knows we are here.

Daemon settled deeper into the sofa.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps she had heard him. Perhaps she knew the familiar weight of his footsteps had stopped between her and the entrance. Perhaps his presence had become one more thing she catalogued before allowing herself to rest.

Door locked. Malone upstairs. Daemon on the sofa. Safe enough to close her eyes. The thought moved through him with unfamiliar warmth.

The Devil curled possessively around it.

She sleeps while we guard her.

Daemon would be there when she woke.

Beyond the walls, Wolfwater waited beneath the rain, full of shadows, debts, and men who believed silence meant weakness.

The silver serpent might return.

Otis might already be somewhere inside Ravenside, searching for the child who had survived him.

The Devil wanted them both.

Let them come.

Daemon stared at the door.

Inside Helix, Femi slept.

And the Devil guarded the entrance.

Not pacing.

Not hunting.

Not spilling blood across the city in her name.

Sitting in the dark.

Listening to the rain.

Learning that stillness could be a form of violence when everything dangerous remained on the other side of it.

Sleep, little ghost.

Daemon’s gray eyes remained fixed on the door.

No one reaches you without passing through us.

Daemon settled deeper into the sofa. He would be there when she woke.

Beyond the walls, Wolfwater waited beneath the rain, full of shadows, debts, and men who believed silence meant weakness.

Inside Helix, the devil guarded the door.

Femi woke with a silent scream trapped in her throat.

Her body lurched upright. One hand clutched the thin shirt over her chest while the other searched blindly through the darkness for something solid.

A wall.

A blanket.

The edge of the mattress.

Anything that belonged to now.

Cold sweat covered her skin. Her midnight hair clung to her face and neck as she dragged air into lungs that refused to believe they were safe.

She did not need light to know where she was.

The small room behind Helix.

Malone’s clubhouse.

Her room.

Not the house.

Not that night.

Still, she could smell blood.

She could hear the screams.

The nightmare was always the same.

Sometimes the faces changed. Sometimes the rooms stretched into hallways that had never existed. Sometimes the front door vanished, leaving her trapped inside while footsteps moved methodically through the house.

But it always ended the same way.

Everyone died.

Everyone except her.

Femi looked toward the clock.

3:07 a.m.

Three hours.

That was all the nightmare ever allowed her.

Three hours before the dead came to collect her from sleep.

She pushed the blanket aside and placed her bare feet on the floor. Her knees trembled when she stood, but she waited until they steadied before crossing the room.

The clubhouse beyond her door was dark.

Femi moved silently along the hallway, one hand brushing the wall to guide her. The broken furniture had been cleared away. The floor still carried the sharp scent of bleach where Malone had scrubbed away the blood.

She avoided looking at the place where she had fallen.

The bruise along her cheek throbbed with each beat of her heart. Her jaw hurt, but the pain was distant compared to the memories clinging to the edges of her mind.

She headed toward the kitchen.

Then stopped.

Someone was in the main room.

Femi’s body went rigid.

She remained in the mouth of the hallway, barely breathing as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

A large figure sat on the sofa.

Daemon.

He was upright, broad shoulders resting against the cushions, his face turned toward the front door. One arm lay across his stomach. His bandaged hand rested near his waist.

Femi studied him.

His breathing was slow and even.

He was asleep.

She did not understand how.

The sofa was too small for him. His long legs stretched toward the low table, and his head rested at an angle that promised pain when he woke. Yet he had chosen the sofa instead of the bed Malone had given him.

Facing the entrance.

Guarding the door.

Femi looked at the front lock, then back at Daemon.

No one was coming through that door without passing him first.

She crossed the room carefully.

Daemon did not stir as she approached.

But something inside him did.

Little ghost.

The whisper moved through the dark place behind his sleep.

The Devil had heard her door open.

It had felt Daemon wake beneath it, every old instinct sharpening at once. It had known the footsteps were hers before Daemon opened his eyes beneath the fall of blond hair covering his face.

Bare feet.

Careful steps.

No threat.

Her.

Daemon had almost moved.

Don’t.

So he hadn’t.

Femi had stopped at the edge of the hallway.

The Devil had waited with him.

She’s frightened.

Daemon knew.

He could hear it in her breathing.

Don’t look.

Daemon kept his eyes closed.

She’ll run.

He knew that too.

So the dangerous man on the sofa became very still.

Femi came closer.

One step.

Then another.

The Devil went silent.

Not gone.

Never gone.

Watching through Daemon.

Listening.

Almost unbearably pleased.

Femi reached the sofa.

A folded blanket rested across its back. She lifted it and slowly opened it over him.

When the edge brushed Daemon’s shoulder, his bandaged hand moved.

Femi froze.

So did Daemon.

The Devil stirred.

Easy.

His fingers settled again.

Her breathing resumed.

Femi pulled the blanket over his chest, careful not to touch him.

Warmth settled across Daemon.

Not from the blanket.

Something stranger.

Something he did not examine.

The Devil did.

She covered us.

Daemon nearly opened his eyes.

Don’t.

He remained still.

Femi stepped away.

The Devil disliked that immediately.

Come back.

She should have returned to her room.

Instead, she curled into the chair across from him.

The Devil quieted.

Daemon listened as the leather shifted beneath her weight.

From there, Femi could see him.

And the front door.

She tucked her legs beneath her and rested her bruised cheek against the uninjured side of her face. The chair was not especially comfortable, but comfort did not matter.

The nightmare could not reach her while she was awake.

For a while, she watched the shadows.

Then she watched Daemon.

She did not know that beneath the blanket, Daemon was awake.

Or that the thing inside him had become fascinated by the rhythm of her breathing.

She stayed.

Daemon ignored it.

She came to us.

She came into the room.

Same thing.

No.

The Devil seemed amused.

Femi studied him from the chair.

He had frightened her during the fight.

The violence in him had been swift and terrible. She had seen men fight before, but Daemon had not fought like a drunken man defending his pride.

He had fought like something protecting its territory.

Protecting her.

She had not seen the moment something inside him had awakened when that man’s hand struck her.

She had not heard the whisper.

He hurt her.

Daemon had already been moving.

Again.

The Devil had wanted more.

Daemon had given it enough.

Barely.

Femi did not know what to do with what had happened.

Protection had always carried a cost.

Foster parents had given her shelter, then reminded her she owed them gratitude. Men on the street had offered food, money, and warmth, only to demand something in return.

Malone had been different.

For two years, he had asked for nothing.

Perhaps Daemon was different too.

That thought was more frightening than believing he was not.

Her eyes grew heavy.

Daemon heard the change in her breathing.

Longer between each inhale.

Softer.

Her body shifting less often against the chair.

She’s tired.

Daemon knew.

She won’t sleep.

He suspected that too.

Minutes passed.

Femi’s head dipped.

Lifted.

Dipped again.

The Devil watched with him.

For once, it wanted nothing violent.

No blood.

No punishment.

No broken bones.

It wanted the woman in the chair to close her eyes.

That realization unsettled Daemon more than the violence ever had.

Femi fought sleep until she could no longer remember why she was fighting.

Her breathing changed.

Daemon waited.

One minute.

Then two.

She did not move.

She’s asleep.

Daemon slowly opened his eyes.

Femi was curled tightly in the chair.

Small beneath the shadows.

Her face had finally lost some of its fear.

Daemon looked toward the front entrance.

Then back at her.

Little ghost.

The words came softer this time.

Almost reverent.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t know why the Devil had started calling her that.

He didn’t ask.

Guard the door.

“I am,” Daemon whispered.

The Devil settled.

Good.

Curled in the chair across from the dangerous man guarding the entrance, Femi slept.

And dreamed of nothing.

Voices woke her.

Femi opened her eyes to pale morning light spilling through the windows.

For one disoriented moment, she did not know where she was.

Then she saw the empty sofa.

The blanket she had placed over Daemon lay folded neatly across one arm.

Voices came from the kitchen.

Malone and Daemon.

Femi remained still, listening.

“She put that blanket on you,” Malone said.

Daemon grunted.

“I know.”

“You were awake?”

“No.”

The Devil laughed quietly inside him.

Liar.

Daemon ignored it.

“Then how do you know?”

“Because you wouldn’t cover me if I were freezing to death.”

“True.”

A mug touched the table.

“And she slept out there?” Malone asked.

“In the chair.”

Malone became quiet.

“How long?”

“At least two hours.”

Two hours and seventeen minutes.

Daemon took a drink of coffee.

He had stopped checking the clock after that.

“You watched her?”

“I guarded the door.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No,” Daemon said. “It wasn’t.”

You watched her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Femi slowly lowered her feet to the floor.

In the kitchen, Malone sighed.

“She has nightmares.”

“I assumed.”

You knew.

Daemon had known enough.

The way she’d entered the room.

The sweat shining along her skin.

The frightened breathing.

The way she’d looked behind herself before looking at him.

“She never tells me about them.”

“She doesn’t tell anyone anything.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Silence followed.

Femi rose from the chair but did not enter the kitchen yet.

“She woke just after three,” Daemon continued. “She came out of the hallway looking like she expected something to follow her.”

“You were awake.”

“I woke when her door opened.”

That, at least, was true.

Mostly.

The Devil had heard her first.

Little ghost was running from something.

Daemon tightened his fingers around the mug.

“You let her think you were asleep.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Daemon looked toward the kitchen doorway.

He could not see Femi from where he sat.

He could picture her anyway.

Bare feet.

Midnight hair.

Green eyes watching him from the darkness.

The blanket lifting between her hands.

Because she came closer.

Daemon’s gaze dropped to his coffee.

“Because she came closer.”

Femi stopped breathing.

Malone said nothing.

“If she knew I was watching her,” Daemon said, “she would have gone back to her room.”

And we wanted her to stay.

Daemon ignored that.

“She covered you with a blanket.”

“I noticed.”

The Devil stirred with ridiculous satisfaction.

She covered us.

Daemon resisted the urge to rub his forehead.

“She trusted you enough to sleep in the same room.”

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“She trusted me enough to close her eyes. There’s a difference.”

The Devil went very still.

It understood the distinction too.

Perhaps better than Malone could.

Sleeping near someone did not mean trust.

Daemon knew that.

The Devil knew it.

Sleep could come from exhaustion.

Collapse.

Injury.

Drugs.

Fear pushed beyond endurance.

But Femi had fought sleep.

Then she had looked at him.

Looked at the door.

And surrendered to it anyway.

She knew we’d keep watch.

Daemon didn’t answer.

Malone released a slow breath.

“You’re paying too much attention to her.”

“Someone should.”

“I pay attention.”

“You love her. That makes you see what you hope is there.”

Malone’s expression changed.

“And what do you see?”

Daemon became quiet.

The Devil did not.

Tell him.

Daemon looked toward the doorway again.

“A woman who memorizes every sound in the building. Who watches people’s hands before their faces. Who cooks for everyone but hides her own food. Who sleeps three hours and wakes before dawn.”

Femi wrapped her arms around herself.

Who knows where every door is.

Daemon continued.

“She knows every exit in Helix.”

Malone said nothing.

“She checks the front door every time it opens. If somebody raises their voice, she looks at their hands. If someone stands behind her too long, she moves.”

If a man touches her, she stops breathing.

Daemon’s eyes hardened.

He remembered.

He remembered far too well.

“She isn’t only frightened of what happened,” Daemon said. “She’s preparing for it to happen again.”

Malone’s chair scraped against the floor.

“And you think sitting in front of the door will change that?”

“No.”

Daemon’s answer came without hesitation.

The Devil shifted beneath his skin.

Not angry.

Certain.

No one gets through us.

Daemon looked toward the main room.

He could just see the arm of the chair from where he sat.

Femi was somewhere beyond it.

Quiet.

Listening, perhaps.

He hoped not.

The Devil hoped she was.

Tell him.

Daemon stared at the doorway.

Tell her.

His jaw tightened.

“But when she wakes tonight, I’ll still be there.”

Silence.

The Devil settled inside him with something dangerously close to contentment.

Yes.

Femi looked at the neatly folded blanket.

Something warm and painful moved through her chest.

She did not understand it.

She only knew that, for the first time in years, she had fallen asleep after the nightmare.

She had closed her eyes while a dangerous man sat between her and the door.

And nothing had found her.

In the kitchen, Daemon lifted his coffee.

The Devil whispered one last time.

Nothing will.

Daemon had been at Helix for twenty-seven days. Femi knew because she had counted every one of them. She counted most things. The doors between her room and the nearest exit. The number of strangers in the clubhouse. The drinks a man consumed before his laughter became too loud. The seconds between an angry voice and a raised hand. Counting made the world predictable. Predictable meant survivable.

Daemon had disrupted that.

He was not predictable in the ways she understood. He possessed a frightening capacity for violence, yet he never carried that violence carelessly. His temper did not spill across innocent people. He did not shout to make himself larger or break things to remind everyone of his strength.

When Daemon became dangerous, he became quieter.

Femi had learned the difference.

She had also learned the rhythm of his presence.

Every night, he sat in the darkest corner of the clubhouse with Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He watched the room without appearing to watch anything. When closing time came, he helped Malone clear out the drunks. Then, regardless of how late it was, Daemon checked every door and window before settling onto the sofa facing the entrance.

He had a bed. He never used it. For nearly a month, Daemon had slept between Femi and the front door.

He never mentioned it.

Neither did she.

Some things became fragile once spoken aloud. Femi guarded those things most carefully. She had not suffered the nightmare in two weeks. At first, she believed it was waiting. The nightmare sometimes gave her a night of mercy, though never without reason. It would retreat only to return more viciously, dragging her deeper into the house and forcing her to watch everything again.

But one night became two.

Then five.

Then ten.

Fourteen nights had passed without blood staining her dreams.

Femi still woke before dawn. Her body did not yet understand that sleep was allowed to last. But when her eyes opened, she no longer smelled blood or felt phantom hands gripping her ankles. She heard Daemon breathing beyond her door. That sound had become part of Helix. The hum of the refrigerators. The old pipes knocking in the walls.

Malone snoring several rooms away.

Daemon breathing on the sofa.

Safety had a sound.

She had never known that before.

Femi entered the kitchen shortly after four in the morning.

Daemon sat at the table with a mug of coffee between his hands. His long blond hair was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, leaving the scar across his cheek exposed.

She paused in the doorway.

The Devil noticed.

She is looking at us.

Daemon looked different when his face was not hidden. Not less dangerous. Perhaps more. But Femi could see his eyes. That mattered.

“You’re up early,” he said.

Femi lifted one eyebrow.

He glanced at the clock.

“Or I’m up late.”

The Devil watched her cross the kitchen.

She came out.

Femi walked to the counter and began preparing another cup of coffee.

Black.

No sugar.

Daemon had never told her how he liked it.

He did not have to.

The Devil purred.

She remembers.

Femi placed the mug in front of him and reached for the one he had already been drinking.

His hand covered it.

“This one is still warm.”

She stared at him.

Daemon stared back.

The Devil was intrigued.

She wants it.

Femi pointed to the faint film floating across its surface.

His eyes narrowed.

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

She continued pointing.

Give it to her.

Daemon looked into the mug.

The Devil saw the film.

She is right.

Daemon reluctantly released it.

Femi carried the abandoned coffee to the sink.

Behind her, she heard him take a drink from the fresh cup.

The Devil settled with deep satisfaction.

Better.

“Better,” Daemon admitted.

Femi hid the small curve of her mouth.

The Devil caught it.

There.

Femi opened the refrigerator and began removing ingredients.

Eggs.

Butter.

Cheese.

Peppers.

Bacon.

The Devil watched the growing collection.

She will feed us again.

“You don’t have to cook.”

She ignored him.

“Femi.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“You cook for everyone,” he said. “Does anyone ever cook for you?”

The question stopped her.

The Devil quieted. Malone occasionally tried. He could burn water if given enough time, but he tried. Femi looked down at the eggs in her hands. She placed them on the counter and reached for a skillet. Daemon rose.

The Devil understood before he did.

We will.

Daemon moved toward her slowly, giving her every opportunity to step away.

When he reached the counter, he took the skillet from her hand.

Femi stared at him.

The Devil enjoyed her disbelief.

“I can make eggs.”

She looked pointedly at the pan.

“I know how.”

Her gaze moved to his face. One pale eyebrow lifted. Femi remained unconvinced.

The Devil sounded less certain.

Can we?

“I survived forty years without you feeding me.”

She tilted her head. He was still alive. That did not mean he could cook. Daemon seemed to understand the distinction.

So did the Devil.

She doubts us.

“Sit.”

Her body stiffened at the command.

The Devil felt the fear before Daemon saw it.

Wrong.

His expression changed immediately.

“Please,” he added.

Femi looked at the table.

No one had ever said that word to her after telling her what to do.

The Devil resented every person responsible.

Names.

Daemon placed the skillet on the stove.

He did not touch her or repeat himself.

Femi sat.

The Devil relaxed.

She stayed.

Daemon cooked eggs.

Badly.

Femi watched him crack the first one against the counter with too much force, sending part of the shell into the bowl.

The Devil studied the damage.

We have killed things more cleanly.

Daemon removed the shell with his fingers and glanced at Femi as if daring her to comment.

Femi folded her arms.

“I saw that look.”

She widened her eyes innocently.

“You’re enjoying this.”

She shook her head.

A lie.

The Devil purred.

She is.

Daemon attempted an omelet.

What emerged from the skillet resembled eggs that had lost a fight.

The Devil regarded them with disappointment.

Kill them again.

Daemon divided the ruin between two plates.

Femi stared at hers.

“It tastes better than it looks.”

She looked at him.

“It would have to.”

A sound moved inside her chest. Femi froze. It was not a voice. It barely qualified as breath. But it had risen from somewhere forgotten—a broken little rush of air that might once have become laughter.

Daemon went still. The Devil became utterly silent. Her gaze snapped toward him. He had heard it. Of course he had.

The Devil moved through him with something dangerously close to wonder.

Again.

Heat rushed into Femi’s face.

She pushed back from the table, ready to escape.

No. Stay.

Daemon looked down at his plate.

“These eggs are terrible.”

Femi remained half out of her chair.

The Devil demanded his attention.

She laughed.

Daemon took another bite as though nothing had happened.

“I may have killed them twice.”

The pressure in Femi’s chest loosened. Slowly, she sat again.

The Devil settled with her.

Good.

Daemon did not look at her.

He did not smile or ask her to repeat the sound. He did not call Malone. He did not turn the moment into something large enough to frighten her. The Devil wanted the sound again. Wanted to seize it before it disappeared. Wanted to pull it from her until the kitchen filled with everything trauma had stolen.

Make her do it again.

No.

Daemon kept eating.

The Devil bristled. Then Femi picked up her fork. She had stayed because he pretended not to notice. Understanding came slowly.

Do not pull.

Exactly.

Femi glanced toward him, but he kept his attention on his plate.

She tasted the eggs. They were, in fact, terrible. The small crease between her brows deepened.

The Devil found her displeasure delightful.

She hates them.

Femi ate them anyway. Daemon took another bite of his own ruined omelet. Neither spoke. Nothing needed to be said.

Outside, rain moved softly against the roof. Inside the kitchen, Femi remained at the table with him, eating the first meal anyone had prepared for her in longer than she could remember.

The Devil watched every bite.

She eats what we made.

Daemon looked down at the wreckage on his plate.

“They are still terrible.”

Femi’s shoulders moved. Only once. A silent laugh.

The Devil purred through his blood.

Again.

This time, Daemon allowed the smallest curve to touch his mouth.

He did not look at her.

And Femi did not run.

Daemon worked his way into her life through small things. He fixed the loose hinge on her bedroom door without entering the room. He replaced the flickering light in the rear hallway after noticing she always hesitated beneath it.

When the clubhouse became too crowded, he positioned himself where she could see him. Not close enough to trap her. Never close enough to touch.

Just there.

If a customer called her mute, Daemon looked at him until the man corrected himself.

Her name is Femi.

He said it every time.

She began leaving books on the table beside the sofa. At first, she told herself she simply needed somewhere to put them. Then Daemon started reading them. He never asked permission, but he always returned each book precisely where he had found it, with no bent pages or broken spines.

One evening, Femi discovered a new book resting atop the stack. She picked it up and looked toward his corner. Daemon did not acknowledge her. A small note had been tucked beneath the cover.

The woman at the shop said this one was good.

The note did not say it was a gift. It did not say she owed him thanks. It merely explained why the book was there. Femi carried it against her chest for the rest of the evening.

Later, she placed a slice of apple pie beside Daemon’s whiskey. He looked at the pie. Then at her.

“I didn’t order this.”

Femi walked away.

It was the closest she could come to telling him she understood.

On the twenty-seventh night, rain struck the clubhouse windows.

Thunder rolled through the sky, rattling the old glass.

Femi lay awake in her room.

Not frightened.

Simply listening.

The storm reminded her of the night her parents died.

Rain had followed them home from the movies. She remembered her mother laughing as they ran from the car. She remembered her father fumbling with the keys beneath the porch light.

She remembered the front door already being unlocked.

Femi closed her eyes.

The memory waited. For years, it had owned her. Tonight, it did not pull her under. She focused on the sounds beyond her room. The pipes. The rain. The quiet turning of a page.

Femi sat up.

Daemon was awake. She left her bed and opened the door. He sat on the sofa beneath the small lamp, reading the book she had finished two days earlier. The blanket rested across his legs. His boots stood beside the couch.

Daemon glanced up.

The Devil stirred beneath his skin.

Little ghost.

“Can’t sleep?”

Femi shook her head.

“Nightmare?”

Another shake.

Something eased in his face.

The Devil listened to the rain.

Not tonight.

Daemon moved his feet from the low table, making room without asking her to come closer. Femi crossed the room.

The Devil watched her approach.

Here.

The chair where she usually sat waited opposite him. Instead, she lowered herself onto the far end of the sofa. Daemon became still.

The Devil did too.

She chose us.

There was an entire cushion between them. It felt both impossibly wide and dangerously narrow.

The Devil wanted it gone.

Closer.

Daemon did not move. Femi tucked her feet beneath herself and looked at the book in his hands.

“You were right,” he said. “The brother did it.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil became intrigued.

She does not like that.

“You left clues in the margins.”

Femi reached for the book.

Daemon lifted it beyond her grasp.

“Defacing a book is a serious offense.”

Femi leaned closer, trying to take it. The scent of strawberries drifted across the space between them.

The Devil purred.

Closer.

“You ruined the ending.”

She caught the edge of the cover. The Devil wanted Daemon to hold it. Keep her leaning toward him. Make her remain within reach.

Do not release it.

Daemon let go before Femi had to pull.

The Devil growled.

Femi settled back with the book held against her chest.

She would have stayed closer.

She chose how close, Daemon answered silently.

Thunder rolled again. Femi’s body tensed by instinct.

The Devil turned toward the storm as though thunder itself had threatened her.

It cannot reach you.

Daemon said nothing. He simply remained beside her. Femi looked at the front door. Then at the scarred man sitting between it and her.

The Devil understood the direction of her gaze.

We guard it.

Without allowing herself time to reconsider, Femi took the edge of his blanket and pulled a small portion across her legs. Daemon looked down at the fabric connecting them. The Devil went utterly silent. Femi had not asked. She had simply taken a place beneath his warmth as though some part of it might belong to her.

The Devil curled possessively around the sight.

Ours.

Daemon looked toward her.

No.

The whisper came again, softer.

Hers.

Daemon returned his attention to the rain. They sat without speaking. Femi listened to his breathing and felt her eyelids grow heavy. She had not suffered the nightmare in two weeks. Deep within the frightened, carefully guarded chambers of her heart, she knew why. Daemon had not chased the darkness away. He had simply taught some buried part of her that she no longer had to face it alone.

Beside her, the Devil listened to the slowing rhythm of her breath.

She sleeps near us.

Femi rested her head against the back of the sofa. Minutes later, sleep began to claim her. Before it did, her body shifted toward the warmth beside her. The space between them narrowed. One inch. Then another.

The Devil watched with breathless fascination.

Closer.

Her temple came to rest against Daemon’s shoulder.

He stopped breathing.

The Devil surged through him.

Do not move.

For once, Daemon required no argument. Femi nearly pulled away. Then his breathing resumed—slow and steady, exactly as it sounded through her bedroom door each night.

The Devil matched the rhythm.

Stay, little ghost.

Daemon did not move. He did not touch her. He did not turn his face toward her hair or pull more of the blanket across her body. He merely stayed. The Devil wanted his arm around her. Wanted her gathered against his chest where no storm, memory, or living man could reach.

Hold her.

“No.”

She is cold.

“She chose this.”

The Devil resisted.

Then Femi softened against his shoulder.

Understanding came.

If we reach, she may wake.

“Yes.”

The Devil became still.

Femi closed her eyes. She did not yet have a name for what Daemon was becoming to her. She only knew that when he was near, the dead remained quiet. The Devil heard the truth inside that thought even if she could not speak it.

Safe.

And for the first time since she was seven years old, her heart had begun to imagine that safety might be a person. Outside, thunder broke across Wolfwater. Femi did not flinch.

Daemon sat between her and the door, his shoulder beneath her cheek, his body held unnaturally still. The Devil kept watch through his gray eyes. No blood. No screaming. No hands reaching for a weapon.

Only rain, a shared blanket, and the fragile weight of Femi sleeping against him.

The Devil had never understood gentleness.

It understood possession.

Protection.

The instinct to destroy whatever threatened something it had claimed. But as Femi’s breathing deepened, it learned something new. Sometimes keeping her required nothing more violent than refusing to move.

Sleep, little ghost.

Daemon turned another page with one careful hand.

We have you.

Femi slept.

And the dead remained quiet.

Malone had spent three days trying to convince Femi to leave Helix.

Not for work.

Not to empty the garbage or collect something from the storage building behind the clubhouse.

He wanted her to walk with them to the corner store.

It was only four blocks away.

Femi knew the distance because she had counted it from the passenger window of Malone’s truck. She knew every intersection, alley, and abandoned building along the route.

She had not walked those streets since Malone found her.

“I need cigarettes,” he had said.

Daemon glanced at the unopened carton behind the bar.

The Devil noticed too.

Liar.

Malone kicked it beneath the counter before Femi could follow Daemon’s gaze.

“And we need milk.”

There were two full containers in the refrigerator. Femi had purchased them that morning.

Daemon looked at Malone.

Malone glared back.

The Devil sounded unimpressed.

Another lie.

Femi folded her arms.

“Fine,” Malone sighed. “We don’t need anything. I thought you might like some air.”

Femi looked toward the clubhouse entrance. Beyond it waited the parking lot, the road, and a world that had never been kind to her.

The Devil watched her expression change.

She is afraid.

“You don’t have to go,” Daemon said from his corner.

Malone’s face tightened.

Daemon ignored him.

“If you want to stay, stay.”

The Devil resisted.

We can protect her outside.

That is not the same as giving her a choice.

Femi studied Daemon.

There was no challenge in his voice. No disappointment. He had given her a way out and would not make her feel ashamed for taking it. That made her want to try. She placed her book on the bar and retrieved her shoes.

The Devil stirred with dark satisfaction.

She comes with us.

The night was warm.

Summer heat clung to the pavement even after sunset, carrying the scent of hot asphalt, distant rain, and food from restaurants several blocks away. Cicadas sang from the few trees stubborn enough to survive between the old buildings. The streets were nearly empty. That should have made the walk easier.

It did not.

Femi moved between Malone and Daemon, her arms folded tightly across her stomach. Each passing car made her shoulders tense. Every doorway appeared too dark. Every alley seemed deep enough to conceal someone. She counted. Fourteen steps from Helix to the edge of the parking lot. Thirty-two to the first streetlight. Nine more to the mouth of the alley beside the closed laundromat.

The Devil listened to the silent count written in the rhythm of her steps.

She measures every escape.

Daemon walked on her right, closest to the road. Malone stayed on her left. Neither man spoke about how tightly she kept herself between them. They simply adjusted their pace to hers.

The Devil approved of her position.

Safe between us.

A motorcycle roared past. Femi flinched. Daemon’s hand moved.

The Devil urged him closer.

Touch her.

He stopped before reaching her.

“Just a bike,” he said quietly.

Femi nodded.

Her heart did not believe him yet.

The Devil heard its frantic rhythm.

It is gone, little ghost.

They continued. Femi watched reflections in shop windows as they passed, using the glass to see behind them.

Daemon noticed.

So did the Devil.

She looks for hunters.

He began glancing back before she could, checking the street without making his movements obvious.

No one followed.

No one survives following.

At the second intersection, a group of young men laughed outside a closed restaurant.

Femi slowed. Daemon slowed with her.

The Devil studied each stranger.

Hands.

Waists.

Boots.

Distance.

Five.

Malone took another step before realizing they had stopped.

“We can cross,” Daemon offered.

Crossing would place them farther from the store. Femi looked at the men. Then at Daemon. He waited. The Devil did not.

We can remove them.

No.

Femi continued forward.

Daemon shifted slightly closer—not enough to touch her, but enough to become a wall between her and the strangers.

The Devil pressed forward behind his gray eyes.

Look at her and die.

The men barely glanced in their direction. Femi kept walking. When the store’s illuminated sign appeared at the end of the block, relief weakened her knees. She had made it. Four blocks. Nothing had happened.

The Devil regarded the distance behind them.

She did it.

Daemon opened the door and stepped aside.

Femi entered first.

The little store was nearly empty.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Refrigerators hummed along the back wall. Somewhere near the counter, an old radio played softly beneath the bored cashier’s conversation on his phone.

Malone picked up a basket.

“Need a few things.”

Daemon looked inside the empty basket, then at him.

“Milk?” he asked dryly.

“Among other things.”

The Devil laughed. Malone wandered toward the rear aisle before either of them could respond. Femi watched him go. A flicker of panic moved through her. Daemon saw it.

He left her.

“He’s still in the store.”

She nodded, though her eyes remained fixed on the aisle where Malone had disappeared.

“We can follow him.”

Femi considered it.

Then she shook her head.

The Devil became attentive.

She stays with us.

Daemon did not praise her. She was grateful for that. He merely stood beside her and waited. Femi looked around the store. There were seven people inside. The cashier. A woman examining canned soup. A man near the refrigerators. Two teenagers arguing over snacks. Malone. Daemon. Eight, including her. Two exits. The main entrance and a door marked Employees Only, probably leading to a rear stockroom. The man near the refrigerators wore a loose jacket despite the heat. His hands were visible. The teenagers were loud but harmless. No one was watching her.

The Devil counted with her.

Eight.

Femi released a slow breath.

“What do you want?” Daemon asked.

She looked up.

“Malone dragged us here under the pretense of supplies. We may as well make him pay for something.”

The Devil approved.

Take what you want.

Femi glanced toward the shelves. She wanted nothing. Then she noticed a display near the register. Books. Cheap paperbacks occupied the bottom shelf beneath celebrity magazines and newspapers. Most had bent corners and lurid covers.

One showed a dark house surrounded by winter trees. Femi walked toward it. Daemon followed at a distance.

The Devil watched her interest sharpen.

That one.

She picked up the book and read the description on the back. A woman inherited an abandoned manor and discovered letters hidden inside the walls. It sounded ridiculous. She wanted it immediately.

The Devil knew.

Buy it.

“Ghosts?” Daemon asked.

Femi held the book against her chest.

“You don’t get enough of those at home?”

She narrowed her eyes.

The Devil purred.

She threatens us with her eyes.

“That means yes?”

Femi turned away from him, but he caught the slight curve of her mouth.

The Devil did too.

There.

“Put it in Malone’s basket.”

She shook her head.

“I’ll buy it.”

Another shake.

Daemon frowned.

“Why not?”

Femi returned the book to the shelf. She had money, but most of it remained hidden inside her room. She did not carry more than a few dollars when she left Helix. Money could be stolen. Money could show strangers that she had something worth taking.

The Devil understood the instinct and hated whoever had taught it to her.

Give it back.

Daemon picked up the book. Femi reached for it. He lifted it over his head. She stared at him.

The Devil was delighted.

Closer.

“We’ve done this before.”

Femi stepped nearer and held out her hand.

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed further. Daemon’s expression remained severe, but amusement warmed his pale eyes.

“You walked four blocks. You passed six strangers. You entered a store. You’ve earned a terrible ghost story.”

Femi did not lower her hand.

“You’re stubborn.”

She pointed at him.

“Yes, I’m aware of the hypocrisy.”

A laugh tried to escape her. It emerged as the faintest breath.

The Devil went still.

Again.

Daemon’s expression softened, but he did not call attention to it.

The Devil wanted him to.

Make her do it again.

She will run.

It quieted reluctantly. Daemon tucked the book beneath his arm.

Femi reached for it again.

Keep it.

That was when a man turned the corner too quickly and collided with her.

Femi stumbled. A hand caught her upper arm. The store vanished. Her body remembered before her mind could. She tore free and backed into the shelf, sending several magazines sliding to the floor. Her breath stopped. Her vision narrowed to the stranger’s hand.

The Devil rose.

Break it.

“Hey, I was only—”

Daemon stepped between them. The change in him was immediate. The Devil moved behind his eyes, cold and delighted.

He touched her.

Daemon did not raise his voice.

“Move.”

The stranger looked from Daemon’s scar to the hard set of his shoulders.

“I didn’t mean anything. She walked into me.”

The Devil smiled.

Wrong answer.

“Move.”

The man left without another word.

Follow him.

Daemon remained with Femi.

The Devil snarled.

He touched her.

She needs us here.

That silenced it. Daemon did not turn around immediately. He waited until the stranger had crossed to the opposite side of the store. Then he faced Femi. She stood pressed against the shelf, shaking.

The Devil’s bloodlust changed shape.

Little ghost.

Daemon kept his hands at his sides.

“He’s gone.”

Femi looked around him. The stranger was near the refrigerators, deliberately avoiding them.

“He won’t come close again.”

Her lungs refused to work properly.

The Devil listened to her broken breathing.

Bring her back.

Daemon lowered himself slowly until he was crouched before her. Even then, he left several feet between them.

The Devil wanted the distance gone.

Closer.

No.

“Look at me.”

Femi’s eyes found his.

“Where are we?”

She stared at him.

“The store,” he answered for her. “Four blocks from Helix.”

Her fingers tightened against the shelf.

“Malone is near the back pretending to shop.”

A familiar gray head appeared at the end of an aisle. Malone saw them and immediately started forward. Daemon lifted one hand. Stay back. Malone stopped.

“It’s a warm summer night,” Daemon continued. “The streets are quiet. There are eight people in this store.”

Femi blinked.

The Devil recognized the number.

She counted.

Daemon had counted because she had.

“You’re wearing that black shirt Malone says makes you look like you’re attending his funeral.”

Her gaze sharpened.

The Devil felt a flicker of pleasure.

There she is.

“He’s offended you haven’t burned it.”

Malone folded his arms from across the store.

Femi pulled in a trembling breath.

“That’s it,” Daemon said. “Again.”

The Devil whispered with him.

Breathe, little ghost.

She breathed. The store slowly returned around her. The refrigerators hummed. The lights buzzed. The cashier continued talking on his phone. No screams. No blood. No unlocked house. Only Daemon crouched in front of her with a ridiculous ghost story tucked beneath his arm. He held out his hand.

The Devil stilled inside him.

Take it.

Femi stared at his palm.

“You don’t have to take it.”

She knew that. It was why she did. Her fingers settled into his.

The Devil purred through Daemon’s blood.

She chose us.

Daemon closed his hand carefully around hers and helped her stand. He released her as soon as she was steady. Femi did not release him. Daemon froze. The Devil did not.

It curled possessively around the warmth of her hand.

Ours.

His eyes dropped to their joined hands. Then returned to her face. He said nothing.

The Devil wanted to close his grip.

Hold her.

“Only if she stays.”

Femi stayed.

Malone approached carefully.

“You all right, sweetheart?”

Femi nodded.

“Want to go home?”

She did. Every frightened part of her begged for the locked doors of Helix. Femi looked at the book beneath Daemon’s arm. Then she looked toward the rear aisles. She shook her head.

The Devil became fiercely pleased.

No.

Malone’s brows rose.

“No?”

Femi reached for the shopping basket and took it from him. She walked toward the bakery aisle, still holding Daemon’s hand. Neither man moved for a moment. The Devil recovered first.

Follow our little ghost.

Then Malone smiled.

Daemon gave him a warning look.

The Devil added its own.

Stop looking.

Malone’s smile disappeared, though not quickly enough. They followed her through the store. Femi chose flour, sugar, apples, butter, and cinnamon. The Devil catalogued each item.

Pie.

Malone placed unnecessary things in the basket when he thought she was not looking. Daemon added the ghost story. Femi glanced at it but did not remove it.

The Devil purred.

Hers.

At the register, the cashier glanced at their joined hands. Femi almost pulled away. Daemon’s grip remained loose.

The Devil resisted the urge to tighten it.

Do not let go.

“She must be able to.”

Femi could leave whenever she wished.

She kept holding on.

The Devil fell silent with wonder.

The walk home was easier.

Not easy.

But easier.

Malone carried the bags while telling a long story about Daemon losing a bar fight when they were twenty-one.

“I did not lose,” Daemon said.

“You were unconscious.”

“The floor needed inspecting.”

“With your face?”

“It was thorough work.”

The Devil disapproved of this version of events.

Kill him.

Daemon nearly smiled. Femi walked between them, the book tucked beneath her free arm. Her other hand remained inside Daemon’s. The Devil monitored every passing car, alley, and shadow. But beneath the vigilance lived a quiet, possessive pleasure.

She holds us.

Femi released him when Helix came into view.

The Devil immediately objected.

No.

Daemon did not react.

He simply opened the clubhouse door and stepped aside for her. Femi crossed the threshold. Home smelled like leather, wood, old smoke, and the stew she had left simmering before they departed. She turned back. Daemon stood outside beneath the yellow light, waiting for Malone.

For her entire life, safety had meant locked doors and hidden rooms.

Tonight, it had walked beside her beneath the summer sky.

The Devil watched her from behind Daemon’s gray eyes.

Safe.

Femi held up the book.

Thank you.

Daemon inclined his head.

The Devil accepted her gratitude as though she had offered something sacred.

“You’re making apple pie, aren’t you?”

She closed the door in his face. The Devil stared at the wood. Then it laughed.

Malone’s laughter followed them inside.

Daemon sat in the kitchen and watched Femi make the apple pie. He made no attempt to hide it. Femi felt his gaze follow her as she moved between the counter and stove. It should have unsettled her. She had spent years fearing the weight of a man’s attention.

Daemon’s attention felt different. He did not watch her body. He watched her hands.

The Devil watched them too.

Quick little hands.

He observed the way she measured flour without a cup, how she added cold butter to the bowl, and how quickly her fingers transformed the mixture into dough.

The Devil was fascinated.

She makes something from nothing.

When she peeled the apples in a single unbroken spiral, one of Daemon’s eyebrows rose.

Femi tried not to feel pleased.

“That seems unnecessarily impressive,” he said.

She glanced at him.

“Showing off?”

Femi placed the perfect spiral of apple peel on the counter and reached for another apple.

The Devil purred.

Yes.

Daemon leaned back in his chair.

“Definitely showing off.”

Malone entered the kitchen carrying the bags they had not yet unpacked. He placed them on the counter and looked between them.

“What did I miss?”

“Femi is threatening me with fruit.”

Malone looked at the knife in her hand.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing anyone’s threatened you with.”

The Devil studied the blade.

She could.

Daemon ignored it. Femi lowered her head to hide her smile. Malone saw it anyway. She knew because he became very still.

The Devil immediately disliked his stare.

Do not frighten it away.

Femi’s smile vanished.

Malone quickly turned toward the cupboards.

“Where do you want this flour?”

She pointed. He placed it on the wrong shelf. Femi stared at him.

“What?”

She pointed again.

“That shelf?”

Her expression flattened.

“I don’t speak hand, sweetheart.”

Femi marched over, took the flour from him, and placed it on the shelf directly beneath the one he had chosen.

The Devil approved.

Her kitchen.

Malone looked at Daemon.

“See how she treats me?”

“You deserved it.”

“I gave both of you a home.”

“And we repay you by preventing you from organizing the kitchen.”

“My kitchen.”

Femi and Daemon looked at him.

The Devil growled softly.

Hers.

Malone sighed.

“Fine. Her kitchen.”

Satisfied, Femi returned to the apples. The men settled into an easy argument behind her. Their voices filled the room, but the sound did not make her anxious. Malone complained. Daemon insulted him. Neither raised his voice in anger. Femi listened while she worked.

The Devil noticed the gradual loosening of her shoulders.

She knows these sounds.

She added cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg, and lemon juice to the apples.

Daemon leaned forward as the fragrance filled the kitchen.

The Devil inhaled through him.

Good.

“How long does it take?”

She held up both hands twice, then five fingers.

“Twenty-five minutes?”

She shook her head.

“Forty-five?”

Femi nodded.

Daemon looked toward the oven as if personally betrayed.

“You could have made something faster.”

The Devil disagreed.

We will wait.

Femi pointed toward the book resting on the table.

“You’re bribing me to read it?”

Femi shook her head.

“Payment for the book?”

She considered that, then nodded.

The Devil’s pleasure disappeared.

No debt.

“I thought it was a gift,” Malone said.

“It was,” Daemon replied.

“Then she doesn’t owe you anything.”

“I’m aware.”

The Devil pressed the point.

Nothing.

Femi looked from one man to the other.

Daemon’s eyes met hers.

“You don’t owe me pie.”

She looked down at the apples.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he added.

The Devil quieted beneath the words. Femi busied herself with rolling out the dough. She knew that. At least, she was beginning to. But gratitude remained caught inside her with all the other words she could not say.

Sometimes food was the only way she could allow it to escape. Daemon watched the pie take shape and understood more than she realized.

The Devil did too.

She feeds what she cannot tell.

Femi fitted the crust into the pan and filled it with apples. She covered the top with strips of dough, weaving them into a neat lattice before brushing it with egg. Daemon watched the entire process. The Devil watched the concentration between her brows. The flour on her fingers.

The way she corrected one imperfect strip before anyone else could notice it.

Beautiful.

“You really are Iris’s daughter,” Daemon murmured.

Femi’s hands stopped.

The room fell silent.

The Devil felt the pain move through her before Daemon understood his mistake.

Wrong.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi stared down at the pie. People often told her she looked like her mother. Social workers had said it while studying old photographs. Police officers had said it while asking questions she could not answer. But Daemon had known Iris. He remembered her voice. Her laugh. The person she had been before she became a bloodstain in Femi’s memory.

The Devil stirred at the sudden distance in Femi’s eyes.

Bring her back.

Daemon reached inside his jacket.

Slowly.

He removed the old photograph and placed it on the table.

“I carried this before I knew you were alive.”

He slid it toward the empty chair across from him.

The Devil watched Femi.

For you, little ghost.

She did not approach immediately.

Malone stared at the picture.

“You still have that?”

“So you keep asking.”

Femi placed the pie in the oven. Then she wiped her hands and moved toward the table. Her mother smiled up at her from the faded photograph. Iris stood between Malone and Daemon, young and beautiful, her head thrown back in laughter. Malone had one arm around her waist. Daemon stood behind them, long blond hair tied back and no scar on his face.

They looked happy.

Femi touched her mother’s image with one fingertip.

The Devil quieted.

Not absent.

Respectful.

“She made apple pie,” Daemon said. “Never measured anything. Refused to share her recipe.”

Malone sat beside him.

“She said measuring took the soul out of it.”

Femi remembered. A kitchen bright with morning sunlight. Flour on her mother’s cheek. A small hand stealing apple slices from the bowl. The memory hurt. But it did not draw blood.

The Devil felt the distinction.

She can remember without falling.

Malone pointed at the photograph.

“That was taken before Daemon learned smiling wouldn’t kill him.”

“I was surrounded by idiots.”

“You were the worst of us.”

“Still am.”

Femi looked at Daemon’s younger face. He was not smiling, but something bright lived in his eyes. She glanced at the scar he now concealed beneath his hair. He noticed.

The Devil noticed her curiosity.

She wants to know us.

“Different story,” Daemon said.

Femi wanted to ask.

The question rose inside her, complete and useless.

What happened to you?

Her lips parted.

Nothing came.

The Devil leaned toward the silence.

Ask.

Daemon did not look away.

“You can ask me when you’re ready.”

Femi closed her mouth.

She did not know whether he meant writing the question or speaking it. Perhaps he meant both.

The Devil had no preference.

Any way she chooses.

The oven timer sounded forty-five minutes later.

Femi removed the pie and set it on the counter to cool.

Malone inhaled deeply.

“That smells like Iris’s.”

Daemon nodded.

“Better.”

The Devil agreed.

Femi’s.

Malone looked offended.

“Blasphemy.”

Femi cut two generous slices and placed them on plates. She added a scoop of vanilla ice cream to each and set one before Malone and the other before Daemon. Then she began cleaning the counter. Daemon looked at the two plates.

The Devil looked toward her.

Where is hers?

“Where’s yours?”

Femi pointed toward the pie.

Later.

“No.”

She glanced at him.

“Sit down.”

Her shoulders tightened.

The Devil reacted immediately.

Wrong.

Daemon’s expression changed.

“Sit with us,” he said more gently. “Please.”

The tension remained, but it did not deepen.

Femi looked toward the hallway. Her room waited there.

Quiet.

Safe.

Alone.

The Devil followed her gaze.

Do not let her disappear.

We do not keep her by force.

Malone had asked Femi to join him for meals during her first months at Helix. She had tried once. Every scrape of a fork had made her skin crawl. Every glance had felt like an examination. After that, Malone stopped asking. He allowed her to eat in the kitchen after everyone else had gone.

Daemon pulled out the chair beside him.

The Devil curled possessively around the empty space.

Here.

Daemon did not touch the chair again. He simply began eating his pie. Femi remained by the counter. Daemon took one bite and closed his eyes.

The Devil purred.

Very good.

Malone pointed his fork at him.

“Better than Iris’s, you said?”

“I was correct.”

“Iris would haunt you for that.”

“She would have to wait in line.”

Neither man looked at Femi. They continued eating, arguing about pie as though the empty chair were irrelevant. It was not irrelevant.

The Devil watched it.

Hers.

Femi stared at the chair. Then she dried her hands. She cut a smaller slice and carried it to the table.

The Devil became perfectly still.

She comes.

Malone’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

Daemon kicked him beneath the table. Malone coughed and resumed eating. Femi lowered herself into the chair. Beside Daemon.

The Devil settled around her presence with fierce satisfaction.

There.

No one said anything. That helped. Daemon slid the container of ice cream toward her. She added half a scoop. Malone opened his mouth. Daemon looked at him.

The Devil added its warning.

Do not.

Malone closed it.

Femi took her first bite. The pie was good. The crust was tender. The apples retained enough firmness, and the lemon balanced the sweetness. Her mother would have added more cinnamon.

Next time, Femi decided. The thought came naturally. Next time.

The Devil seemed to hear it.

She will stay.

Femi looked around the table.

Malone ate with suspicious brightness in his eyes. Daemon pretended not to watch her while stealing the edge of crust from Malone’s plate. Malone slapped his hand away.

“Get your own.”

“I finished mine.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

Daemon stole it anyway. The Devil approved of the theft. Femi’s shoulders began to loosen. For two years, she had cooked for Malone without sitting beside him. She had placed food before others, then disappeared before anyone could make room for her.

Daemon had done something no one else had managed. He had convinced her that the empty chair belonged to her.

The Devil had known from the moment it saw the chair.

Hers.

Malone looked at Femi’s half-finished slice.

“You like it, sweetheart?”

She nodded. His smile was immediate. Femi did not retreat from it. Daemon took another piece of Malone’s crust.

“You bastard.”

A silent laugh moved through Femi’s chest. This one reached her lips. No sound emerged, but both men saw it.

The Devil went quiet with wonder.

Again.

Malone’s eyes widened.

Daemon calmly took another bite of stolen pie. Neither of them spoke about her smile. They let her keep it. The Devil wanted to hoard it. To drag it into the light. To make it happen again and again until Femi forgot laughter had ever been dangerous.

But it had learned.

Do not pull.

Daemon continued eating. Femi’s smile remained. That night, she stayed at the table until every plate was empty. When she finally rose, Daemon handed her his dish.

“Same time tomorrow?”

The Devil waited. Femi took the plate. She pretended to consider it. Then she nodded.

The Devil purred through Daemon’s blood.

Tomorrow.

Malone looked down quickly, but not before she saw the tears gathering in his eyes.

Daemon leaned toward her as she passed.

“He cries over everything.”

“Shut up,” Malone muttered.

Femi carried the dishes to the sink.

Behind her, the two men resumed their bickering. Their voices followed her through the kitchen, warm and familiar. For years, Femi had believed silence meant she had no place in a conversation. Sitting between Malone and Daemon, she was beginning to learn that love could listen even when she had no words to give it.

The Devil watched her wash the plates. Watched the remaining tension leave her shoulders.

Watched her glance back toward the chair beside Daemon as though confirming it would still be there tomorrow.

Her place, it whispered.

And this time, Daemon did not argue.

Months later, Daemon attempted to flirt with Femi.

Badly.

The Devil was no better.

Threats were easy. Silence was easier. Violence required only decision and follow-through.

Flirting demanded charm.

Daemon possessed none.

The Devil’s suggestions were worse.

Women had approached Daemon often enough, but they had always done the work themselves. They had touched his arm, leaned into his space, and made their interest unmistakable. Daemon either accepted or declined.

Usually with one word.

Sometimes without one.

Femi was different.

Everything with Femi was different.

Daemon had discovered that he liked the way she relaxed around him now. She no longer stiffened when he entered a room. She no longer kept a table between them whenever he spoke to her. Sometimes she remained beside his corner after delivering a drink, pretending to wipe the table while he told her something that did not require an answer.

The Devil always noticed.

She wants to stay.

Daemon never answered. He feared that acknowledging it would frighten the possibility away. Femi had even begun sitting with him after closing. Never for long. Five minutes. Sometimes ten. She would drink tea while Daemon finished his whiskey, and they would watch Malone argue with the register as though every missing dollar were a personal betrayal.

Those quiet minutes had become the best part of Daemon’s night. The Devil liked them too. That troubled him more than he cared to examine.

Tonight, Femi wore new boots.

Black leather rose to her knees, secured by heavy buckles along the sides. The soles were thick enough for Wolfwater streets, and the leather had already begun creasing around her ankles as she moved.

Daemon noticed them the moment she crossed Helix.

So did the Devil.

Pretty.

Daemon ignored it.

Strong.

He continued ignoring it.

She could break a man’s knee with those.

Daemon watched Femi move between the tables. That was true. It was also probably not an appropriate compliment. He spent twenty minutes attempting to decide what to say.

Those look strong.

Too strange.

They suit you.

Too direct.

You could break a man’s knee with those.

True, but definitely not flirting.

Tell her.

No.

She would like it.

She would think he wanted her to assault someone.

The Devil considered this.

We could find someone.

Absolutely not.

By the time Femi reached his table, Daemon had settled on the safest option available.

“I like your boots.”

That was all. Four words. The Devil went silent. Femi stopped. Her green eyes met his gray ones. Then she tilted her head slightly to the left. The movement caused the curtain of lush black hair to slide away from her face. A faint blush warmed her cheeks. A tiny smile touched her mouth.

Daemon’s heart did the thing he hated.

It leaped.

Not fear.

Not rage.

Excitement.

Bright, humiliating, impossible excitement.

The kind a boy might feel when a pretty girl noticed him for the first time.

Again, the Devil whispered.

Daemon was not a boy. He was a man with blood beneath his fingernails that no amount of scrubbing could remove. His hands had broken bones, ended lives, and buried bodies where no one would ever find them. Men lowered their voices when he entered rooms. Women crossed streets. Children had once looked at his scar and cried.

Yet Femi stood in front of him blushing because he liked her boots. For one reckless moment, Daemon wanted to believe he could have something untouched by the things he had done.

Then the familiar thoughts began.

Look at your hands.

Remember the bodies.

Remember what you are.

The thoughts sounded like whispers, but they did not belong to the Devil. They belonged to Daemon.

The Devil stirred beneath them.

She knows what we are.

Daemon’s smile faded.

She is still here.

Femi noticed.

She always noticed him now. Her gaze moved across his face, searching for the reason the moment had changed. Daemon looked down before she could find it. Femi placed his Jack over ice beside him. The glass settled onto the table, and she reached for the empty one. Daemon watched her fingers close around it. He did not want her to leave yet.

Keep her.

No.

Ask her to stay.

He did not know how.

The jukebox played behind her. Someone laughed near the pool tables. Malone stood at the bar pretending to polish the same glass he had been holding since Femi approached Daemon’s corner.

Daemon searched desperately for something else to say.

“I know a place where you can get a leather jacket.”

Femi paused.

Daemon looked toward her boots and made a vague gesture.

“Something to match.”

Yes, the Devil purred. Put her in leather.

That sounded worse when the Devil said it.

Her eyes returned to his. Daemon gave her the crooked smile that came whenever he attempted a real one. The scar along his cheek pulled slightly, leaving one side higher than the other.

Femi’s blush deepened.

Pretty.

Daemon’s heart struck his ribs again.

He had faced loaded guns with less difficulty than this.

She likes us.

Behind the bar, Malone cleared his throat.

Loudly. Daemon looked toward him. Malone raised his eyebrows. Femi’s fingers tightened around the tray. The small reaction killed whatever humor Daemon might have found in Malone’s interference. He saw the old instinct return. The expectation that someone else was about to decide what she was permitted to do.

The Devil saw it too.

Its pleasure vanished.

She is afraid.

Daemon leaned back into the shadows and placed both hands on the table where she could see them.

He gave her room.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

Femi looked at him.

“It was only an offer.”

Her fingers remained tight around the tray. Daemon prepared himself for her refusal. He would nod. Let her leave. Never mention it again.

If she says no, we let her go.

Yes.

The Devil disliked many things. It had never learned to dislike Femi’s choices. Slowly, her grip relaxed. She swallowed. Then she nodded. Daemon stared at her. Femi nodded a second time.

Yes.

His heart nearly escaped his chest.

The Devil rose inside him with savage delight.

She chose us.

It was a shopping trip.

She chose us.

Daemon kept his expression controlled through an effort that would have impressed lesser men.

“I’m going to Eastgate in two days,” he said. “I can take you then.”

Femi smiled again.

Small.

Shy.

Real.

Daemon forgot how breathing worked.

Make her do that again.

He had no idea how.

Compliment the boots.

He had already done that.

Compliment something else.

Absolutely not.

She shifted the tray onto one hand and raised the other.

Her fingers moved carefully.

What time?

Daemon had spent months learning enough sign language to understand Femi when she wanted him to. He practiced alone where no one could see him.

The Devil had watched every clumsy attempt.

It had offered no useful assistance.

“Ten?”

Femi considered it.

Then she shook her head.

“Nine?”

Another shake.

“Eight?”

She nodded.

“You prefer mornings.”

Another nod. Daemon did not. He hated mornings.

The sun is offensive.

He agreed.

He also would have met her at four if she asked.

“Eight,” he said.

Femi pointed toward the front entrance.

“I’ll meet you here.”

She nodded.

Then she pointed at him.

Her fingers moved.

Motorcycle?

Daemon looked at the boots again. They would be perfect for riding. The Devil showed him an image before he could stop it. Femi seated behind him. Her knees bracketing his hips. Her arms around his waist. Her cheek against the back of his jacket.

Ours.

No.

The answer came quickly enough to surprise even him.

Not theirs.

Not his.

Femi belonged only to herself.

The Devil retreated, but not far.

Her arms around us, it amended.

Daemon could not prevent that possibility from settling somewhere warm inside him.

“Yes.”

Femi’s smile widened. It was still small by anyone else’s measure. To Daemon, it felt like sunrise. She turned and returned to work. He followed her with his gaze as she crossed the clubhouse. Her black hair moved down her back, and the heavy boots struck the floor with a confidence she had not possessed when he first saw her.

She is stronger now.

Yes.

She was always strong.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass.

Yes.

At the bar, Marta leaned toward Femi and signed something quickly. Femi’s face turned bright red. Marta laughed. The Devil became attentive.

What did she say?

Daemon did not know.

Find out.

He was not threatening Marta over a private conversation.

We could ask.

No.

Malone looked from Femi to Daemon. Then he left the bar and approached the corner. Daemon picked up his drink. Malone stopped beside the table.

“That,” he said, “was painful.”

Daemon took a slow swallow.

“You were listening.”

“The entire clubhouse was listening.”

Daemon glanced around.

Every person near the bar immediately found something else to do. One man studied the ceiling. A waitress became deeply interested in an empty table. Harlan turned toward the jukebox and pretended to read the song list.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

Kill the lights, the Devil suggested. Lock the doors.

“I could clear the room.”

“No violence because you flirt like a man being interrogated.”

“I was not flirting.”

Malone stared at him. The Devil laughed. Daemon looked toward Femi. She was arranging bottles behind the bar while Marta continued signing at her. Femi struck Marta lightly with a towel, but the blush had not left her cheeks.

“I complimented her boots,” Daemon said.

“And invited her to Eastgate.”

“She needs a jacket.”

“Marta bought her three.”

Daemon frowned.

“No one told me.”

“Because her supply of jackets has never interested you before.”

They are probably inadequate.

Daemon did not know how a jacket could be inadequate.

Not enough buckles.

Malone lowered himself into the chair across from him.

Daemon did not invite him.

“You taking her shopping?” Malone asked.

“Yes.”

“On the motorcycle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a second helmet?”

“Yes.”

Malone’s eyebrows rose. Daemon’s expression remained blank.

“When did you buy it?”

“Last month.”

“You bought a second helmet a month ago.”

“Yes.”

“For whom?”

Daemon lifted his glass.

The Devil answered with satisfaction.

Our little ghost.

Malone leaned back.

“Painful,” he repeated.

“Leave.”

“You understand she said yes to buying a jacket.”

“I heard her.”

“She did not agree to anything else.”

“I know.”

“You don’t touch her unless she—”

“I know.”

The quiet certainty in Daemon’s voice stopped him.

The Devil bristled at Malone’s warning, but Daemon did not. Malone needed to say it. Perhaps Daemon needed him to say it too. Femi’s yes belonged only to the question she had answered. A jacket. A motorcycle ride. One morning in Eastgate. Nothing more.

Malone studied the man across from him. Daemon’s gaze had returned to Femi. There was hunger in it. But not the kind Malone had feared. Daemon did not watch Femi as though she were something he intended to take. He watched her as though she were something he could not believe he had been permitted to approach.

The Devil watched her as though she were the first warm thing it had ever encountered.

She chose us.

Once.

For a shopping trip.

She smiled.

Yes.

She blushed.

Daemon lifted the whiskey to conceal the movement of his mouth.

Malone stood.

“Eight o’clock.”

“Yes.”

“If you’re late, she’ll think you changed your mind.”

“I won’t be late.”

“I know.”

Malone returned to the bar. Daemon remained in his corner, holding a drink he had forgotten to finish. Femi looked toward him once more. Her fingers moved beneath the edge of the bar where the customers could not see.

Two days.

The Devil surged forward.

Two days.

Daemon nodded.

“Two days.”

Her smile returned.

Then she went back to work. Daemon sat in the darkness and watched her. The blood remained on his hands. The bodies remained behind him. Nothing Femi did could make him innocent, and Daemon would never ask her to try.

She knows what we are, the Devil whispered again.

Perhaps she did not know everything. Perhaps no one ever would. But she had seen the scar. She had seen the anger. She had watched violence move through him and had not mistaken it for goodness.

Still, she had smiled at him. She had said yes.

For one morning, she had chosen to leave Helix with him.

She chose us.

It was not forgiveness. It was not redemption. It was a shopping trip.

The Devil began counting the hours.

Daemon had never wanted anything more.

Daemon hated shopping.

He disliked crowds, indecisive people, narrow aisles, and employees who asked whether he needed help before he had decided what he wanted.

But he needed ammunition. The patch on the shoulder of his leather jacket had begun separating at the edge, and if he continued ignoring it, Marta would eventually corner him with a needle and repair it herself.

Besides, Femi needed a jacket to match her new boots.

Our little ghost needs leather.

Daemon ignored the possessive satisfaction in the Devil’s voice. That made Eastgate necessary. Daemon arrived at Helix twenty minutes early. He parked his motorcycle near the rear entrance and stood beside it with his arms folded. The second helmet rested on the seat.

The helmet he had purchased a month before he asked Femi to go anywhere with him. He attempted not to think about that.

The Devil had no such restraint.

We knew.

“We hoped.”

We knew she would come.

“You know nothing.”

The Devil settled beneath his skin, smug and watchful.

At exactly eight, the back door opened. Femi stepped into the parking lot. Daemon straightened. She wore the knee-high leather boots he had complimented two nights earlier. Her black jeans disappeared beneath them, and a dark sweater covered her to the wrists. Her midnight hair hung loose down her back.

The Devil stirred with immediate pleasure.

She wore them for us.

Daemon knew that was unlikely. He still could not prevent the warmth that moved through him at the thought. Femi approached slowly. Not because she feared him. The realization struck Daemon with unexpected force.

She is not afraid of us anymore.

Not entirely.

Perhaps not this morning.

The Devil did not care for qualifications.

She came.

Femi was looking at the motorcycle.

She stopped several feet away and studied the machine with open suspicion.

“You asked if we were taking it.”

She looked at him.

“I said yes.”

Her eyes narrowed as though he had neglected an important detail.

The Devil sounded amused.

She is reconsidering.

Daemon picked up the second helmet.

“You’ve never ridden.”

It was not a question.

Femi shook her head.

“We don’t have to.”

She immediately looked toward the motorcycle again.

Daemon waited.

The Devil pressed eagerly against the inside of him.

Tell her she will be safe.

She would decide that for herself.

She will be safe with us.

That was different.

Femi drew in a breath and stepped closer.

“All right.”

The Devil purred.

Brave little ghost.

Daemon held out the helmet. She accepted it with both hands, turning it over to inspect the straps.

He watched her struggle with the clasp for several seconds before extending one hand.

“May I?”

Femi looked at his fingers.

Then she nodded.

The Devil surged closer.

She said yes.

Daemon took the helmet and lowered it over her head. Her hair caught beneath the edge, and he carefully pulled the dark strands free before fastening the strap beneath her chin. His knuckles brushed the soft skin along her jaw. Femi inhaled. Daemon’s hands stilled.

The Devil did not.

Soft.

“Too tight?”

She shook her head.

Touch her again.

No.

She did not move away.

That did not make every touch his to take.

Daemon checked the clasp once more, then forced himself to step back. Femi looked absurdly small inside the black helmet. Daemon found it beautiful.

The Devil found it deeply satisfying.

Ours looks good in black.

She was not theirs.

The Devil only curled more possessively around the thought. Daemon mounted the motorcycle and started the engine. The sound rolled across the parking lot. Femi jumped. Daemon immediately killed it. She stared at him through the visor.

“It’s loud,” he said.

Femi nodded.

“I can take the truck.”

She shook her head quickly.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod.

The Devil’s pleasure moved hot beneath Daemon’s ribs.

She wants to ride with us.

Daemon started the motorcycle again, allowing the engine to idle while Femi adjusted to the sound. Then he motioned for her to climb on behind him. She placed one hand on his shoulder. Daemon went completely still.

There.

Her boot found the peg. Her weight settled onto the seat behind him, light enough that he barely felt it. Then her arms came slowly around his waist. Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil went silent for one startled moment. Then it filled him with a deep, possessive purr.

There she is.

Femi’s heart hammered against his back. He felt every beat through his jacket. Her fingers met over his stomach, uncertain and tense. When her knees closed around his hips, his entire body became rigid beneath her.

She fits.

Femi felt his reaction. Her hands loosened. Daemon forced calm into himself. This was not fear. Not danger. Femi was touching him because she had to hold on. If he allowed his reaction to frighten her, she would climb off the motorcycle and the morning would end before it began.

The Devil recoiled from the possibility.

No. Keep her here.

Not by frightening her.

Not by taking her choice.

Daemon lowered one hand over hers.

“Hold on tight.”

His voice came out rougher than he intended. Femi’s fingers tightened against him.

The Devil’s satisfaction returned instantly.

Closer.

Daemon left his hand over hers for one heartbeat.

Then another.

Keep it there.

He released her and gripped the handlebars. The motorcycle rolled forward. A small breath escaped Femi as they left the parking lot. Her arms locked around him.

The Devil laughed inside his blood.

She is holding us.

Daemon smiled into the wind.

He kept the speed low through Wolfwater. The roads were rough, and Femi had not yet learned to move with the motorcycle. Every turn made her tighten against his back.

Faster.

No.

She will hold tighter.

She was learning. The Devil subsided reluctantly, though its pleasure remained a steady warmth beneath his skin. At the first red light, Daemon planted one boot on the pavement.

“You okay?”

He felt her nod against him.

“You want to stop?”

Femi shook her head.

Never.

The light changed.

Daemon accelerated gently.

They left Wolfwater behind and entered the wider roads leading toward Eastgate. Morning traffic moved around them, and the city opened into polished storefronts, office towers, and clean sidewalks untouched by the broken concrete of home. Daemon leaned into a long curve. Femi resisted the movement at first. Then she followed him. Her body shifted closer.

Good girl.

A laugh escaped Daemon before he could stop it. Femi moved slightly behind him, perhaps surprised by the sound.

“Relax,” he murmured.

Easy for him to say. His heart had not behaved properly since she wrapped her arms around him. By the time they reached Eastgate, Femi leaned with every turn. Her body followed his as though they had ridden together for years.

She belongs here.

Daemon did not answer. The thought felt too good. He was still smiling when he pulled into the lot outside Mercer’s Outfitters. He removed his helmet and quickly smoothed his face into something less revealing. Femi released him. The absence of her arms felt immediate.

The Devil disliked it.

Put them back.

Daemon climbed off and held the motorcycle steady while she dismounted. Her legs seemed uncertain when her boots reached the pavement. He placed one hand near her elbow without touching. Femi steadied herself.

“Did you enjoy the ride?”

She removed the helmet. Her hair fell around her face in dark, wind-tangled waves. A slight shiver moved through her, but her green eyes were bright. She nodded eagerly.

The Devil swelled with triumph.

Again.

Daemon’s careful expression failed.

The crooked smile returned.

“Good.”

Femi handed him the helmet. Their fingers touched.

Neither pulled away immediately.

She lingers now.

Then Femi looked toward the store. Daemon locked the helmets to the motorcycle and opened the door for her. A bell chimed above them.

Mercer’s sold everything Daemon needed in one place—ammunition, tactical equipment, motorcycle gear, leather clothing, heavy boots, and enough weapons to make ordinary customers nervous.

Femi stayed beside him. Not behind him. Beside him.

The Devil approved.

Where she belongs.

Daemon was hyperaware of her. He noticed when her shoulder nearly brushed his arm. When she turned toward a display of silver buckles. When the sharp report of a weapon demonstration played from a television near the ammunition counter and made her flinch. Daemon shifted between her and the screen without comment.

The Devil turned toward the recorded gunfire with a low snarl.

It frightened her.

It was only a television.

It frightened her.

Daemon remained between Femi and the screen until they passed it. At the counter, he purchased three boxes of ammunition. Femi watched the clerk place them inside a locked carrying case. Her gaze moved to Daemon.

“For the range,” he said.

She lifted one eyebrow.

“And other things.”

Her expression suggested that was closer to the truth.

The Devil was pleased by the suspicion in her eyes.

She knows us.

Daemon collected a replacement patch for his jacket—a plain black piece with silver stitching—and moved toward the clothing section. Femi followed. He looked through two racks of shirts, occasionally holding one against himself before rejecting it. Femi remained within sight. Then an employee asked Daemon whether he needed assistance finding his size. He looked away for less than a minute. When he turned back, Femi was gone. His body reacted before reason did. Every muscle tightened.

The Devil rose violently.

Find her.

Daemon’s gaze swept the store.

Front entrance.

Ammunition counter.

Dressing rooms.

Emergency exit.

Where is she?

Then he found her. The Devil settled, but it did not retreat. Femi stood near a rack of women’s jackets. Her fingers rested against the sleeve of a black leather biker jacket. It was unadorned. No bright metal. No logos. No decoration that demanded attention.

Small.

Quiet.

Exactly like her.

The Devil’s satisfaction became almost unbearable.

That one.

Daemon approached.

Put our little ghost in black.

Femi sensed him before he reached her and looked over her shoulder.

“Try it on.”

Her hand left the sleeve.

“See if it fits.”

She glanced at the price tag.

Daemon saw her expression change.

“It’s a jacket, Femi.”

She pointed at the price.

“I can read.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Daemon almost smiled.

The Devil did.

Buy it.

“You work.”

She pointed at herself, then at the price again.

“I didn’t say I would buy it.”

Femi looked suspicious.

Daemon lifted both hands.

“Try it on.”

We are buying it.

Not if she did not want him to.

She needs it.

She already owned three jackets, apparently.

Not this one.

Femi hesitated, then removed the jacket from the rack. An employee passed carrying several folded shirts. Femi moved immediately to let her by, drawing the jacket close against her chest. Daemon looked toward the dressing rooms.

“I’ll wait.”

Femi’s fingers tightened around the hanger.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She studied him. Daemon turned toward a nearby rack of shirts, giving her the privacy to cross the store without feeling watched. He heard the dressing-room door close. Daemon examined three shirts without seeing any of them.

The Devil prowled restlessly inside him.

Go closer.

“She needs privacy.”

We cannot see her.

“That is the point.”

Someone could enter.

“No one is entering.”

Make certain.

After less than a minute, Daemon abandoned the pretense and moved toward the fitting rooms. The Devil quieted, satisfied. He stopped beside Femi’s door. Not in front of it. Beside it, where she would see him when she emerged without finding him blocking her way.

Daemon made a soft noise in his throat. A warning that he was there. The lock clicked. Femi stepped out. Daemon forgot the store.

She had changed into fitted black jeans and a small white top she must have collected while he was at the ammunition counter. The leather jacket rested over both, following the slight curve of her waist before ending above her hips.

The knee-high boots completed the outfit. Femi reached behind her head and twisted her black hair over one shoulder. The Devil stared through Daemon’s eyes.

Its pleasure moved through him like dark, molten heat.

Ours.

Daemon blinked.

Then blinked again.

Beautiful.

She watched him through the mirror.

“You look…”

The words failed.

Femi’s expression began closing.

The Devil snarled.

Tell her.

“Amazing,” Daemon finished in a whisper.

Color entered her cheeks.

Again.

Daemon lowered his head and allowed his pale hair to fall across his face. He had frightened armed men by looking at them. Femi had rendered him useless by wearing a jacket.

Our jacket.

It was not theirs.

Our little ghost in our color.

Black did not belong to them either. The Devil refused to be corrected. Femi looked at him for several seconds. Then she turned toward the mirror. The jacket fit perfectly. Femi never wanted anyone to notice her. Being noticed had rarely brought anything kind. Men noticed her because she was alone. Foster parents noticed when she ate too much, took too long in the bathroom, or failed to answer questions they knew she could not speak.

People on the streets noticed what she possessed and decided whether it was worth taking. Attention was dangerous. Daemon’s attention felt different. It was intense. Unwavering. Sometimes unsettling. But he never used it to make her feel unwelcome.

He talked to her. Truly talked. Not louder than necessary. Not slowly, as though silence had made her stupid. He told her about his motorcycle, complained about Malone’s coffee, and described people in Helix with such dry cruelty that she sometimes had to hide her smile.

He never demanded that she reply.

When men were forced to apologize for frightening or touching her, Daemon made them use her name.

Not the mute girl.

Not the waitress.

Femi.

He made them look at her and remember she was a person.

In the mirror, Femi studied him.

Daemon stood behind her with his head lowered. Pale blond hair concealed much of his scarred face. She thought he was beautiful. When the lights struck his hair properly, it looked like gold. Then he raised his head. Gray eyes met hers in the mirror. The Devil watched her from behind them, pleased and possessive. Femi shivered. Daemon noticed. His expression changed immediately.

“Cold?”

She shook her head and dropped her gaze.

The Devil purred.

Not cold.

Daemon knew. The truth felt too large for Femi to write. She returned to the dressing room and closed the door.

The Devil watched the door.

She liked us looking.

Daemon could not assume that.

She shivered.

That could mean many things.

Liar.

When Femi emerged in her old clothes, the jacket, jeans, and white top were folded over her arm. Daemon said nothing. He only took the clothes from her when they reached the counter and placed them beside his ammunition. Femi touched his wrist. The Devil went instantly still beneath her fingers. Daemon looked at her. She pointed toward herself and then toward the register.

“I know.”

She waited.

“You’re paying for them.”

Femi nodded firmly.

The Devil objected.

Ours should let us provide.

She wants to buy them.

We can buy them faster.

Daemon ignored it.

He handed her the clothes. The clerk struggled not to smile. Femi paid for the outfit herself. Daemon bought the ammunition and his patch. Neither mentioned that he slipped a pair of leather gloves into her bag while she studied a display near the register.

The Devil approved.

Ours.

The gloves were a gift.

Ours.

Daemon stopped arguing.

The ride back unsettled Femi more than the first. Not because of the motorcycle. Because of Daemon. She climbed onto the seat behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. This time, she did not hesitate.

The Devil’s satisfaction rolled through Daemon like thunder.

She knows where she belongs now.

Daemon’s body tightened beneath her. Then slowly relaxed. Femi pressed closer to his back. He made her feel things she did not understand. Safe was one of them. That frightened her more than danger. Danger was familiar. It had rules. You watched hands. Watched doors. Watched faces. You kept shoes near the bed and food hidden where no one could find it.

Safety asked her to believe it might remain. Daemon asked nothing. He only talked. Even when she could not answer, he spoke to her as though her silence contained a person worth knowing. Femi settled her cheek between his shoulder blades and leaned into the next turn with him. Her arms tightened around his waist.

Beneath her ear, Daemon’s heart pounded. Fast. Almost as fast as hers. The discovery made her smile. He was nervous too.

Inside Daemon, the Devil curled possessively around the warmth of her body.

Keep her.

Daemon slowed as they approached an open stretch of road.

His voice reached her through the wind.

“Faster?”

The Devil pressed forward eagerly.

Yes.

Femi lifted her head. He had asked. He always asked now. She nodded against his back and tightened her grip. Daemon felt the answer.

So did the Devil.

She trusts us.

The motorcycle roared. They surged forward. Femi’s breath caught as the city blurred around them. Daemon moved between lanes with practiced confidence, every shift controlled, every curve smooth beneath them. Wind tore at her clothes. The engine thundered beneath her. She should have been afraid. Instead, Femi pressed closer and smiled into Daemon’s jacket.

For several bright minutes, nothing could catch them. Not the streets. Not the foster homes. Not the people who had taken her name and tried to erase everything that remained. She held the Devil tightly, and he carried her beyond all of it.

Inside Daemon, the Devil was exultant.

Our little ghost.

Not trapped. Not hiding. Not running away. Flying. With them. Daemon slowed before they entered Wolfwater. The Devil resisted.

Again.

Later.

Now.

She would decide.

The Devil looked through his eyes toward Helix as it came into view.

Then ask her.

By the time they reached the clubhouse, Femi did not want the ride to end. Daemon pulled into the rear lot and killed the engine. Silence rushed around them. Femi’s arms released him.

The Devil immediately mourned their absence.

Put them back.

Daemon climbed off first, then held the motorcycle steady while Femi dismounted. Her legs trembled when her boots touched the ground. His hand hovered near her waist. He did not touch until she reached for him. Then his fingers settled carefully around her elbow.

The Devil purred.

She reached for us.

“You okay?”

Femi nodded.

Daemon removed his helmet. His golden hair was disordered from the wind. A rare smile remained on his lips, impossible for him to hide. Femi took off her helmet and handed it to him. She stood before him with wind-tangled hair, flushed cheeks, and the smile that made Daemon’s heart beat faster. He stared at her. The Devil stared too. Pleased. Possessive. Hungry for every small piece of happiness she permitted them to witness.

Femi lifted her hands.

Again.

Daemon’s crooked smile deepened.

“Whenever you want, little ghost.”

The endearment slipped free before he could stop it. The Devil became perfectly still. It had called her that inside him for months.

Little ghost.

Femi went still. Daemon’s expression closed.

“I didn’t mean—”

Do not take it back.

Her smile softened. She touched her chest. Then repeated the sign.

Again.

The Devil surged through him with fierce, delighted possession.

She wants us.

Daemon understood. Not only the motorcycle. The road. The morning. Him. His heart did that hated, glorious thing once more. It believed her. Deep inside him, the Devil curled around her answer as though she had placed something precious directly into its hands.

Again, it purred.

And beneath the pleasure lived a darker certainty.

Our little ghost is coming back.

They called her Candi.

Whether the name belonged to her had stopped mattering years ago.

Candi came and went from Helix depending on how badly she needed money and how recently Malone had caught her breaking his rules. Officially, she was a dancer. She worked the stage for several weeks, disappeared for a month, and returned whenever some other club grew tired of her temper.

Unofficially, Candi used Helix to conduct another kind of business.

Everyone knew.

Everyone except Malone—or so they pretended.

Malone did not care what a woman did with her body. He cared where she did it. No solicitation on the floor. No transactions in the bathrooms. No customers taken upstairs. Helix was a clubhouse, not a brothel, and any dancer caught treating it like one found her belongings waiting in the alley.

Candi had learned to be discreet. Most men were easy. Too easy. One look from the stage. One slow smile.

A hand placed on a shoulder after her performance.

Men who spent the entire night pretending to be dangerous became obedient the moment she whispered a price.

Candi knew the power of her body. She had the kind men wanted. The kind they fought over. The kind they ruined marriages and emptied bank accounts to possess for an hour.

She enjoyed watching them become stupid.

But Candi did not want most men.

She wanted the Devil.

Daemon Pallid had occupied the darkest corner of Helix for years, and Candi had watched him.

He was taller than most men in the clubhouse, broad across the shoulders and muscular in a way that made the loudest bikers look unfinished beside him. Long blond hair concealed part of his scarred face, but it never hid those cold gray eyes.

Everyone feared him.

Candi loved that most.

She loved the way conversations lowered when Daemon entered. The way men watched their words when he passed. The way even Malone kept one eye on the corner whenever someone foolish became drunk enough to challenge him.

Daemon never demanded attention.

He carried the certainty that it would come to him.

Candi had imagined herself on the back of his motorcycle, her body pressed along his as they tore through Ravenside. She had dreamed of his scar beneath her mouth and those large hands locked around her hips.

She wanted to know what it would feel like to make a man like Daemon lose control.

More importantly, she wanted what possessing him would mean. No man would strike her. No customer would refuse to pay. No woman would take her place onstage or speak to her with disrespect. Once she had someone as dangerous as the Devil wrapped around her finger, Candi would need no one else. She had nearly gotten him into her bed once. Or at least, that was the version she preferred.

Daemon had been drinking more heavily than usual that night. Candi had sat beside him after closing, her thigh pressed to his, and guided his hand beneath the edge of her dress.

Her perfume reached him first. Artificial sugar. Heavy flowers. Sweat concealed beneath something expensive.

The Devil recoiled immediately.

Wrong.

Daemon had allowed Candi to guide his hand for several seconds while the whiskey slowed his understanding.

The Devil did not hesitate.

Not this one.

Daemon removed his hand.

“Not tonight.”

The Devil had already dismissed her.

Not ever.

Candi heard something else.

Try again.

So she had.

For three years.

She never understood that Daemon’s refusal had not been coyness. It had not been hesitation or a challenge designed to make her work harder. Her scent was wrong. Her touch was wrong. Something inside him rejected her before desire could begin. She was simply a woman seated too close. Daemon never accepted.

Never explained. Never looked at her long enough to understand what she offered. That only made her want him more.

Daemon had saved her life once.

Red sent him after a man who had begun stalking Candi. The man followed her home, waited outside her building, and left photographs beneath her door. Police reports did nothing. Threats only excited him. Then Red called Daemon. He found the man outside Candi’s apartment. The conversation left the stalker with broken fingers on his right hand, a swollen left eye, and several missing teeth. He never tried to contact Candi again.

Daemon did not ask for payment. He did not accept Candi’s invitation upstairs. When she opened the door, her perfume drifted into the hall.

The Devil recognized nothing worth remembering.

Wrong.

Daemon looked at the blood across his knuckles.

“Lock the door behind me.”

Then he left. To Candi, the violence had meant something. To Daemon, she had been an obligation. A name Red gave him. A woman in danger. Someone they saved once. Nothing more. Candi had wanted him ever since. She wanted the violence. Wanted the man capable of it. Wanted to become the reason he used it.

Tonight, Candi moved beneath the red lights of Helix’s stage while every man in the room watched.

Her silver costume glittered with each slow turn of her hips. The music rolled through the clubhouse, heavy enough to make glasses tremble against the tables.

She wrapped one hand around the pole, arched backward, and smiled at the men nearest the stage.

They stared. All of them. Then the front door opened. Daemon entered. Candi nearly missed a step. He wore his black leather jacket and dark jeans, pale hair hanging loose around his face. His gray eyes swept the room once before he walked toward his usual corner.

The men at the nearest table shifted their chairs out of his path.

Candi smiled.

She turned slowly around the pole and lowered herself with deliberate grace, certain his eyes would find her.

They did not.

The Devil had noticed her scent the moment Daemon crossed the threshold.

Cheap sweetness.

Heavy perfume.

Wrong.

That woman.

Daemon barely glanced toward the stage.

The Devil searched his memory and found a dim hallway, blood on his knuckles, and Red’s irritated voice sending them to an apartment.

We saved her once.

That was all. No curiosity followed. No hunger. No interest. The Devil discarded Candi as quickly as it recognized her. Then another scent moved beneath the smoke, whiskey, and crowded bodies. Warm bread. Lemon from the bar. Strawberries.

The Devil awakened completely.

There.

Daemon’s attention moved beyond the stage.

Femi crossed the clubhouse carrying a tray.

Little ghost.

Everything else disappeared.

The music.

The dancers.

The men shouting near the stage.

Candi twisting beneath the red lights.

The Devil watched Femi.

Femi wore the standard black uniform with her midnight hair braided down her back. She moved between the tables without looking at anyone, collecting empty glasses and avoiding the hands reaching toward the other waitresses.

Candi frowned. Daemon watched her. Not casually. Not because Femi happened to cross his view. His entire body had gone still. The Devil leaned closer inside him, pleased.

She is coming to us.

Candi recognized the intensity because she had spent three years trying to inspire it. Femi approached his table. The scent of strawberries strengthened.

The Devil purred through Daemon’s blood.

Closer.

Daemon leaned forward.

Femi placed a glass of Jack on the rocks in front of him and reached for the empty one.

“New braid,” Daemon said.

Femi’s hands paused around the glass. Her green eyes lifted.

The Devil admired the thick black braid resting over her shoulder.

Pretty.

Femi touched it self-consciously.

Daemon raised his drink.

“It suits you.”

Color warmed her cheeks.

The Devil’s satisfaction deepened.

Again.

Femi smiled. Tiny. Barely there. Daemon’s scarred face changed. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile Candi had never seen. Not for any dancer. Not for any woman who joined him in the corner. Not for her. Candi’s heel landed too close to the edge of the stage. Her ankle turned. Only years of practice kept her upright. The men below shouted their approval, mistaking the mistake for part of the routine.

Daemon did not look.

Neither did the Devil.

Femi reached for the empty glass.

Her fingers passed near Daemon’s hand without touching it.

The Devil followed the movement intently.

Touch her.

No.

She is close.

She had chosen how close she wanted to be.

The Devil accepted the restriction with unusual ease.

It was content simply to have her near.

Keep her here.

Daemon searched for something else to say.

“Malone’s coffee was worse this morning.”

Femi’s shoulders moved with silent laughter.

The Devil became almost unbearably pleased.

Ours made her smile.

She was not theirs. The Devil ignored him.

Candi recovered and continued dancing. Inside, something ugly opened. She had known she disliked Femi.

Everyone treated the girl as though silence made her sacred. Malone protected her. Marta followed her through the clubhouse like an armed shadow. The bartenders learned signs for her. The cooks ate whatever she placed before them and praised it like she had performed a miracle instead of making stew.

Even the regulars had begun watching their language around her. Femi never asked for any of it. That made Candi hate her more. A woman who wanted something should admit it. She should use what she possessed to take it. Femi did nothing. She lowered her eyes, stayed out of the way, and allowed men to become protective because she looked small enough to break.

Now she had Daemon watching her. Worse, something inside Daemon watched her too. Something Candi had never reached. Femi left the table. Daemon’s gaze followed her. The Devil followed the sway of her braid and the quiet movement of her hands around the tray.

She is leaving.

“She is working.”

Call her back.

Daemon raised his drink instead.

He could wait.

The Devil remained fixed on Femi as she crossed the clubhouse.

She will come back.

Candi completed the routine without missing another step. The music ended. Men shouted and struck their palms against the tables. Money covered the stage near her boots. Candi bent to collect it, smiling as though she had not seen anything. Her eyes remained on the corner. Femi reached the bar.

Daemon’s gaze stayed with her. The Devil watched as she placed the empty glass near Malone and adjusted the braid over her shoulder. Candi’s smile hardened. She gathered the final bill and stepped from the stage. A customer caught her wrist.

“Private dance?”

“Later.”

“How much?”

“I said later.”

She pulled free. The man stared after her, surprised. Candi ignored him. She crossed the clubhouse and stopped at Daemon’s table. He still watched Femi. Candi placed one hand against the edge of the table and leaned forward, allowing the front of her costume to fall open slightly. Her perfume struck him.

The Devil recoiled.

Wrong.

“Miss me?”

Daemon did not look at her.

“No.”

The Devil’s attention remained across the room.

Femi stood behind the bar slicing lemons. Her head was lowered, but every few seconds, her eyes shifted toward Daemon’s corner.

Little ghost is watching.

Candi laughed as though Daemon had made a joke.

“You always say the sweetest things.”

She slid into the chair beside him without invitation. Her bare thigh pressed against his knee. The Devil reacted with immediate disgust.

Move her.

Daemon moved his leg away. Candi followed. The perfume became stronger.

The Devil snarled.

Wrong scent. Wrong woman.

“I finish in an hour.”

“Move.”

His voice remained quiet.

She smiled.

“You used to be more fun.”

“No.”

“You almost were.”

Daemon’s eyes shifted toward her at last. The Devil looked too, but only long enough to dismiss her again. There was no heat in Daemon’s eyes. No memory. Only impatience. Candi leaned closer.

The Devil wanted distance.

She is between us and the little ghost.

“I could remind you.”

“No.”

The answer humiliated her more than cruelty would have. Her gaze moved toward Femi. The girl stood behind the bar slicing lemons. She was not looking at them. Candi suspected she was pretending.

The Devil knew better.

She is listening.

“She’s a strange little thing,” Candi said.

Daemon went still.

The Devil’s disgust sharpened into warning.

Careful.

Candi noticed the change. So that was where the weakness lived.

“Malone’s charity case,” she continued. “Does she ever do anything besides stare?”

The Devil rose. Not because Candi was close. Not because of her body or the perfume she wore. Because she had spoken about Femi with contempt.

Make her use the name.

Daemon turned his head slowly.

“Her name is Femi.”

Candi’s smile held.

“I know her name.”

“Then use it.”

The warning beneath the words sent a shiver through her. Once, it would have excited her. Now it fed the hatred growing inside her. Candi looked toward Femi again. The Devil followed her gaze. Not to see what Candi saw. To find Femi.

There she is.

“Can she understand us?”

“Yes.”

“But she can’t answer.”

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass.

The Devil’s voice dropped into something darker.

She answers us.

“She answers.”

“How?”

“When someone is worth answering.”

Candi’s smile disappeared.

The Devil was already finished with her.

Leave.

Daemon leaned back into the shadows.

“Leave.”

She remained seated for one heartbeat longer. The Devil’s attention did not return to her. There was no need. Candi did not matter. Femi did. Then Candi stood.

“Enjoy your drink, Devil.”

Daemon’s attention had already returned to the bar. The scent of Candi’s perfume receded.

The Devil relaxed.

Gone.

Daemon watched Femi slice another lemon.

Call her back.

She is working.

She was watching.

Daemon knew. That mattered more than he wanted it to. Candi walked toward the dressing rooms. She did not hurry. Did not allow anyone to see that Daemon had dismissed her. At the bar, Femi lifted her eyes. Their gazes met. Candi saw no challenge in the girl’s face. No triumph. Only quiet uncertainty. That made it worse. Femi did not even understand she had taken something.

Candi smiled at her. Soft. Beautiful. False. Femi looked away. Daemon saw the exchange.

So did the Devil.

We do not like that smile.

Neither did he.

Candi entered the back hall and closed the dressing-room door behind her. Daemon did not watch her go. The Devil had already forgotten her scent. It remained fixed on Femi. She placed the knife beside the cutting board and wiped her hands on a towel. Then she reached for a clean glass.

The Devil stirred eagerly.

She is coming back.

Daemon lifted two fingers. Femi looked toward him. Her uncertainty softened. She poured another Jack over ice and placed it on a tray.

The Devil purred.

Ours.

Not his.

Not yet.

Perhaps never.

The Devil did not care for uncertainty.

She comes when we call.

Because it was her job.

She smiles for us.

Sometimes.

She watches us.

Daemon could not argue with that. Femi lifted the tray and began walking toward the corner. The scent of strawberries moved through the smoke before she reached him. The Devil settled beneath Daemon’s skin, pleased and possessive.

Candi had been a woman they saved once. A wrong scent. A forgotten obligation. Femi was different.

Femi approached, and everything inside him recognized her.

There is our little ghost.

Behind the dressing-room door, Candi stared at herself in the mirror.

Men had spent the entire evening watching her. They had thrown money at her feet. Offered drinks. Promised anything she cared to name. None of it mattered. Daemon had watched Femi carry a glass across the room.

That was all.

Candi had spent three years wanting the Devil. It took one tiny smile from Femi to turn that desire into something poisonous. Some dumb mute was not going to stand in her way. Candi would make certain of it.

The new regular appeared three nights later.

Candi noticed him because he did not behave like the other men.

He did not sit near the stage. Did not shout. Did not wave money when she looked in his direction. He took a table near the back wall where the red lights barely reached and ordered bourbon he hardly touched.

Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. Midforties, maybe. Clean hands. Expensive watch. The sort of man who looked misplaced inside Helix without appearing uncomfortable about it.

Candi saw him watching her during her second set. She gave him the smile she reserved for men with money. He did not smile back.

He simply lifted three fingers.

Private dance.

Twenty minutes later, Candi closed the door of one of the private rooms behind them.

The man sat in the leather chair.

Candi approached.

“You’ve been watching me all night.”

“I have.”

His voice was pleasant. Nothing memorable about it. That should have bothered her.

It didn’t.

She moved closer.

“You like what you see?”

“Yes.”

Candi smiled.

Then his gaze shifted briefly toward the door.

“The quiet girl works here tonight?”

Candi stopped.

“What?”

“The mute one.”

Something ugly stirred pleasantly inside her.

“Femi.”

“Yes.”

He said the name without affection. Almost dismissively.

Candi liked him immediately.

“She works most nights.”

“Unfortunate.”

Candi laughed.

The man finally smiled.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

“The one you get when someone says what everyone else is apparently too polite to say.”

Candi studied him.

“You don’t like her.”

“No.”

The answer came easily. No hesitation. No explanation.

Just—

“No.”

Candi’s smile widened.

“Neither do I.”

“I noticed.”

She moved between his knees. He paid well. Very well. More importantly, he listened. Candi told him about Malone treating Femi like a daughter. About Marta following her everywhere. About the bartenders learning signs. About the cooks acting like every plate the girl touched deserved a fucking medal.

And eventually— Daemon. She told him about Daemon watching Femi. About the whiskey. The braid. The smile. The way he had told Candi to use Femi’s name. The man’s expression changed for the first time. Not surprise. Interest.

“That bothers you.”

Candi scoffed.

“It should bother everybody.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s playing them.”

He considered that.

“I thought so.”

Candi went still.

“You did?”

“I’ve seen women like her before.”

Something warm opened in Candi’s chest. Vindication. Finally. Someone saw it.

“She acts helpless,” Candi said.

“Convenient.”

“Exactly.”

“She doesn’t speak.”

“But somehow everybody knows what she wants.”

“Interesting.”

“She barely looks at men.”

“Which makes them look harder.”

Candi stared at him.

“Yes.”

The man’s mouth curved.

“Clever girl.”

Candi hated Femi a little more.

The man reached into his jacket and removed several folded bills. Far more than the dance cost. He placed them on the small table.

“For your time.”

Candi looked at the money.

“You’ve got another fifteen minutes.”

“I know.”

“You don’t want your dance?”

“I prefer conversation.”

That was strange. But strange men with money were still men with money. Candi sat across his lap anyway. His right hand settled lightly against her hip. A silver ring caught the red light. Something curved across its face. Candi glanced down. Before she could make out the design, the man casually rotated the ring inward. The silver disappeared against his palm.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“Nothing interesting.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the ring?”

His thumb passed over it.

“Old family piece.”

Candi lost interest. They talked about Femi instead.

The new regular returned two nights later. Then again the following week. Always requesting Candi. Always paying for private dances. Always tipping too much. And somehow— they always ended up talking about Femi. He disliked her. Candi became certain of it. Not with the viciousness Candi felt. His contempt was colder. Quieter.

He called Femi manipulative. Calculated. A girl who had discovered that silence made people fill in whatever innocence they wanted to see. Candi repeated those words to herself afterward.

They sounded intelligent. More intelligent than jealousy.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” the regular said one evening.

Candi stood before the mirror fixing her lipstick while he watched from the chair.

“I’ve been saying that.”

“I believe you.”

Three words.

That was all it took. Candi turned toward him. Nobody believed her. Not Malone. Not the dancers. Not the bartenders. Certainly not Daemon. But this man did.

“I saw her watching him tonight,” he continued.

Candi’s mouth tightened.

“Daemon?”

“Who else?”

“She does that.”

“Possessive little thing.”

Candi laughed bitterly.

“She doesn’t own him.”

“Does he know that?”

Her laughter stopped. The regular watched her reflection in the mirror.

“You said he doesn’t sleep with her.”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

Candi hesitated.

“Yes.”

The man’s expression remained thoughtful.

“Then perhaps he simply needs reminding that other women exist.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Trying isn’t the same as giving a man something he can’t explain away.”

Candi turned around.

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged.

“Nothing.”

“No. What did you mean?”

“I assumed you wanted him.”

“I do.”

“Then stop waiting for him to notice.”

Candi stared at him. The man reached beside the chair and lifted a small black shopping bag. He extended it toward her.

“What is that?”

“A gift.”

Candi took it. Inside was a small box wrapped in tissue. She opened it. Red lace. Panties. Expensive ones.

Candi laughed.

“You’re buying me underwear now?”

“I saw them and thought of your problem.”

“My problem?”

“The mute girl.”

Her smile faded.

He leaned back.

“You told me Daemon has a room upstairs.”

“Yes.”

“You told me she sometimes goes up there.”

“Sometimes.”

“And you told me everyone thinks she’s innocent.”

Candi looked down at the red lace. The regular said nothing else. He did not need to. The idea arrived so naturally that Candi believed it belonged to her. Her eyes lifted.

“If someone found these in his room…”

The man’s expression barely changed.

Candi began smiling.

“If she found them.”

“Would she believe they’re yours?”

“She knows I want him.”

“Then she might.”

Candi ran the lace between her fingers.

“And Daemon?”

“What about him?”

“He’d know nothing happened.”

The regular shrugged.

“Would he?”

Candi frowned.

“You said he drinks.”

“He does.”

“You said there was already one night he barely remembered.”

Candi remembered guiding Daemon’s hand beneath her dress. Remembered whiskey on his breath. Remembered him pulling away. Not tonight. For years she had transformed those words into something they had never been. Almost. Nearly. Eventually. The regular watched the lie become comfortable again.

“He was drunk,” Candi said.

“Then perhaps he doesn’t remember everything.”

“He would remember sleeping with me.”

“Maybe.”

Candi’s fingers tightened around the panties.

The man smiled faintly.

“Or maybe the quiet girl won’t give him enough time to explain.”

Candi looked at the red lace again. The plan formed quickly after that. Too quickly. But Candi did not notice. She imagined Femi entering Daemon’s room. Seeing them. Imagined those green eyes filling with hurt. Imagined her disappearing back downstairs. Imagined Daemon finally looking somewhere else. Looking at Candi.

She smiled.

“You really don’t like her.”

The regular’s expression cooled.

“No.”

“Why?”

He was silent for several seconds. Then—

“Girls like that survive by making everyone underestimate them.”

Candi considered the answer. It sounded personal. She liked that too.

“Maybe she screwed you over.”

“Maybe.”

Candi laughed.

“You know, you’re the first man in this place with any sense.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She tucked the box into her bag. The regular stood. Candi reached for him. His hand caught hers. For one brief second, the silver ring turned outward. A serpent curled across its face. Its body twisted into itself. Candi’s thumb nearly touched it.

The man’s gaze dropped. He released her hand and turned the ring inward again. By the time Candi looked properly, there was nothing to see but silver along the edge of his finger.

She kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“The gift.”

His eyes moved toward her bag.

“That was your idea.”

Candi laughed.

“Sure it was.”

She left the room carrying the red panties. The man remained behind. The smile disappeared from his face before the door finished closing. He looked down at his hand. Slowly, he turned the silver serpent outward again. Then he took out his phone.

He typed three words.

She’ll do it.

The message sent. He deleted it. Rotated the ring inward.

And waited for his bourbon.

Candi began with a lie.

It was a small one.

The kind requiring no words.

Daemon kept a room upstairs at Helix for the nights he drank too much to ride home or returned from work too bloody to be seen crossing the clubhouse. He rarely used it, but everyone knew which door belonged to him.

Candi learned his habits.

She knew when he was downstairs. Knew when Femi carried clean towels along the upstairs hall. Knew exactly how long the girl took to replace the soap and gather the laundry from each room.

The first time, Candi waited until she heard Femi’s footsteps approaching. Then she slipped out of Daemon’s room. She adjusted the top of her stage costume and ran her fingers through her hair. When Femi reached the end of the hall, Candi looked directly at her and wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

Femi stopped. Confusion passed through her green eyes. Candi smiled. Then she walked downstairs. Femi remained in the hallway. She looked at the door Candi had closed behind her.

Then at the folded towels in her arms. Daemon had been downstairs when Femi passed his corner ten minutes earlier. She was almost certain. But almost had never protected her from anything.

Femi entered his room.

The bed had not been disturbed. The blankets remained smooth, the pillow untouched. Daemon’s jacket hung over the back of a chair. Candi’s perfume had settled into the room—artificial sugar and heavy flowers layered over something bitter.

Wrong.

Femi opened the window. She told herself it was because the room needed air. Then she replaced the towels and left. Candi repeated the performance every night for two weeks. Sometimes she emerged fastening the back of her dress. Sometimes she smoothed her skirt over her hips.

Once, she stepped into the hall carrying her heels and looking pleasantly exhausted.

Daemon was never inside the room.

He was downstairs in his corner, at the bar speaking to Malone, or out back working on his motorcycle. That did not matter. Femi did not know. At least, Candi hoped she did not. Every time, the girl looked confused. Never angry. Never jealous. Never wounded enough. The absence of reaction began eating at Candi. So she started visiting Daemon’s table after her routine.

Every night.

She collected her money, crossed the clubhouse in whatever costume she wore, and pressed herself into the empty chair beside him.

Daemon ignored her.

The Devil rejected her before she sat down.

Wrong scent.

Candi laughed at things he did not say. Touched his arm. Leaned close enough for her perfume to settle into his jacket.

The Devil recoiled each time.

Get it off.

Daemon shifted away.

Candi followed.

She does not belong here.

Daemon already knew that. His gaze remained on Femi. All while Candi watched her. She wanted a flinch. A dropped glass. Anything proving the mute girl understood that Daemon belonged to a world she could never enter.

Femi only worked. She carried drinks, cleared tables, and disappeared into the kitchen when Malone called for her. Occasionally, her eyes rested on Candi with quiet confusion. Nothing more.

The Devil noticed every glance.

She is watching.

Daemon noticed too. He did not understand the uncertainty in Femi’s expression. Whenever Candi approached, Femi became quieter. Her movements more careful. She stopped lingering beside his table after bringing his drink.

The Devil disliked it.

She thinks that woman belongs beside us.

She does not.

The answer remained inside him.

Tell the little ghost.

Daemon did not know what he was supposed to tell her. Nothing had happened. Candi meant nothing. She was a woman Red had once asked him to protect. A wrong scent he dismissed whenever it drifted too close.

Femi had never asked.

Daemon did not know the question existed.

Somehow, his silence made Candi crueler.

One night, Daemon lifted two fingers. The small signal was meant for Femi. She saw it immediately. She always did.

The Devil stirred with quiet pleasure.

She watches us.

Femi poured a fresh Jack over ice and carried it toward the dark corner. The scent of strawberries reached Daemon before she did.

The Devil turned toward it at once.

Little ghost.

Candi watched her approach. Then she pressed herself against Daemon’s side.

The Devil recoiled violently.

Wrong.

“Take me home tonight.”

Daemon did not look at her. His attention remained on Femi. She was halfway across the clubhouse. Candi slid one hand beneath his jacket and rested it against his chest.

The Devil snarled.

Remove her.

“I need you.”

She made the words soft and wet. Satisfied. Femi was close enough to hear.

Daemon caught Candi’s wrist.

Break it.

He removed her hand from his body. He said nothing. Candi laughed as if the gesture were part of a private game. Her perfume clung to his jacket.

The Devil wanted to tear it from him.

She stains us.

Femi stopped beside the table. She placed the fresh drink in front of Daemon and collected the empty glass. Her face revealed nothing.

The Devil studied her.

She smells that woman.

Daemon saw the small pause in Femi’s hands.

The way her gaze rested on Candi’s fingers before moving to the front of his jacket. Something cold entered him. Candi leaned close to Daemon’s ear.

“I can do that thing you like.”

The Devil went still.

Then came its immediate, disgusted rejection.

She knows nothing we like.

Daemon turned his gray eyes toward Candi at last. They were cold enough to strip the pleasure from her smile. He had never told her what he liked. He had never given her the opportunity to discover it.

Candi was not a forgotten lover. Not a temptation. Not even a mistake. She was simply a woman they had saved once. Someone Red sent them to protect. The Devil barely remembered her face. It remembered her scent only because it was wrong. Femi’s gaze moved between them.

Candi pressed closer.

Daemon shifted away.

Closer to the little ghost.

Femi stood on the opposite side of the table.

The Devil wanted the distance between them gone.

Tell her.

Daemon looked at Femi. Her green eyes lowered. Behind the bar, Malone cleared his throat. The sound carried a warning. Femi returned to work.

The Devil followed her through Daemon’s eyes.

She is leaving.

Candi was still speaking.

Daemon heard none of it.

Call her back.

Femi reached the bar and placed the empty glass beside the sink. Her hands were steady. Too steady. Daemon watched her disappear into the kitchen. The scent of strawberries faded.

Candi watched him watching her.

The hatred inside her sharpened.

Two days later, Candi arrived at Helix shortly before eleven in the morning.

The clubhouse was quiet.

Sunlight passed through the front windows, revealing polished tables and floors cleaner than Helix had any right to possess. The stage lights were off. Chairs rested upside down on several tables.

Femi had already been working for hours. The smell of fresh bread drifted from the kitchen. Candi found her wiping tables near the stage.

Femi wore faded jeans and a loose shirt. Her midnight hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and one of her new boots had been removed beneath a table. The leather had rubbed a blister against her heel, leaving her bare foot exposed while she cleaned.

She did not see Candi enter. Or pretended not to.

“So you’re the dumb one.”

Femi’s hand paused against the table. Candi kept her voice low and slow. The way cruel people spoke when they wanted silence to mean stupidity. Femi resumed wiping.

“You can’t be very smart if you work for Malone.”

No reaction.

Candi walked closer.

“Or are you sucking him off for the job?”

Femi moved to the next table. Her face remained lowered. Candi followed.

“You think because you’re fucking that old geezer, you matter?”

Femi wrung the cloth over the bucket.

“You don’t.”

The cloth returned to the table.

Still nothing.

Candi’s anger flared.

“Look at me.”

Femi continued cleaning. Candi stepped into her path. Femi moved around her. The dismissal struck harder than an insult. Candi caught her shoulder and shoved. Hard. Femi struck the edge of the table. Pain tightened her face as the corner caught her hip. The bucket overturned, spilling dirty water across the floor.

For the first time, Femi looked at her.

Candi smiled.

“Oops.”

She walked away.

Behind her, Femi retrieved the bucket.

She cleaned the water before it could reach the stage.

By noon, the other dancers and waitresses had begun arriving.

Regulars came downstairs for breakfast and occupied their usual tables. The jukebox started playing. Coffee filled the air, followed by the smell of bacon and fried potatoes.

Femi worked in the kitchen. She did not tell Malone what happened. She did not tell Marta. She did not look toward Candi when the dancer entered the kitchen to steal a piece of bacon. Femi lost herself in the easy rhythm of cooking. Eggs cracked against the edge of a bowl. Butter melted across the griddle. Omelets folded beneath the spatula. Bacon drained beside thick slices of toasted bread. The work made sense. Food did what she asked if she gave it enough attention. People did not.

Candi lingered near the doorway. She watched Femi plate an omelet and turn toward the skillet of fried potatoes. No one else appeared to be looking. Candi stepped forward. She placed both hands between Femi’s shoulder blades and pushed.

Femi stumbled into the stove. Her arm struck the skillet handle. The pan hit the floor. Hot grease exploded across the tile. Femi threw up her hands. Grease splashed over her fingers and across the top of her bare foot.

Her mouth opened.

No scream came.

The skillet struck the floor with a crash loud enough to cut through the clubhouse. Daemon heard it from the rear passage. The Devil heard something else. A sharp breath. The scrape of a small body striking metal.

Then the scent of hot grease, fear, and strawberries.

Femi.

Daemon was moving before the thought finished. Four men rushed into the kitchen. Daemon arrived first. Malone came behind him, followed by Harlan and one of the morning regulars. Candi had not known Daemon was in the building.

She watched murder happen behind his gray eyes when they landed on her.

The Devil recognized her immediately.

The wrong one.

Candi stood behind Femi. Her hands were still raised from the push. The distance between her and the fallen skillet told the truth before she opened her mouth. The Devil surged forward.

She touched our little ghost.

Then Daemon saw Femi. Everything in his face changed. The violence remained. The direction of it did not.

For one terrible second, the Devil wanted Candi. Wanted her wrists. Her hands. Every finger she had placed against Femi’s back.

Break them.

Femi backed against the preparation counter, clutching one burned hand against her chest. Her other hand trembled. Redness had already begun spreading across her fingers and foot. The Devil abandoned Candi. Not because it forgave her. Because Femi mattered more.

Little ghost first.

Daemon crossed the kitchen. Femi looked at him. Pain had widened her eyes.

The Devil recoiled as though the grease had struck them too.

Help her.

Daemon stopped before touching her.

“Cold water.”

Femi stared at him.

“Now, little ghost.”

He kept his voice low.

The Devil pressed against the words, trying to soften itself for her.

Come here. Let us see.

Femi moved toward the sink. Daemon turned on the tap and tested the temperature before guiding the stream over her hands. He did not touch her until she nodded permission. The moment she did, his fingers closed carefully around her wrist.

The Devil went unnaturally still.

Gentle.

Daemon already knew. He held her hand beneath the water without allowing pressure near the reddening skin. Malone grabbed a clean towel, dropped to one knee, and carefully wrapped it around Femi’s ankle without allowing the fabric to touch the burn.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Candi threw both hands into the air.

“She should watch what she’s doing.”

Four sets of eyes landed on her. Not the way she wanted. Not admiration. Not hunger. Something closer to disgust. The Devil looked through Daemon’s eyes.

It saw Candi’s hands.

Those hands pushed her.

Candi rolled her eyes.

“Damn, Malone. That almost got on me.”

The kitchen became silent. Even the jukebox seemed to fade behind the walls. The Devil whispered with terrifying calm.

Break her.

Daemon looked at the grease staining the hem of Candi’s dress. Then at the distance between her and the fallen skillet. He understood. Candi saw the moment he did. His face emptied.

That was worse than anger.

She burned our little ghost.

Daemon’s grip around Femi’s uninjured wrist remained gentle.

His other hand curled against the sink.

Take her hands.

Not now.

She used them against Femi.

Femi trembled beside him. Daemon forced his fingers open. Femi first. Everything else later.

Malone rose slowly.

“Get out.”

“Oh, please.” Candi started.

“Now.”

“She dropped a pan.” Candi tried again.

The Devil’s fury deepened.

Liar.

“Get out of my kitchen.”

Candi looked toward Daemon. She expected him to be watching her. Expected hatred. Threat. Recognition. Anything that proved she still occupied some place inside him. He had already turned away. His attention rested entirely on Femi. The Devil dismissed Candi with him. She no longer mattered. The damage she had done did.

“Does it hurt?” Daemon asked.

Femi gave a small nod. The admission struck him harder than a scream could have.

The Devil’s voice lowered.

Take her somewhere safe.

“I’m taking you to the clinic.”

She shook her head.

“Yes.”

Another shake.

Daemon lowered his voice.

“Let them look. If they say you’re fine, I’ll bring you back.”

Femi studied him.

The water continued moving over her trembling fingers.

“Please.”

The word emerged quietly.

The Devil waited with him.

Come with us, little ghost.

Then Femi nodded. Relief loosened something inside Daemon. Only slightly. Candi remained near the doorway. The Devil no longer looked at her. It watched Femi. The pain tightening her mouth. The careful way she held her burned hand. The bare foot she could no longer place against the floor.

Pick her up.

Daemon shut off the water. Malone stepped aside. Candi left before he could throw her out. She did not see Daemon bend in front of Femi.

“May I?”

Femi looked toward the floor. Then at her reddened foot. She nodded. Daemon slid one arm behind her knees and the other around her back. The Devil quieted the instant her weight settled against him. Femi stiffened. Daemon held her securely without drawing her closer than necessary.

“I’ve got you.”

Her uninjured hand caught the front of his jacket.

The Devil curled possessively around the touch.

Ours.

Daemon carried her through Helix. The clubhouse had gone silent. Every face turned toward them. The Devil disliked the attention.

Do not look at her.

Daemon’s gray eyes swept the room. Everyone looked away. Femi’s fingers tightened in his jacket. He adjusted his hold, careful of her burned hand and foot. The effort required to remain gentle shook through every muscle in his body.

The Devil whispered beneath it.

Little ghost first.

Candi could wait.

Her lie could wait.

Her hands could wait.

Femi could not.

Candi learned later that Femi could not work that night. She smiled. She did not know Daemon remained outside the clinic room while the burns were treated because Femi would not let him enter.

She did not know he stood with his back against the wall and listened to every movement beyond the door. She did not know the Devil had memorized the sound of Femi’s pain. Or that it repeated one promise inside him with every passing second.

The wrong woman touched what is ours.

She will not do it again.

Candi smiled again the following morning.

Helix remained closed.

Malone had gone to collect supplies. Marta was taking Femi to a follow-up appointment, and Daemon’s motorcycle was missing from the lot. Candi entered through the employee door. She climbed the stairs and let herself into Daemon’s room. The lock had been damaged for months. No one at Helix locked interior doors.

They had never needed to.

Daemon’s room was small and nearly empty. A king-sized bed. A dresser. A table near the window. A leather jacket hung from the back of a chair beside a cleaning kit and a bottle of gun oil. The room smelled like leather, metal, smoke, and something dark that belonged only to him.

Candi closed her eyes and breathed it in.

She removed her clothes. Then she crawled beneath the blankets and arranged herself against Daemon’s pillow. She imagined how he might react when he found her there. Perhaps he would be angry. Candi understood anger. Anger could be turned. She only needed him close enough. The door opened. Candi rolled onto her side with a slow smile.

It was not Daemon.

Femi stood in the doorway carrying fresh towels and folded sheets. Her burned hand was bandaged. A white dressing covered the top of her foot beneath an open sandal. She saw Candi in Daemon’s bed. Shock broke across her face. There. At last. The reaction Candi had wanted.

Femi’s green eyes moved over Candi’s bare shoulders, the sheets gathered at her waist, and the blond strand of hair Candi had deliberately placed against Daemon’s pillow.

Candi turned onto her stomach as though Femi had awakened her.

“What?”

Femi did not move.

Candi allowed sleepiness to enter her voice.

“Daemon likes clean sheets after.”

The lie landed. Femi’s fingers tightened around the towels.

Candi rested her chin against Daemon’s pillow.

“Close the door when you leave.”

For one moment, Femi looked unbearably young. Then the shock disappeared. Her face became empty. She lowered the clean sheets onto the chair beside the door. Turned. And walked away. The door closed softly behind her. Candi smiled into Daemon’s pillow. She believed she had won.

She did not understand that the Devil was already returning to Helix.

Malone was in his office reviewing security footage when he saw Candi enter the clubhouse.

The cameras had been installed years earlier to protect Helix from police raids, dishonest employees, and customers who remembered fights differently once lawyers became involved. Malone reviewed the recordings after every serious incident.

The skillet had been serious. Femi’s hands were bandaged. Her foot had blistered badly enough that the clinic ordered her to stay off it for several days. Candi claimed Femi dropped the pan. Malone wanted to see for himself. He was halfway through the kitchen recording when movement on the live monitor caught his attention.

Candi entered through the employee door. Malone looked at the timestamp.

10:47 a.m.

She was not scheduled until six. He leaned closer. Candi looked around the empty clubhouse before climbing the stairs. The upstairs camera followed her along the hall. She stopped outside Daemon’s room.

Tried the handle. Entered. Malone frowned. Several minutes later, Femi appeared at the opposite end of the hallway carrying folded sheets and fresh towels against her chest.

One foot remained inside an open sandal because of the burn. She moved slowly. Carefully. Femi reached Daemon’s door and knocked. No answer. She pushed it open. Then stopped. Malone watched shock move across her face. It was followed by something quieter.

Pain.

Femi backed out of the room.

The clean linens trembled in her hands. She placed them on the chair beside the door, turned, and walked away before the camera could catch more than the side of her face. Malone’s hands clenched. He switched cameras. The angle inside Daemon’s room had been disabled years earlier out of respect for privacy, but the hall camera showed Candi emerging a minute later wrapped in one of Daemon’s sheets.

She looked directly toward the stairs where Femi had disappeared.

Then she smiled.

“Son of a bitch.”

Malone rewound the footage. He watched it again. Then he went back another day. Candi entered Daemon’s room at 9:12 p.m. Daemon was visible on another camera sitting downstairs in his corner.

At 9:19, Femi entered the hall with towels.

At 9:20, Candi stepped from the room, fastening the top of her costume.

Malone went back another night. Candi emerged carrying her shoes. Another. She wiped the corner of her mouth while Femi watched. Another. She adjusted her skirt.

For two weeks, Candi had staged the same lie. Malone abandoned the upstairs footage and returned to the kitchen incident. He watched Femi standing at the stove. Watched Candi approach from behind. Watched both hands strike Femi between the shoulder blades.

The skillet fell.

Grease spread across Femi’s hands and exposed foot.

The recording captured Daemon reaching the kitchen first. For one second, his gaze settled on Candi. Malone had seen that expression before. Men usually did not survive it. Then Daemon saw Femi and forgot Candi existed. Malone watched himself kneel beside the girl he had begun thinking of as his daughter long before he possessed the courage to use the word. Candi threw up her hands.

“She should watch what she’s doing.”

Malone listened to the contempt in her voice.

“Damn, Malone. That almost got on me.”

His jaw tightened. He went back farther. One recording. Then another. By the sixth, Malone understood that the kitchen had not been the beginning. He increased the volume. Femi stood alone in the clubhouse wiping tables.

Candi entered from the stage.

“So you’re the dumb one.”

Malone became very still.

“You can’t be very smart if you’re working for Malone. Or are you sucking him off for the job?”

Femi continued cleaning.

Candi followed her.

“You think because you’re fucking that old geezer, you matter? You don’t.”

Malone watched Candi shove Femi into the table. The bucket overturned. Femi struck her hip against the edge. Candi laughed and walked away. Malone closed his eyes. He had been in the building that morning. Twenty feet away in his office. Femi had cleaned the water, entered the kitchen, and cooked breakfast without telling anyone what happened.

She had protected Candi’s cruelty with her silence. Not because Candi deserved protection. Because Femi had learned that surviving harm was safer than reporting it. Malone forced himself to continue. He found Candi speaking to dancers near the stage while Femi stocked the bar. Candi attempted to draw them into the cruelty.

“She thinks she owns the place now.”

One dancer shrugged.

“She works harder than all of us.”

“She doesn’t do anything but follow Malone around.”

“She cooks.”

“She can’t even talk.”

“So?”

Candi rolled her eyes.

“Malone is screwing her anyway, so what does it matter? She’ll be gone by next week.”

Candi laughed. The others did not. Mary, one of Helix’s waitresses, looked toward the office.

“Malone claims her as his daughter, Candi. I’d be careful saying things like that.”

“Malone can’t do a damn thing.” Candi crossed her arms. “Daemon will protect me.”

The women stared at her. Then one shook her head. Another walked away. Mary looked toward Femi, who appeared not to have heard.

“I don’t think you understand Daemon,” Mary said.

Candi laughed again. Malone stopped the recording. For several seconds, he sat in the dark office with his hands braced against the desk.

Then he saw Daemon enter Helix on the live monitor.

Daemon knew something was wrong before the door closed behind him. Femi’s scent lingered near the bar. Strawberries. Bread. The faint medicinal sharpness of the ointment the clinic had used on her burns.

But she was gone. Beneath it lay another scent. Artificial sugar. Heavy flowers. The wrong woman.

The Devil rose immediately.

She was here.

Daemon looked toward the bar. Femi was not there. His gaze moved toward the stairs. The wrong scent was stronger there.

Upstairs.

Daemon placed one boot on the first step.

Malone left the office before he could climb another.

“Daemon.”

Daemon stopped.

“What?”

“My office.”

“I’m going upstairs.”

Our room.

“I know.”

Something in Malone’s voice made Daemon turn.

“Now.”

The Devil pressed against his skin.

The wrong woman entered our room.

Daemon followed Malone into the office. Malone closed the door and locked it. Daemon looked at the monitors.

“What happened?”

“Sit.”

“No.”

The Devil did not want stillness. It wanted the stairs. The room.

Candi.

Remove her scent.

Malone did not argue. He pressed play. Daemon watched Candi enter his room. His expression did not change. The Devil’s did.

It recoiled behind his eyes.

Wrong.

Then Femi appeared in the hall carrying fresh sheets.

The Devil went still.

Little ghost.

She opened the door. Froze. Backed away. Daemon stopped breathing. The pain crossing her face lasted less than a second. It was enough. The Devil surged through him with a snarl.

She hurt our little ghost.

“What was in my room?”

Malone switched to the next recording.

Candi exited in a partially fastened costume. Then another. Her shoes in her hand. Another. Her thumb wiping her mouth. Daemon’s frown deepened with every scene.

The Devil understood before Malone spoke.

Lies.

Candi had filled his room with the wrong scent and made Femi believe it belonged there.

Nothing about her belongs there.

Malone played the audio from the clubhouse. Daemon listened as Candi called Femi dumb.

The Devil pressed closer.

Take her tongue.

Daemon listened to the accusation about Malone. Watched Candi shove Femi into the table.

The Devil’s fury sharpened.

Her hands.

Then came the kitchen footage. Daemon watched those hands strike Femi’s back. Watched the pan fall. Watched grease splash across Femi’s skin.

His fingers curled slowly against the edge of Malone’s desk.

Break them.

By the time Mary’s warning played, the room felt colder.

“Malone can’t do a damn thing. Daemon will protect me.”

Candi’s laughter filled the office.

The Devil’s disgust turned almost curious.

Protect her?

Daemon stared at the screen. The Devil remembered a hallway. A frightened woman. A stalker waiting outside her apartment. Red asking for a favor. They had protected Candi once. Not because she belonged to them. Because someone dangerous had chosen her as prey, and Daemon had been sent to end it. That was all.

She was nothing.

Malone stopped the recording. Daemon stared at the black screen. Now he understood. For exactly two weeks, Femi had ridden behind him on his motorcycle. She had allowed him to open doors for her.

She had accepted his help. Not often. Not easily. But she had begun choosing him. The Devil had treasured every concession. Every nod. Every shy smile.

Every moment her arms tightened around Daemon’s waist.

She chose us.

Femi repaired things around Helix whenever she was not cooking, cleaning, or waiting tables. She fixed loose hinges, uneven chairs, broken drawer handles, and anything else that yielded to patience. One evening, she approached Daemon’s corner with a folded note.

She held it out to him without meeting his eyes.

The bathroom door lock is broken. Beneath it, she had written: I cannot fix it. Will you try?

Daemon had stared at the note far too long. Femi had asked him for help. Not Malone. Not Marta. Him.

The Devil had purred for hours.

Our little ghost asked us.

Daemon spent four hours replacing the entire lock because repairing the old one had not seemed sufficient. He remained there until two in the morning, testing the door repeatedly to ensure no one could force it open.

The following week, he found Femi trying to hang new curtains. She stood on the tips of her toes at the edge of a chair, reaching for a rod several inches beyond her grasp. The chair shifted. Femi fell. Daemon caught her before she hit the floor. For one terrifying second, she lay inside his arms with her black hair spilling across him and her green eyes wide.

The Devil had gone perfectly still.

We have her.

Daemon expected panic.

Instead, Femi blinked. Then smiled. Tiny. Embarrassed.

She trusts us.

Daemon placed her on her feet and asked if he could finish hanging the curtains. She nodded. He did not lecture her. Did not turn the fall into proof that she was helpless. Things had been going well. Then Femi stopped. She still brought his drinks. Still nodded when he asked a question. But she no longer remained beside his table. The openness vanished from her face whenever she saw him. That soft shimmer in her eyes disappeared.

She refused every offer of a ride. When Daemon attempted to help her move crates in the storeroom, Femi shook her head and dragged them herself.

The Devil had grown restless.

She is leaving us.

Daemon had told himself she needed distance. That morning, she had refused to let him repair the broken shelf. He thought she had heard something about him. Perhaps someone told her what he did for the Silent Order. Perhaps she finally understood how many bodies belonged to his hands and decided he was too dangerous to allow close. Daemon had been preparing himself to accept that.

All the while, it had been Candi. A staged bedroom. Two weeks of lies. And Femi had believed them because asking Daemon whether another woman shared his bed would have required a courage she did not yet possess.

The Devil stared through him at the frozen screen.

She thinks we chose the wrong woman.

Pain opened beneath Daemon’s ribs.

“What are we doing, Malone?”

The question came through clenched teeth.

Malone watched Daemon’s reflection in the dark monitor.

“What do you want to do?”

“Break every bone in her hands.”

Slowly.

“No.”

“She burned Femi.”

“I saw.”

“She shoved her.”

“I saw that too.”

“She used my name to do it.”

“That bothers you more?”

Daemon turned toward him.

“No.”

The Devil answered with him.

She hurt our little ghost.

Malone held his gaze.

“If you touch Candi now, Femi will believe this happened because of her.”

Daemon’s anger faltered.

The Devil did not.

It did.

“She will think she caused it,” Malone continued. “She’ll blame herself for Candi getting hurt. Then she’ll decide the safest thing for everyone is to disappear.”

The Devil stopped.

Its fury recoiled from a single word.

Disappear.

Daemon looked toward the office window. The bar remained empty.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“She thinks like that?”

“Yes.”

The Devil became agitated.

No.

That settled heavily between them.

Malone returned his attention to the monitor.

“Femi has survived by making herself responsible for everyone else’s cruelty. We will not help her continue.”

Daemon’s fingers opened slowly.

The Devil resisted.

The wrong woman deserves pain.

And Femi deserved to remain.

The answer silenced it.

“What are we doing?” Daemon asked again.

This time, the words were controlled.

Malone leaned against the desk.

“We catch Candi.”

“We already have her on video.”

“We have enough to fire her. Enough to ban her.”

“Then do it.”

“That will stop her from entering Helix. It won’t stop her from approaching Femi on the street. And it won’t prove what she told Femi about you.”

Daemon looked at the footage of Candi leaving his room.

The Devil bristled.

She put lies in our bed.

“She’ll deny it.”

“Of course.”

“She’ll say she slept there alone.”

“Yes.”

“She’ll say Femi misunderstood.”

“Yes.”

Daemon’s face hardened.

“What do you suggest?”

Malone looked toward the stage through the office window.

“Candi performs tonight.”

“Not anymore.”

No.

“She thinks she does.”

Daemon became still.

Malone continued.

“We let her come in. We let her dance. Afterward, you invite her to your table.”

“No.”

The Devil reacted with immediate disgust.

We do not call that woman to us.

“You asked for a plan.”

“I won’t touch her.”

“You won’t have to.”

“I won’t let her touch me.”

Her scent is wrong.

“That part may be difficult.”

Daemon’s stare became murderous.

Malone almost smiled.

“You want the truth?” Malone asked. “Candi believes she has won. She thinks Femi has stepped aside and that you are waiting to reward her.”

The Devil surged forward.

Femi does not step aside.

Daemon glanced toward the stairs.

“She crawled into my bed.”

“Yes.”

Burn it.

“I’m burning those sheets.”

“I assumed.”

“The mattress too.”

The room.

“Focus.”

Daemon looked at him.

“You give Candi what she has wanted for three years,” Malone said. “Your attention.”

“No.”

Never.

“Not your body. Not affection. Attention.”

“And then?”

“You tell her Femi has been avoiding you. Ask Candi how she managed it.”

“She won’t answer.”

“She will.”

“Why?”

“Because women like Candi cannot enjoy victory unless someone knows they caused it.”

Daemon considered this.

The Devil studied the frozen image of Candi laughing with the dancers.

Let her boast.

Malone pressed a control.

The image returned.

“Daemon will protect me.”

“She wants you to know what she did for you,” Malone said. “All you have to do is let her talk.”

The Devil’s fury settled into something colder.

Then let her confess.

“Where is Femi?”

“Marta is taking her to the clinic and then to lunch. She will not be here.”

“You’re not using her as bait.”

The Devil agreed instantly.

Never.

“No.”

“Mary?”

“Working behind the bar. She already knows enough to keep her distance.”

“Cameras?”

“Every one recording. I’ll place another microphone beneath your table.”

Daemon looked at his corner. The place where Femi brought his whiskey. Where she sometimes lingered. Where her scent remained after she walked away.

The Devil resented the thought of Candi occupying the chair beside him.

That place is not hers.

No.

It never had been.

“If Candi admits it?”

“She is fired. Banned from Helix. Every club owner in Wolfwater receives the recordings before midnight.”

“And Femi?”

“We tell her the truth.”

Immediately.

“We show her the footage?”

“If she wants to see it. That choice belongs to her.”

Daemon’s gaze returned to the dark monitor.

“She thought Candi was in my bed.”

“Yes.”

“She thinks I invited her there.”

“Yes.”

The words appeared to wound him more than the insults or the burns.

Malone saw it.

The Devil did too.

No one belongs in our bed.

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil’s voice lowered.

Only the little ghost.

“You have not promised Femi anything,” Malone said.

“I know.”

“You are not together.”

“I know.”

“You don’t owe her an account of every woman who has been in your bed.”

Daemon looked at him.

“Candi hasn’t.”

“I know.”

“Femi doesn’t.”

“No.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“I want her to.”

The Devil pressed against the words.

She must know.

Not because Femi belonged to them. Because she deserved the truth.

Malone nodded.

“Then help me make certain she hears it from Candi.”

Silence settled in the office.

Daemon watched the frozen image on the screen. Candi smiling. Certain. Cruel.

“What do I say?” he asked.

Malone almost laughed.

“You’ve killed men for a living, but talking to one dancer concerns you?”

“I am not concerned.”

We do not want to speak to her.

“Of course not.”

“What do I say?”

“After her routine, signal her over.”

“She already comes.”

The Devil snarled softly.

Uninvited.

“Good. Let her sit. Tell her Femi will no longer look at you.”

“And?”

“Ask whether Candi knows why.”

“That’s the plan?”

“She will do the rest.”

“You are very certain.”

“I have owned a bar for twelve years. People confess things for free when they believe the truth makes them impressive.”

Daemon looked toward the door.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then mention your room.”

The gray in Daemon’s eyes turned to steel.

“Say Femi found something there. Ask Candi whether it was meant for her.”

“And she will boast.”

“Yes.”

The Devil curled closer inside him.

Then we listen.

Daemon pushed away from the desk. Malone caught his arm before he reached the door. Daemon looked down at the hand.

“You do not hurt her.”

“She burned Femi.”

She deserves worse.

“I know.”

“She called her—”

“I heard.”

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“You are asking me to sit beside the woman who did that and do nothing.”

“I’m asking you to choose what protects Femi instead of what satisfies your anger.”

The words stopped him. The Devil resisted. Then it remembered Femi walking away from Daemon’s room. The linens trembling in her bandaged hands. The pain she had hidden before the camera could fully capture it.

Protect the little ghost.

Malone released his arm.

“You want Candi punished?” he asked. “Let every woman in Wolfwater know what she did. Let every club know she assaulted another worker and used a man’s room to torment her. Let Candi discover what happens when no stage will take her and no dressing room will open.”

The Devil considered the punishment. No rooms. No stage. No audience. Candi wanted to be watched. They would make certain no one looked at her again.

Take everything.

Daemon remained by the door.

“And if she approaches Femi afterward?”

Malone’s expression became cold.

“Then I will not stop you.”

The Devil became very quiet.

Good.

Daemon opened the office door.

Malone called after him.

“Where are you going?”

“To buy a mattress.”

Despite himself, Malone laughed.

Daemon stopped in the doorway.

“Seven tonight?”

“Seven.”

“And Femi will not be here.”

“She’ll be with Marta.”

The Devil relaxed slightly.

Safe.

Daemon nodded.

He looked once toward the stairs.

For two weeks, he had believed Femi’s retreat was a decision he had no right to challenge. Now he knew someone had built fear between them and used his silence to hold it in place.

Tonight, Daemon would give Candi exactly what she wanted. He would look at her. The Devil recoiled.

Wrong woman.

He would listen.

Only until she confesses.

He would let her believe the Devil had finally chosen her.

The thought drew something cold and amused from the darkness inside him.

We chose long ago.

And when Candi confessed, Malone would take everything else. The stage. The work. The protection she had stolen Daemon’s name to claim. Candi would learn the difference between receiving the Devil’s attention and belonging to it.

His attention could be a trap.

His choice belonged elsewhere.

To our little ghost.

At six o’clock, Helix was packed.

Music pounded through the clubhouse hard enough to shake the bottles behind the bar. Every table was occupied. Men stood shoulder to shoulder near the pool tables while servers moved through the crowd carrying drinks above their heads.

Daemon entered and immediately searched for Femi. Behind the bar. Near the kitchen. At the service window. His eyes passed over every small, dark-haired woman in the room before accepting that she was not there.

The Devil searched with him.

Where is our little ghost?

“With Marta.”

Find her.

“She is safe.”

Malone had kept his word. Femi was with Marta. Safe. Daemon should have been relieved. Instead, her absence made the clubhouse feel wrong.

The Devil disliked it more.

She should be here.

Daemon’s gaze settled on the stage.

Candi performed beneath the red lights.

She moved around the pole while the men below watched with complete attention. Her costume revealed more with every turn. Hands struck tables. Money landed near her feet.

Daemon looked away.

The Devil dismissed her immediately.

Wrong woman.

The possessive thought came before Daemon could stop it. No woman of his would remove her clothes for other men. The Devil corrected him.

Our woman.

Femi was not theirs.

Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

She belonged entirely to herself, and Daemon knew better than most men what happened when someone mistook wanting for ownership. Still, he could not imagine Femi on that stage. Could not imagine her allowing a roomful of strangers to see what she protected beneath long sleeves and careful distance. The thought of those men looking at her made something primitive shift inside him.

The Devil rose with it.

Take their eyes.

Daemon buried the impulse.

Femi was not there.

No one was looking at her.

They would if she were.

“She would leave.”

Then we would follow.

Daemon crossed the clubhouse and took his usual seat in the darkest corner. The microphone Malone had installed beneath the table was invisible. A fresh recorder waited in the office. Every camera in Helix was running. Daemon placed both hands on the table and watched the front doors.

The Devil remained fixed on the same question.

When does she return?

“Nine.”

Too long.

Seven o’clock arrived.

Candi’s routine ended. The music changed, and men shouted as she gathered the bills scattered across the stage. She bowed, smiled, and disappeared behind the curtain. Daemon continued looking toward the entrance. Part of him expected Femi to appear despite Malone’s promise. He imagined her walking through the door beside Marta, green eyes finding him across the room.

She did not come.

The Devil shifted restlessly.

Bring her back.

“We need Candi to speak first.”

The name drew immediate disgust.

Wrong scent.

“We need information.”

The Devil quieted.

Not pleased.

Interested.

Then make her talk.

Several minutes later, Candi emerged from the dressing room wearing a short red dress. Her gaze searched the packed clubhouse. Daemon lifted two fingers toward the bar. Malone poured a Jack on the rocks and carried it over himself. He placed the glass in front of Daemon and leaned close enough that the microphone would not catch him.

“Try to look interested,” Malone murmured. “You look like you’re waiting for an execution.”

Daemon glanced at him.

“I am.”

The Devil approved.

After she tells us everything.

Malone’s mouth twitched.

“That expression,” he said louder, “is why women find you irresistible.”

Daemon smirked.

Candi reached the table in time to hear the last sentence. She laughed as though Malone had included her in the joke.

“I could tell you why women find him irresistible.”

“I’m sure you could,” Malone said.

His eyes met Daemon’s. Then he returned to the bar. Candi slid into the chair beside Daemon. Not across from him. Beside him. The chair Femi sometimes occupied after closing.

The Devil bristled.

That is the little ghost’s place.

Her thigh pressed against his.

Daemon forced himself not to move away.

The Devil recoiled inside him.

Wrong.

We need her confession.

Then take it quickly.

“You kept looking at the door,” Candi said. “What are you waiting for?”

Daemon lifted his whiskey.

“Femi no longer talks to me.”

Candi’s expression brightened before she concealed it.

The Devil noticed.

She is pleased.

“Talk?” Candi sneered. “She can’t talk anyway.”

Daemon took a drink.

The Devil’s voice lowered.

She speaks to us.

Candi leaned closer.

“You need someone who can make all the noise you want.”

The Devil rejected the suggestion before she finished.

We need the one who speaks with her hands.

Her voice dropped into the sultry tone she used after performances. One painted fingernail touched the tattoo along Daemon’s forearm and traced it toward his rolled sleeve. Disgust threatened to move through him.

Remove her hand.

Daemon thought of Femi. Her fingertips correcting his hands when he formed a sign incorrectly. Her arms settling around his waist on the motorcycle. The tiny smile she had given him in the Eastgate dressing room. The memory allowed him to remain still beneath Candi’s touch.

The Devil endured it with him.

Information first.

Candi mistook his silence for interest. She always had. Daemon looked toward the front door again.

“I found something in my room.”

Her fingernail stopped.

The Devil leaned closer.

Now.

“What?”

“Something that didn’t belong to me.”

Candi smiled.

“How do you know? Maybe the mute girl has been stealing from you.”

The Devil surged forward.

Her name.

Daemon’s steel-gray eyes shifted toward her.

“You can’t trust people like that,” Candi continued. “Malone dragged her in from the street. Who knows what she was doing out there?”

The Devil’s anger became almost too large to contain.

She survived.

Daemon knew what Femi had been doing. Sleeping beneath a bridge. Searching trash for food. Fighting to remain alive while the city stepped over her. He kept his expression empty.

“They were red.”

Candi’s smile widened.

“So you found them.”

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil listened.

More.

“That was a message from me, honey.” She laughed and cuddled into his arm. “I left you something special so you could think about me. I was wondering how long it would take you to find them.”

A pair of red panties. Left in his room for Femi to discover. Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil understood the purpose immediately.

She wanted our little ghost to believe we touched her.

“Do you like them?” Candi asked. “I knew you would.”

Her hand slid higher along his arm.

The Devil recoiled.

Burn them.

They are evidence.

Then burn them later.

“That dumb fucking mute can’t do for you what I can.”

Across the clubhouse, Malone stopped wiping the bar. Mary lowered her gaze and continued filling drink orders. The cameras recorded. Daemon lifted his glass.

The Devil snarled inside him.

Break her mouth.

Not yet.

Make her say everything.

“She has been avoiding me,” Daemon said.

Candi laughed.

“Good.”

The Devil became still.

Why?

Daemon asked it aloud.

“Why?”

The question sounded almost indifferent.

Candi heard an invitation.

“She acts like she runs this place. I can’t stand her. She’s always in your room, carrying sheets and cleaning things no one asked her to clean.”

Candi rolled her eyes.

“You should tell her to stop. Tell her to stay away from you.”

The Devil’s response was immediate.

Never.

Daemon kept his face unreadable.

“Why?”

“Because she thinks she belongs here.”

“Doesn’t she?”

She belongs wherever she chooses.

Candi stared at him. After a moment, she laughed as though he could not possibly be serious.

“I know you were only being nice to that fucking mutt Malone picked up.”

The Devil rose so abruptly that Daemon’s vision sharpened.

Her name is Femi.

Her fingers resumed tracing his tattoo.

“So I made sure she wouldn’t bother you again.”

The Devil wanted her hand gone. Wanted every finger that had touched Femi broken.

But underneath the violence ran a colder purpose.

Ask how.

Daemon set down the whiskey.

“How?”

Candi leaned closer. She lowered her voice as though sharing something intimate.

“She saw me leaving your room for almost two weeks.”

The muscle in Daemon’s jaw jumped. The Devil became silent. Not calm. Listening.

“I made sure she saw me,” Candi continued proudly. “I fixed my clothes. Carried my shoes. Wiped my mouth once.”

She laughed at the memory.

“You should have seen her face.”

Daemon had seen it. On Malone’s monitor. Femi standing in the hallway with fresh linens trembling in her bandaged hands. Pain breaking across her face before she forced it empty.

The Devil remembered too.

She made our little ghost hurt.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the glass. Candi pressed her body along his arm.

“So you don’t have anything to worry about. She won’t be bothering you again.”

The Devil’s possessiveness turned savage.

Femi never bothers us.

“What did you tell her?”

“Oh, nothing at first. I didn’t need to.” Candi smiled. “She believed exactly what I wanted.”

“And after?”

Candi shrugged.

“I told her you liked clean sheets afterward.”

The glass creaked inside Daemon’s hand.

The Devil pressed against his restraint.

Enough.

Daemon released the glass before it broke. Not yet. They needed everything. The Devil understood. Barely.

Then ask faster.

“If it were up to me, she wouldn’t work here at all,” Candi continued. “But she’s fucking that old geezer Malone, so he lets her do anything she wants.”

At the bar, Malone’s face went cold.

Candi did not look toward him.

“I hate that stupid-ass mute,” she said. “I don’t understand why anyone puts up with her. She should die.”

Daemon became very quiet. The Devil stopped whispering. For one breath, there was nothing inside him but the image of Candi’s throat beneath his hand. Then the voice returned. Calm. Terrible.

We have enough.

Across the room, Malone gave no signal. Not yet. The Devil followed his gaze. Saw Malone waiting. Understood.

More information.

Candi mistook Daemon’s stillness for agreement. She always mistook silence for whatever pleased her most.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered near his ear. “Let me show you what a real woman is like.”

She pressed herself against him.

The Devil recoiled from her scent.

Wrong woman.

“I bet I can blow your mind, Daemon. The mute can’t say that.”

Her lips brushed the edge of his hair.

The Devil’s disgust deepened.

The little ghost does not need a voice to undo us.

“I’m beautiful. Sexy. Everything you could want in a woman. Say the word and I’ll spread these lush thighs for you, and you’ll never look at that ugly mute child again.”

The words were familiar. The things women said when they wanted access to his bed, his protection, or the danger attached to his name. Once, Daemon would have accepted the offer. Not because he wanted the woman. Because he wanted to feel something. Now he felt too much. Revulsion. Anger. A murderous tenderness for someone who was not even in the room.

The Devil curled possessively around the memory of strawberries and quiet green eyes.

There is only Femi.

Candi kept talking.

Daemon allowed it.

The Devil listened with him.

She told him how she had whispered about Femi to the other dancers. How she claimed Malone was sleeping with her. How she tried to convince the waitresses to stop helping her.

“Mary acts like she’s some poor little angel,” Candi complained. “She told me Malone calls Femi his daughter. Like that means anything.”

“What did you say?”

“That Malone couldn’t touch me because you would protect me.” Candi smiled up at him. “You will, won’t you?”

The Devil’s amusement was dark and without warmth.

She still believes that.

Daemon stared at her. Candi saw whatever answer she wanted. She continued. She described the morning she found Femi cleaning alone. How she called her dumb. How Femi refused to look at her.

“She thinks ignoring people makes her better than them.”

The Devil almost sounded pleased.

Our little ghost dismissed her.

“What happened to the bucket?” Daemon asked.

Candi blinked.

Then laughed.

“Oh, that.”

Her hand settled on his thigh.

The Devil snarled.

Endure.

“I gave her a little push. She hit the table and spilled it everywhere.”

“You pushed her.”

“Barely.”

“She bruised her hip.”

“She bruises easily.”

The Devil catalogued the confession.

The table. Her hip. Both hands.

Daemon cracked one knuckle beneath the table. Candi heard it and smiled. She believed she excited him.

“What about the kitchen?”

“That was her fault.”

Daemon waited. The Devil waited with him.

Fill the silence.

Candi rolled her eyes.

“All right. I gave her a little push.”

His face emptied.

“Not hard. She stumbled into the stove and dropped the skillet. I didn’t know the grease would get all over her.”

“She was burned.”

“And she got the night off.” Candi laughed. “I almost wish it had been worse. Maybe Malone would finally stop letting her cook.”

Daemon’s hand closed into a fist. Pain moved through his knuckles. He welcomed it. The Devil did not.

Her hands burned. Her foot blistered. And this woman laughs.

Across the room, Malone gave no signal. Not yet. So Daemon remained seated.

The Devil fought for patience.

How much more?

As much as she knows.

Then take every secret.

Candi talked for an hour. Once she began, she seemed incapable of stopping. Every question Daemon asked opened another door. Every silence encouraged her to fill it. The Devil listened. Remembered. Counted.

She spoke of hiding Femi’s order pad.

The pad.

Sending customers to tables Femi had already cleaned so they would blame her for the mess.

The tables.

Telling new employees that Femi stole tips.

The lie.

Persuading two dancers to laugh whenever Femi attempted to sign.

The Devil’s fury deepened.

Names.

Neither had continued after Marta noticed. Candi described each act as though it were clever. As though cruelty became charming when accompanied by laughter. Then she reached her favorite memory.

“There was this one time…”

She placed her hand over Daemon’s. The Devil recoiled.

“Oh, God. You should have seen it. I came out of your room pulling on my panties.”

Her laughter became a giggle.

“Femi stood there holding your laundry. The look on her face…” Candi leaned against him. “That’s what she gets for believing she belongs here. It was so funny.”

Daemon looked at her hand covering his. He thought of Femi leaving his fresh linens outside the door. Her refusal to ride with him. The way the light vanished from her eyes whenever he approached.

The Devil’s voice dropped to a whisper.

She believed we chose this.

Daemon removed Candi’s hand. Not violently. That required every piece of control he possessed. She immediately reached for him again. Daemon caught her wrist. His grip remained careful. The same care he had failed to use the first time he stopped Femi beside his table.

The Devil pressed against his fingers.

Break it now.

Wait.

We have the truth.

Malone still had to close the trap.

Candi smiled.

“You finally ready?”

“No.”

Something in his voice altered her expression. Daemon released her. Candi glanced toward the bar. Malone was approaching. The music continued. Customers laughed. No one beyond the nearest tables understood that the night had changed.

The Devil did.

Now.

Malone stopped beside them and placed a small black recorder on the table. Its red light remained on. Candi stared at it.

Her smile faltered.

“What is that?”

“An hour,” Malone said. “Every word.”

The Devil settled inside Daemon with cold satisfaction.

Caught.

Candi looked at Daemon. He had gone completely still. Not the stillness of a man listening. The stillness of the Devil deciding how much mercy remained necessary.

“You recorded me?”

“Yes,” Malone said.

Candi laughed. The sound came too quickly.

“I was joking.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“It was stage talk. You know how I am.”

“I know exactly how you are now.”

Her attention snapped back to Daemon.

“Tell him.”

Daemon said nothing.

“Daemon.”

His gray eyes settled on her. Candi reached for his arm.

The Devil surged forward.

No more.

Daemon moved before she touched him.

“Don’t.”

The single word froze her.

“I did this for you.”

The Devil rejected the claim.

Liar.

“No.”

“She was bothering you.”

Never.

“No.”

“You said she stopped talking to you.”

“I wanted to know why.”

Candi looked from Daemon to the recorder. Understanding finally reached her.

“This was a setup.”

“Yes,” Malone said.

Her face twisted.

“That mute little bitch—”

Daemon stood. The chair struck the floor behind him. Nearby conversations stopped. The Devil rose with him. Candi looked up. Daemon towered over her, broad shoulders cutting off the lights behind him. His pale hair fell across his scar, but nothing concealed the violence in his eyes.

“Say her name.”

Candi’s mouth closed.

The Devil pressed behind the demand.

Her name belongs in your mouth before we remove your tongue.

“If you speak about her,” Daemon continued quietly, “you will use her name.”

Candi stood as well.

“Femi,” she spat. “Fine. Femi has everyone fooled.”

The Devil disliked the way she said it.

But she had said it.

Again.

“No,” Malone said. “She never said a word against you.”

That stopped her.

“She didn’t tell us about the insults,” he continued. “She didn’t report the rumors, the staged visits to Daemon’s room, or the first time you shoved her.”

Candi’s gaze shifted.

“The cameras did.”

“She knew what she was doing in the kitchen.”

“You confessed to that too.”

Candi looked toward the room. Mary stood behind the bar. The dancers near the stage had begun watching. Several regulars stared at Candi with open disgust. The Devil noticed every face.

They know now.

“You’re fired,” Malone said.

“You can’t fire me over a joke.”

“I can fire you because I dislike your shoes. This is my club.”

“You’ll take me back.”

“No.”

“I bring in money.”

“So does the jukebox. It causes fewer problems.”

Candi’s face reddened. Malone pointed toward the employee entrance.

“Your things will be outside in ten minutes. You are banned from Helix.”

“You think I care?”

“I think you will when every club in Wolfwater receives copies of the kitchen footage and this confession.”

Panic entered her eyes.

The Devil savored it.

There.

“You can’t do that.”

“I can.”

“I’ll sue.”

“Please do. I would enjoy playing the recording in court.”

Candi turned toward Daemon.

“You’re going to let him do this?”

Daemon looked at her as though she had become something unpleasant beneath his boot.

“You burned Femi.”

The Devil echoed him.

You burned what is ours.

“It was an accident.”

“You pushed her.”

“She’s fine.”

The Devil snarled.

She was in pain.

“You used my room to hurt her.”

“I was trying to get her away from you.”

The Devil’s possessiveness became something ancient and violent.

Nothing takes her from us.

“Why?” Daemon asked.

Candi stared at him.

“Because I want you.”

Daemon’s expression did not change.

The Devil rejected her for the final time.

Wrong woman.

“You don’t know me.”

“You saved me.”

“Once.”

An obligation.

“I could be good for you.”

“No.”

“She can’t give you what I can.”

The Devil almost laughed. Femi gave them silence that felt like peace. A hand against his scar. Arms around his waist. Trust offered in pieces so small Daemon feared breathing too hard near them. Candi had nothing he wanted. Daemon stepped closer.

Candi attempted to hold her ground.

“What do you think I want?” he asked.

Her confidence returned by a fraction. She touched her own body. Daemon’s mouth twisted with disgust.

“You have no idea.”

The Devil knew.

Strawberries.

A quiet table after closing. Tea beside his whiskey. Green eyes finding him across a crowded room.

Our little ghost.

Candi’s face hardened.

“She’s damaged.”

“So am I.”

“She’s weak.”

“No.”

“She’s nothing.”

The Devil surged forward. Daemon leaned down until his eyes were level with hers.

“She is the only reason you are still standing.”

The Devil whispered beneath the words.

The only reason you are breathing.

The color left Candi’s face.

Malone moved between them.

“Out.”

Candi looked around the clubhouse. No one defended her. Not the men who threw money at the stage. Not the dancers who once shared her dressing room. Not Daemon. Especially not Daemon. She grabbed her coat from a chair and shoved through the crowd.

At the employee door, she turned.

“This isn’t over.”

The Devil wanted to follow.

Let us finish it.

Daemon’s voice crossed the clubhouse.

“Yes, it is.”

Candi left. The door slammed behind her. For several seconds, Helix remained silent. Then Malone lifted one hand toward the jukebox.

“Music.”

Someone restarted the song. Conversations returned slowly. The clubhouse began breathing again. Daemon looked at the recorder.

“You got everything?”

“Enough to bury her in every club from here to Eastgate.”

The Devil approved.

Make them all hear.

“Copies.”

“I’ll make them.”

“One for Femi.”

Malone studied him.

“If she wants it.”

“Yes.”

The Devil wanted Femi to hear every word. Not Candi’s cruelty. The rejection. The trap. The proof that no part of Daemon had chosen another woman. But the choice remained hers. Even the Devil understood that now. Daemon looked toward the front entrance.

“When is she coming back?”

“Nine.”

It was eight twelve.

The Devil recoiled from the time.

Forty-eight minutes.

Daemon righted the fallen chair but did not sit.

“What are you going to tell her?” Malone asked.

“The truth.”

“All of it?”

“That Candi was never in my room with me. That I never touched her. That I did not know.”

The Devil added its own truth.

That her scent was always wrong.

Malone nodded.

“And then?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“She decides what happens next.”

The Devil objected.

She comes back to us.

If she chooses.

She will.

Daemon did not possess the same certainty. Malone looked toward the recorder.

For three years, Candi had believed the Devil’s protection could be claimed through desire. She had mistaken his silence for permission. His stillness for interest. His reputation for something she could wear like jewelry.

Tonight, Daemon had looked directly at her. Not with hunger. With judgment. Yet as he stood inside the packed clubhouse, he felt no satisfaction. Candi was gone. The truth had been captured in her own voice. But Femi still believed another woman had occupied his bed. Daemon looked toward the doors again.

Forty-seven minutes.

The Devil watched with him.

Bring our little ghost home.

“She is not ours to bring.”

The answer came with unusual gentleness.

Then let her see there was never anyone else.

Daemon lowered his eyes to the recorder. That, he could do. He had waited years inside dark rooms without impatience.

Waiting for Femi had taught him how long a minute could become.

Inside him, the Devil counted every one.

Everyone at Helix knew that at nine o’clock, no matter what else was happening, Femi started cooking.

Stomachs began growling at eight fifty.

Men who had spent the evening drinking without remembering food suddenly looked toward the kitchen. Waitresses checked the clock. Harlan abandoned the pool table and claimed the stool nearest the service window.

At nine, no one heard the back door open over the music.

Daemon did. Or perhaps he only felt it.

Something beneath his skin lifted its head.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s fingers stopped against his whiskey glass. He had not seen her. Had not heard her.

But the Devil knew.

She came back.

A few minutes later, the scent of roasting meat and garlic drifted from the kitchen. Conversations faltered. Heads turned.

Someone near the pool tables shouted, “Femi’s back.”

The thing inside Daemon settled with a low, satisfied warmth.

There she is.

Marta entered the clubhouse from the rear hall and immediately found herself surrounded by dinner orders.

“Tell her I want extra potatoes.”

“Ask if she made bread.”

“Tell her no onions.”

“Tell her—”

Marta raised one hand.

“If you want something, write it down. I am not your waitress.”

“You work here.”

“I kill people here. Different position.”

The men retreated.

Daemon sat through it all in his dark corner. He knew when Femi entered Helix the way his lungs knew to take another breath. The Devil knew sooner. He saw her through the glass of the service window. Midnight hair tied away from her face. Sleeves rolled carefully above bandaged hands. Marta had probably argued with her about cooking. Femi had probably ignored every word.

Hands hurt.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Still cooking.

“I see.”

Should be resting.

“I know.”

Make her.

Daemon almost smiled.

There were apparently some things even the Devil did not understand about Femi.

Go ahead.

Silence.

Daemon took a drink.

Tell her she can’t cook.

The Devil considered this.

No.

Thought so.

Femi lifted the lid from a roasting pan. Steam clouded the window, briefly concealing her. Something inside Daemon immediately sharpened. Then the steam cleared. She was there again, seasoning potatoes. Alive. Working. Still refusing to look toward him.

The Devil quieted.

Not gone.

Watching.

She is hurt.

Daemon lowered his gaze to the whiskey beneath his hand.

“I know.”

Because of her.

Candi.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“I know.”

Should have let me break her.

“No.”

A pause.

Little ghost would not like it.

That was the only argument Daemon had discovered the Devil consistently respected.

“No.”

Still should have.

Daemon had spent the hour since Candi left rehearsing what he might say.

Candi lied.

Too abrupt.

I never touched her.

Tell her.

Too defensive.

Tell her.

I want you to know—

Tell her everything.

Shut up.

Coward.

Daemon drank. Every sentence sounded like an excuse. He ordered another whiskey. Then another. Dinner moved through Helix in bowls and heavy plates. Roasted meat. Garlic potatoes. Fresh bread with butter melting into the center. Femi remained in the kitchen while the waitresses carried everything out.

She did not bring Daemon’s plate.

The Devil noticed.

Of course it noticed.

She always brings ours.

Daemon stared toward the kitchen.

Mary appeared instead.

“Eat,” she said, setting the plate down.

Daemon looked toward the service window.

“She asked me to bring it.”

He did not believe her.

Mary’s expression softened.

“She made it for everyone.”

That was not the same thing.

The Devil understood that too.

Not ours.

Daemon picked up his fork.

“She cooked it.”

Not ours.

“Enough.”

She is angry.

“I know.”

Fix it.

Daemon stabbed a potato harder than necessary.

“I’m trying.”

Poorly.

Daemon ate anyway.

By midnight, he was five whiskeys in. By one, six. At one thirty, Femi came out of the kitchen to collect empty plates.

The Devil surged so suddenly Daemon stood.

Little ghost.

Femi moved toward another table.

Daemon sat again.

Call her.

“No.”

Call. Her.

She moved through the tables without coming near his corner. Daemon lifted one hand to summon her. Stopped. Lowered it.

The Devil snarled through his blood.

She is avoiding us.

“She has the right.”

Do not like it.

“Neither do I.”

At one forty-five, he tried again.

Femi turned toward the bar before she could see. Daemon reached into his pocket and touched the small recorder Malone had given him. Every cruel confession waited inside it.

Proof.

Truth.

Give it to her.

“I will.”

Now.

“I said I will.”

Before she decides she does not want us anymore.

Daemon went still. The Devil rarely sounded afraid. Angry. Hungry. Possessive. Violent. Never afraid.

Daemon swallowed the rest of his whiskey.

She doesn’t belong to us.

The answer came instantly.

We belong to her.

Daemon stared into the empty glass. That was considerably worse.

At two in the morning, Malone called last call.

The music lowered. Customers drained their glasses, gathered jackets, and complained as the lights brightened. Chairs scraped. Money struck the bar. The clubhouse slowly emptied into the cold night.

Daemon remained in his corner. Seven empty whiskey glasses sat on the table. Malone looked at them. Then at him. Daemon did not care. The final customer left. Harlan locked the front doors. Mary finished the register and disappeared through the employee entrance. Marta had gone upstairs twenty minutes earlier.

Femi came from the kitchen carrying a bucket. She began cleaning. Of course she did. Her hands were bandaged. Her foot was burned. She had cooked for half the clubhouse. Still, she filled a bucket and started wiping tables as though Helix would collapse if she left one ring of moisture on the wood overnight.

Take the bucket.

“She’ll stab me with the cloth.”

Take it.

“You take it.”

The Devil went silent.

Daemon almost laughed. Coward. Daemon stood. Femi moved to the next table.

He approached.

Stopped.

Go.

Turned away.

Daemon.

He tried again. Malone watched from behind the bar. Daemon looked toward him. Malone understood. He entered his office and closed the door. No audience. No rescue unless Femi asked for one.

Daemon waited until she finished the table.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi’s hand paused.

The Devil went utterly still.

“I didn’t know she was in my room.”

Her fingers tightened around the cloth.

“I didn’t know she was hurting you, Femi.”

Tell her we would have stopped it.

Daemon swallowed.

Tell her.

“She would never have gotten that far if I’d known.”

Femi remained still for a moment. Then continued wiping. Daemon’s chest tightened. He took one step closer. Not enough to crowd her.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Femi’s shoulders stiffened.

The Devil struck immediately.

Wrong.

Daemon regretted the question at the same moment. It placed responsibility in her hands.

Again.

“No,” he said. “That was wrong.”

Femi looked at him.

“I should have asked why you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

Her hands rose slowly.

It is not my place to question.

Daemon watched the signs. She had taught him enough that he understood without asking her to write.

You do what you want with whoever you want.

Something dark recoiled inside him.

No.

“Femi.”

She lowered her hands and returned to the table. Daemon remembered the trust that had begun opening between them. The broken bathroom lock. The curtains. Her arms around him on the motorcycle. The shy note asking for his help.

Then Candi leaving his room. Fixing her costume. Carrying her shoes. Pulling on her panties. Every lie designed for Femi’s eyes. The Devil saw those memories too.

Its rage was colder now.

She made our little ghost believe we chose her.

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

Yes.

She made her hurt.

Yes.

Let me—

No.

Just once.

No.

Femi signed again.

This is your place.

Her hand moved toward Malone’s office.

Malone’s place.

Then she touched her own chest and shook her head.

Not mine.

The Devil erupted.

NO.

Daemon nearly flinched from the force of it.

Hers.

“This is your place, Femi.”

She looked away.

“No one has the right to make you feel otherwise.”

Femi stared at the wet cloth in her hand.

“Not Candi.”

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“Not me.”

Her green eyes returned to him.

“You belong here because you chose to stay. Because you work here. Because Malone—”

He glanced toward the office.

“Because Malone would burn the building down before he let anyone drive you out of it.”

We would burn more than the building.

Daemon ignored that. A tiny movement touched Femi’s mouth. Not a smile. Close.

The Devil softened instantly.

There.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

Do it again.

Apparently he was taking romantic advice from a homicidal voice in his head now. Wonderful. Daemon reached into his jacket. Femi stiffened. He stopped. Slowly, he removed the recorder and placed it on the table between them.

“Candi talked for an hour.”

Femi looked at it.

“She thought I wanted to hear what she did.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“So we let her talk.”

Wanted to tear her throat out.

Femi did not reach for the recorder.

“You don’t have to listen.”

Her gaze lifted.

“But if you want the truth, it’s there.”

Daemon pushed it toward her.

“I was never in that room with her.”

Femi became still.

“Not once.”

Tell her.

The clubhouse seemed to hold its breath around them.

“She used my room because she knew you carried the linens. She wanted you to see her.”

Femi’s eyes dropped to the recorder.

“I did not touch her.”

Daemon remembered Candi’s hands tracing his tattoo. The feel of her body pressed along his arm. He would not build another lie inside an attempted truth.

“Tonight, I let her sit beside me. I let her touch my arm because Malone was recording.”

The Devil snarled at the memory.

Smelled wrong.

Daemon nearly sighed.

“I hated every second.”

Femi looked at him again.

“I asked questions. She confessed.”

Daemon stepped away from the table.

He wanted to reach for her.

Did not.

The Devil did.

Touch her.

“No.”

Femi blinked.

Daemon realized he had answered aloud.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Not you.”

Her brows lifted.

“Long story.”

That almost-smile returned.

The Devil purred.

Pretty.

Daemon ignored it.

“I should have noticed sooner.”

Femi shook her head.

“I should have.”

Another shake.

“Then we can disagree.”

That almost-smile appeared again.

Faded.

Daemon looked toward the recorder.

“What you do with it is your choice.”

He turned toward the stairs.

Do not leave.

He kept walking.

Daemon.

Only the soft tap of Femi’s fingers against the table stopped him.

He looked back.

Her hand rested beside the recorder.

Why did you care?

The question was small. Carefully formed. Daemon stared at it. Seven whiskeys stripped away several useful lies.

The Devil whispered only one thing.

Truth.

“Because it was you.”

Femi’s hands lowered.

The Devil hummed beneath his ribs.

Our little ghost.

Daemon left before the alcohol—or the thing inside him—made him say more than she was ready to hear.

Femi continued working.

She placed the recorder inside her pocket and wiped the remaining tables. She emptied the bucket, cleaned the sink, returned the bottles beneath the bar, and swept the kitchen floor. Malone emerged from his office when she finished.

He did not ask what Daemon said.

He checked the front doors, switched off the jukebox, and followed her through the clubhouse while she extinguished the lights one section at a time.

Darkness reclaimed Helix.

At the foot of the stairs, Malone paused.

“Get some sleep, Femi.”

She nodded.

“Tomorrow, you are not cooking.”

Femi lifted one hand.

“That was not a request.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Malone pointed toward the bandages.

“Clinic’s orders.”

Femi signed something rude.

“I understood that.”

She smiled faintly. Malone watched until she entered her room. Then he went to his. Femi closed her door. The small bedroom was quiet. Her clean clothes rested inside the dresser. The jacket from Eastgate hung on the back of a chair, black leather catching the weak light from the bedside lamp.

She sat on the edge of the bed. The recorder rested in her palm. For several minutes, she only looked at it. Then she pressed play.

Music filled the room first.

Distant.

Heavy.

Candi’s voice followed.

Talk? She can’t talk anyway.

Femi’s fingers tightened around the recorder.

You need someone who can make all the noise you want.

Daemon said little.

Femi listened to the silence between his questions and mistook it for the same thing Candi had.

Interest.

Agreement.

Then his voice came again.

“Someone’s been in my room.”

Candi laughed.

That was a message from me, honey.

The truth unfolded.

The costume.

The shoes.

The hand wiping her mouth.

Every exit had been staged.

Femi closed her eyes.

Candi described watching her face.

Enjoying her confusion.

Enjoying the pain.

I made sure she wouldn’t bother you again.

A tear slid down Femi’s cheek.

She wiped it away and forced herself to continue.

The insults came next.

Dumb.

Mutt.

Thief.

Useless.

Ugly child.

Words Femi had heard in foster homes, shelters, kitchens, and alleys. Words people used when they believed silence meant the insult would never return to accuse them. Candi confessed to the rumors. The missing order pad. The dancers encouraged to laugh at her signs.

The shove near the tables.

Then the kitchen.

All right. I pushed her.

Femi looked at the bandages around her hands.

I almost wish it had been worse.

Her breathing changed. She nearly stopped the recording. Then Daemon’s voice came through.

“She was burned.”

Cold.

Controlled.

Dangerous.

Candi laughed. The sound continued until Daemon asked another question. Then another. He had not been encouraging her. He had been building the truth one piece at a time. While something inside him had begged for blood. Femi understood that now.

Near the end, Candi began laughing about the upstairs hallway.

I came out of your room pulling on my panties. You should have seen her face.

A chair struck the floor.

The recording captured Daemon standing.

It did not capture the Devil.

Kill her.

Then Malone’s voice.

An hour. Every word.

Candi’s confidence broke. Femi listened as she attempted to deny everything. Listened as Malone told her the cameras had recorded the rest. Then Candi turned to Daemon.

I did this for you.

“No.”

She was bothering you.

“No.”

I want you.

“You don’t know me.”

Candi called Femi damaged.

Daemon answered:

“So am I.”

Weak.

“No.”

Nothing.

Daemon’s voice lowered until Femi had to hold the recorder closer.

“She is the only reason you are still standing.”

Femi did not hear what had lived beneath those words. The tear that followed reached her jaw before she noticed it. Femi covered her mouth. No sound escaped. It never did. But her shoulders shook. She had believed Candi because cruelty was familiar. Cruelty had always been easier to trust than kindness. Daemon’s attention frightened her because some part of Femi wanted it.

When Candi offered an explanation for why he could not truly want her near him, Femi accepted it without asking. A woman like Candi belonged beside someone like Daemon. Beautiful. Confident. Unashamed of being seen. Femi knew how to disappear. She did not know how to be wanted.

The recording ended.

Silence returned to the bedroom.

Femi sat with the recorder in her lap.

Then she looked toward the wall separating her room from Daemon’s.

She stood.

Daemon had not undressed.

He sat on the edge of the newly replaced mattress with his elbows resting on his knees. The room remained dark except for the light entering beneath the door. Seven whiskeys should have made him sleep. They had not.

Neither had the Devil.

She is crying.

Daemon stared at the floor.

“You don’t know that.”

She listened.

“I know.”

Go to her.

“No.”

Why?

“Because she gets to decide what happens next.”

The Devil paced beneath his skin.

Restless.

Unhappy.

Want little ghost.

“I know.”

Want her here.

“I know.”

Want—

A tiny knock came. Daemon lifted his head. Everything inside him froze. Another. Soft enough for anyone else to miss.

The Devil recognized it.

Little ghost.

Daemon was already standing. He crossed the room and opened the door. Femi stood in the hall. The recorder rested in one hand. Her eyes were red. Something inside Daemon went painfully soft.

She cried.

Daemon stepped aside. He did not invite her in with words. Femi entered because she chose to.

The Devil shuddered beneath his skin.

She came to us.

Daemon closed the door but did not lock it. She looked toward the bed. New sheets. New mattress.

No trace of Candi remained.

Clean for her.

Daemon almost told it to shut up. Almost. Femi turned toward him.

Her hands rose.

She lied.

“Yes.”

You did not know.

“No.”

Her fingers hesitated.

I believed her.

Daemon shook his head.

“That is not your fault.”

I should have asked.

“I should have noticed.”

Femi frowned.

“We already agreed to disagree.”

A tiny smile appeared through the remains of her tears.

The Devil sighed through him.

There.

Daemon’s chest ached.

Femi looked down at the recorder.

You let her touch you.

“Tonight.”

Her eyes lifted.

“To make her talk.”

Femi waited.

“I hated it.”

Her hands moved.

Why?

Daemon became still. The Devil did too. She had asked a dangerous question. Not dangerous to her. To him. He could lie. He had done it for years whenever truth threatened to place something living inside another person’s hands. Femi waited without demanding. Daemon looked at her bandaged fingers.

The Devil whispered:

Tell her.

“I watched the door from the moment I came in.”

She tilted her head.

“I knew you were with Marta. Malone told me you wouldn’t be there.”

Femi continued watching him.

“But every time the door opened, I wanted it to be you.”

Her breathing stopped.

The Devil stirred.

More.

“At nine, I smelled the food and knew you had come back.”

Daemon’s voice lowered.

“I know when you enter Helix, Femi.”

Her green eyes shimmered.

“The room changes.”

Everything changes.

Femi looked away.

Daemon did not move closer.

“I don’t want Candi.”

Her fingers tightened around the recorder.

“I never did.”

The Devil pressed against his ribs.

Tell her.

Daemon swallowed.

Tell our little ghost.

He allowed the next truth to leave before fear could stop him.

“I want you.”

Silence.

The Devil became perfectly still. Femi’s eyes returned to his.

Daemon’s heart struck hard enough to hurt.

“You don’t have to do anything with that.”

She stared at him.

“I have had seven whiskeys, so you should probably distrust everything else I say tonight.”

Her lips trembled.

“But not that.”

A silent laugh moved through her shoulders. Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

The Devil purred.

Pretty little ghost.

Femi lifted her hands.

I do not know what to do with that.

“Neither do I.”

I do.

Daemon nearly choked.

“No.”

Femi blinked. Then her shoulders began shaking with another silent laugh.

Daemon pointed vaguely toward his own head.

“He has opinions.”

Femi’s smile grew.

She likes me.

“Debatable.”

That made her laugh again. Small. Soundless. Beautiful. The Devil went quiet simply to watch her. Daemon moved to the chair and sat, leaving the bed for her. Femi surprised him. She did not take the bed. She crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair beside his. Close enough that their knees nearly touched.

The Devil stirred.

Closer.

Daemon ignored it. She placed the recorder on the table. Then she reached for his hand. Daemon held completely still while her bandaged fingers settled over his scarred knuckles.

Everything inside him stopped. The rage. The whiskey haze. The fear. Even the Devil.

For one impossible second there was nothing.

Then—

Mine.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

Femi looked at him curiously. The Devil corrected itself. Softer this time.

Almost reverent.

Ours to protect.

Daemon looked down at the little bandaged hand resting over his.

“No,” he whispered.

Femi watched him.

Daemon turned his hand slowly beneath hers until their palms touched.

“We’re hers if she wants us.”

The Devil considered that. Femi could not know what waited in the silence. Could not hear the ancient, violent thing inside Daemon deciding whether it accepted such an arrangement. Then it curled warmly around his bones.

Satisfied.

Better.

Femi signed with her free hand.

Ride tomorrow?

His heart did that hated, glorious thing.

It believed.

The Devil practically purred.

Take our little ghost everywhere.

“Whenever you want, little ghost.”

Femi’s fingers tightened around his. And the Devil whispered one final thing. Not hungry. Not violent. Not demanding. Almost peaceful.

She stayed.

Trust did not return all at once. It came quietly. A hand offered in a dark room.

A door Femi chose to enter.

A place beside the Devil she decided, for tonight, still belonged to her.

And somewhere beneath Daemon’s ribs, the monster that frightened everyone else closed its eyes.

Because its little ghost had come home.

Three weeks later, Femi took the trash out after closing.

Rain fell heavily over Wolfwater, turning the alley behind Helix into a narrow river of black pavement and reflected yellow light. Water rushed from the gutters. The metal lids of the trash bins rattled beneath the downpour.

Femi held one bag against her chest while dragging another behind her.

Her hands had healed.

The burns left pink marks across her fingers, and the skin on her foot remained tender beneath her boot, but she had returned to work before the clinic cleared her.

No one at Helix had managed to stop her.

She lifted the lid of the nearest bin and threw the first bag inside.

“Still taking out the trash.”

Femi froze.

Candi stepped from the shadows near the neighboring building. She wore a red coat over a short dress, both darkened by the rain. Mascara had begun bleeding beneath her eyes, but the smile on her face remained sharp.

Femi looked toward the back door.

Candi moved between her and Helix.

“You think you won something, huh?”

She laughed.

Femi released the second trash bag.

Her hands rose.

Leave.

Candi’s expression twisted.

“Yeah. That’s right. You can’t talk.”

She approached quickly.

Femi stepped backward.

Candi shoved her.

Femi struck the brick wall hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Pain spread across her shoulder blades. The back of her head narrowly missed the rusted pipe beside her.

Candi crowded her.

“Stay away from him.”

Her hand closed around the front of Femi’s jacket.

“Or I’ll hurt you worse, stupid fucking mute.”

Rain ran across Femi’s face.

Candi leaned closer.

“You’re just something new. That’s all. He’ll get tired of pretending you’re interesting and come back to me.”

She did not see the kitchen door open. Did not see Daemon standing beneath the weak yellow light. His shadow stretched across the wet pavement. It covered both women. The Devil saw Candi’s hand first. Wrapped in Femi’s jacket. Holding her against the wall.

Something inside Daemon became very still.

Her hand.

Daemon’s gray eyes lowered.

On our little ghost.

Candi noticed the darkness first.

She looked up.

Then back.

Daemon stood in the doorway. His pale hair hung wet around his scarred face. His gray eyes moved from Candi’s hand clutching Femi’s jacket to the brick wall holding Femi upright.

The Devil whispered beneath his ribs.

Take it off.

Daemon did not move.

Take her hand off her.

Candi released Femi immediately. The Devil quieted. Not satisfied. Waiting.

Candi backed away.

“We were just talking.”

Lie.

Daemon looked at Femi. The violence in his face disappeared when his eyes reached hers. So did the Devil’s rage.

Almost.

Little ghost.

“Are you okay?”

His voice was soft. So gentle that it enraged Candi more than hatred would have.

Femi nodded. Daemon did not accept the answer. His gaze moved across her face, shoulders, and hands, searching for blood or injury.

Head.

No blood.

Hands.

No blood.

Shoulder.

She was holding it wrong. The Devil noticed. Daemon noticed. His jaw hardened.

She hurt her.

I see.

Candi stared at him. Daemon remained in the doorway, leaving Femi space to move toward him if she chose.

The Devil wanted differently.

Bring her here.

No.

Get her away from that woman.

She chooses.

The thing inside him snarled but obeyed.

Candi watched them.

“What’s so special about her anyway?”

Daemon’s attention did not leave Femi.

Everything.

“She’s just some dumb fucking mute.”

His jaw tightened.

The Devil lifted its head.

Careful.

Candi continued before fear could remind her to stop.

“You know what she is? She’s a whore, Daemon. Nothing more.”

Femi went completely still. The Devil changed.

Not louder.

Colder.

No.

“I heard about you, Femi,” Candi spat. “Yeah, I did. You’re some dirty whore Malone happened to take pity on.”

No.

Daemon stepped from the doorway.

Let me.

No.

She put her hands on her.

I know.

She made her bleed before.

I know.

She is doing it again.

Daemon’s hands curled.

Let me.

No one saw Marta enter the alley. Only the slap announced her. The sound cracked through the rain. Candi’s head snapped sideways. Her hand flew to her cheek. Marta stood before her.

The Devil paused.

Then—

I like Marta.

Daemon nearly smiled.

“Say that again.” Marta’s voice was low enough to be more dangerous than a shout. Candi stared.

Marta stepped closer.

“Say it to my face.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“You were talking about my family.”

Something inside Daemon stopped.

Family.

The Devil repeated the word as though testing something unfamiliar.

Family.

“Your—”

Marta pointed toward Femi.

“It was Femi who fed you when you showed up here hungry.”

Candi’s mouth opened.

“It was Femi who convinced Malone to let you stay that night when you had nowhere to go. Femi gave you ointment when your joints ached so badly you couldn’t finish your routine.”

Rain ran down Marta’s face. Fury burned through every word.

“I dare you to call her that again.”

The Devil was no longer watching Candi.

It was watching Femi.

Family.

Daemon’s eyes shifted toward her. Femi stood beneath the rain, wet hair against her cheeks, shock written openly across her face. As though Marta had said something impossible.

The Devil understood before Daemon did.

She did not know.

Daemon’s chest tightened. No. Perhaps she hadn’t.

Perhaps no one had ever said it plainly enough.

Tell her again.

Not now.

Later.

Daemon swallowed.

Yes.

Later.

Candi’s cheek reddened beneath her hand. Marta leaned close.

“And then we can start discussing how Daemon saved you from your pimp.”

Candi looked toward him. Daemon remained beside the kitchen door. He offered her nothing. Marta’s voice rose.

“We can talk about how you were fucking half the men in Helix for cash while accusing Femi of sleeping with Malone.”

Candi’s face changed.

“And you did it in the clubhouse bathrooms.”

Marta’s raised voice carried through the open kitchen door. Footsteps approached.

Malone appeared behind Daemon.

“You did what in my clubhouse?” Malone’s voice rolled through the alley.

Candi turned.

“She’s lying.”

Marta smiled.

There was no humor in it.

“Check the cameras, Malone.”

Candi’s eyes widened.

“See how many times she leaves the stage, takes a man by the hand, and walks into the bathroom with him. Count how many different men come out adjusting their pants.”

“Marta—”

“You will never work in another club in Wolfwater, Candi.”

Marta’s smile sharpened.

“You know the rules.”

Malone stepped into the rain.

“I don’t care what you do for a living.”

Candi backed away.

“I care that you did it inside my house after I told you not to.”

The Devil stirred again.

House.

Daemon glanced toward Malone.

First Marta.

Family.

Now Malone.

My house.

Something old and unfamiliar moved through Daemon. Helix had always been a building. A bar. A place to sleep. A place where Malone poured whiskey without asking questions. But Femi had changed something.

Home.

Daemon frowned.

The Devil whispered it again.

Home.

“She’s lying,” Candi repeated. “She hates me.”

“I have cameras.”

“Those men followed me.”

“Into a locked bathroom?”

“I wasn’t working.”

Marta laughed.

Candi’s panic became anger.

“You would do that over some dumb mute child you found in the trash?”

The second slap turned her face in the opposite direction. Femi stared openly. Marta had struck Candi harder this time. Her hand remained lifted afterward, fingers curled into a fist.

The Devil sounded almost delighted.

Again.

Daemon exhaled through his nose.

No.

Marta can.

No.

Why not?

Because Malone is about to stop her. The Devil seemed offended by Malone’s foresight.

“Talk about my family again.”

There it was.

Again.

Family.

Candi stumbled back.

“I dare you.”

Marta moved toward her.

Malone caught her around the waist and pulled her away.

“Enough.”

“No.”

“Marta.”

“She put her hands on Femi.”

“I saw.”

“She called her—”

“I heard.”

Marta strained against his hold. Malone dragged her toward the kitchen door. His gaze remained on Candi.

“It’s done.”

Candi held one hand against her burning cheek.

“Malone, wait.”

“By morning, every bar, clubhouse, and strip club in Wolfwater will have your picture.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

“I need to work.”

“You should have considered that before selling yourself in my bathrooms, assaulting one of my employees, and threatening my daughter behind my building.”

The Devil went utterly silent. Daemon looked at Malone.

Femi did too.

My daughter.

The words seemed to remain in the rain after Malone finished speaking. The Devil whispered them back. Not mocking. Not questioning. Almost reverent.

His daughter.

Daemon looked toward Femi. Her face had changed. Barely.

But he saw it.

She heard him.

Yes.

Family.

Yes.

Our little ghost has a family.

Something tightened painfully inside Daemon’s chest. Candi looked toward Femi. Hatred entered her face again. Malone saw it. His expression became cold.

“You come near her again, I will send the alley footage to the police.”

Candi laughed desperately.

“The police don’t care about people like us.”

“No.” Malone looked toward Daemon. “But he does.”

Candi followed his gaze. The Devil watched her. No heat. No sympathy. Only the same cold attention he had given her at the table while she confessed.

The Devil whispered.

He is right.

Daemon’s expression did not change.

I care.

Candi became silent.

Come near her again.

Daemon stared at her.

Please.

That single word was worse than any threat.

“You can go back to hooking the proper way,” Malone said. “Outside my clubhouse.”

He pulled Marta through the kitchen door. She continued swearing until the door closed behind them. Rain filled the silence they left behind. Daemon moved toward Femi. He stopped before touching her.

The Devil strained toward her.

Check her.

“Your head?”

Femi shook it.

“Shoulder?”

She moved one arm carefully. Pain tightened her face. Daemon noticed.

The Devil did too.

Hurt.

“Clinic.”

Femi shook her head again.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil almost purred.

Angry little ghost.

“Tomorrow, then.”

Another shake. Daemon looked at the trash bag lying in the rain. Femi started toward it.

Absolutely not.

Daemon reached it first. She caught his sleeve. He turned. Her hand moved.

I can do it.

“I know.”

The Devil softened. It had learned this. Slowly. Painfully. Femi did not need someone constantly proving she was helpless. She needed someone who understood that she wasn’t. Daemon lifted the bag.

“You don’t have to.”

Femi stared at him. Daemon carried the trash to the bin and threw it inside. Then he retrieved the metal lid Candi had knocked onto the pavement and secured it. Femi watched. Not rescued. Not dismissed. Simply helped.

The Devil settled warmly beneath his skin.

Ours.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil corrected itself before he could.

Family.

Daemon stopped. He looked toward Femi.

The Devil had never used that word for her before.

Not like that.

Family.

Daemon returned to the kitchen door and held it open. Femi approached. Before entering, she looked back at Candi. The other woman stood alone in the rain with one hand against her cheek. For the first time, Femi saw her clearly. Not beautiful. Not powerful. Desperate. Cruel because cruelty was the only weapon she knew how to use. Femi entered Helix.

Daemon followed.

Home.

“Daemon—please.”

Candi’s voice broke behind him. He stopped with one hand on the door.

The Devil sighed.

No.

For three years, she had wanted him to look at her. Daemon glanced over his shoulder. Candi stepped forward.

“I did it because I wanted you.”

“No.”

“You saved me.”

“That did not make me yours.”

The Devil stirred at that. Ownership. Possession. The difference mattered now. Femi had taught both of them that.

“You could have had me.”

“I never wanted you.”

The words struck harder than Marta’s hand. Candi’s face crumpled. The Devil felt nothing. No satisfaction. No pity.

It was already looking elsewhere.

Little ghost.

Daemon looked toward Femi. She waited inside the warm kitchen, wet hair clinging to her face. The violence disappeared from him again. His voice softened.

“Go upstairs, little ghost. I’ll bring ice for your shoulder.”

Femi nodded.

And something warm.

Daemon stepped inside.

She is soaked.

“I see that.”

Towel.

“Yes.”

Tea.

Daemon paused.

Since when did the Devil make tea?

Strawberries.

There it was.

Daemon almost smiled.

“Daemon, please,” Candi called again.

The Devil went cold.

Close the door.

Daemon did. The lock turned.

Outside, Candi remained beneath the cold rain. Inside, Femi waited for him. The Devil settled beneath Daemon’s ribs. Marta’s words remained there. Malone’s too.

My family.

My daughter.

Daemon looked at the small woman standing beneath the kitchen lights. The little ghost who fed men who frightened her. Who cooked for people who had forgotten what being cared for felt like. Who had somehow walked into Helix and quietly turned a clubhouse full of damaged people into something none of them knew they were missing.

The Devil whispered: Family.

Daemon picked up a clean towel. Femi watched him approach. He stopped within reach and held it toward her rather than placing it around her himself. She took it. Her fingers brushed his.

Home.

This time, Daemon did not argue.

Candi had forty-three dollars.

She counted it twice.

Forty-three dollars, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, three condoms, an expired bus pass, and seventeen cents in loose change rolling around the bottom of her purse. That was everything. She sat on the curb behind Velvet Rope and stared at the bills folded across her thigh. Forty-three fucking dollars.

Her audition had lasted seven minutes. The manager recognized her before she finished the first song. Not personally. That would have been easier. He recognized her from the video. Malone had kept his promise. Copies of the kitchen footage had reached half the clubs in Wolfwater before noon. By evening, the confession had followed.

Candi had walked into Velvet Rope expecting a stage. Instead, the manager had leaned against his desk and asked whether she really thought burning a mute girl was funny. Candi told him it had been an accident. He told her to leave. She told him Helix had edited the recording. He laughed. She told him Daemon Pallid was obsessed with the girl and Malone treated her like some precious little princess. The manager stopped laughing long enough to tell security to escort her out.

Now Candi sat behind the building beneath a flickering security light while bass vibrated through the brick wall against her back. She lit a cigarette. Her hands shook. Not much. Enough to piss her off.

“Rough night?”

Candi looked up. The man stood several feet away. Dark suit. White shirt. No tie. She recognized him immediately. Her regular. The good one. The one who listened.

“Oh, fuck me.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“That bad?”

“You have no idea.”

“I might.”

Candi dragged hard on the cigarette.

“You stalking me now?”

“No.”

He looked toward the rear door of Velvet Rope.

“I was inside.”

“Why?”

“Drink.”

“They have drinks at Helix.”

“Not anymore.” Candi stared at him. He lifted one shoulder. “I heard what happened.”

Humiliation burned hotter than the cigarette between her fingers.

“Of course you did.”

“Wolfwater talks.”

“Wolfwater can choke.”

The man looked at the money spread across her thigh.

Candi gathered it quickly.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked.”

“Yes.”

She shoved the bills into her purse.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“I wasn’t offering pity.”

He held out his hand.

“Come inside.”

“They won’t let me.”

“They’ll let you in with me.”

Candi looked at him.

“Why?”

“Because you look like you need a drink.”

She almost told him to go fuck himself. Then she remembered she had forty-three dollars. She took his hand. The silver ring faced inward.

She never saw it.

Velvet Rope let her inside. Not because the manager had changed his mind. Because the man spoke quietly to someone at the door, handed him money, and the problem disappeared.

That impressed Candi. The booth impressed her more. Private. Dark. Away from the stage. A bottle arrived instead of individual drinks. Good whiskey. Not the cheap shit dancers bought after shifts.

Candi poured too much. The man said nothing. She drank half of it.

“Malone ruined me.”

“I heard.”

“He sent that fucking recording everywhere.”

Another drink. The man poured this one for her.

“Why?”

“Because of her.”

“Femi.”

The name made Candi’s mouth twist.

“There you go.”

He leaned back.

“What did she do?”

“Nothing.”

He waited. That was what Candi liked about him. He listened. He never interrupted to defend Femi. Never told Candi she was imagining things. Never told her she was jealous. He simply waited until silence became uncomfortable. Candi filled it.

“She does fucking nothing. That’s the whole problem.”

The man nodded.

Candi drank.

“She walks around looking pathetic and everybody falls all over themselves trying to protect her.”

“Daemon included.”

“Especially Daemon.”

“I thought so.”

Candi pointed at him.

“See? You see it.”

“I’ve watched them.”

“Then you know.”

“I know he watches her.”

Candi laughed bitterly.

“Like she’s the only woman in the fucking room.”

The man poured another drink.

“How long has that been happening?”

Candi shrugged.

“A while.”

“Before you left the panties?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You remember that?”

“I remember what you tell me.”

Something about that pleased her. Nobody remembered what Candi said unless they wanted sex afterward. This man remembered everything.

“A few weeks before.”

“And before that?”

“He noticed her.”

“How?”

Candi rolled her eyes.

“You’re asking a lot of questions about a girl you don’t like.”

“I find manipulative people interesting.”

That satisfied her. She leaned back.

“She’s good at it.”

“At what?”

“Making people think she’s helpless.”

The man’s expression remained neutral. Candi continued.

“She doesn’t talk.”

“I know.”

“No. I mean she doesn’t talk at all.”

“By choice?”

Candi shrugged.

“Trauma or some shit.”

The man’s fingers stopped against his glass.

Only for a moment.

“What trauma?”

“Who knows?”

“You don’t?”

“Malone keeps that shit locked down.”

“But you’ve heard things.”

Candi smiled.

“Everybody hears things.”

The man reached into his pocket. Removed several folded bills. Placed them on the table. Candi looked down. Hundreds. Three of them. Her anger disappeared beneath surprise.

“What is that?”

“You said you’re broke.”

“I didn’t ask you for money.”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I like listening to you.”

Candi stared at the money.

“You’re weird.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She took it. Of course she took it. Three hundred dollars became three hundred forty-three. Suddenly the night looked less hopeless. She poured herself another drink.

“I heard something happened to her when she was a kid.”

“What?”

“Her parents or something.”

The man waited.

Candi searched her memory.

“Malone once said she doesn’t like people coming up behind her.”

“Why?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

He said nothing.

Candi drank.

Then remembered.

“She freezes.”

His eyes lifted.

“What?”

“Sometimes.”

“When?”

Candi shrugged.

“Loud noises.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Things dropping. Doors slamming.”

The man poured another drink.

“Gunshots?”

“Everybody fucking freezes at gunshots.”

“Not everybody.”

Candi laughed.

“You’re creepy.”

“So you keep telling me.”

She drank. The alcohol had begun warming her face.

“She does this thing sometimes.”

“What thing?”

“Goes somewhere else.”

He did not move. Candi waved one hand near her face.

“Not literally. Jesus. She just…stops.”

“Stops how?”

“Staring. Doesn’t hear you.”

“She isn’t deaf.”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

Candi snorted.

“She hears everything. That’s part of what makes her so fucking annoying.”

“What brings her back?”

Candi thought.

“Malone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

She looked at him. Something about the word was different. Not harsh. Not demanding. But for the first time, it did not sound like sympathy. Then he smiled. The feeling vanished. Candi shrugged.

“He gets in front of her sometimes. Makes her look at him.”

“Touches her?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where?”

“Her hands. Shoulders.”

“What does he say?”

“How would I know?”

“You’ve been there.”

Candi frowned. Then remembered the kitchen. Malone crouched in front of Femi. His voice low. Femi staring through him.

“Her name.”

The man became very still.

“What?”

“He says her name.”

“Anything else?”

“Where she is, I think.”

“Interesting.”

Candi drank again.

“He treats her like she’s five.”

“He grounds her.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The man smiled.

“Continue.”

Candi did.

The money changed everything. Not because he offered more. Because three hundred dollars sat inside her purse and proved her words had value. So she talked. Femi hated being grabbed unexpectedly.

Femi startled when men raised their voices behind her.

Femi sometimes froze when glass broke.

Femi did not like anyone blocking doors.

Femi avoided crowded spaces unless she was working.

Femi slept badly.

How did Candi know? Because sometimes Femi came downstairs before sunrise. Sometimes she looked like she had not slept at all.

Did she have nightmares? Probably.

What happened afterward? She cooked. Always? Usually. Where? Helix’s kitchen. Alone? Early enough. Sometimes.

The man poured. Candi drank. He asked almost nothing directly. That was why she never noticed the questions. He merely repeated the last thing she said.

Early?

Alone?

Behind the bar?

And Candi explained. The employee entrance opened into the back hall. The dressing rooms were left. Kitchen right. Stairs at the end. Malone’s office sat behind the bar. Femi’s little room was off the back.

Daemon had a room upstairs when he stayed at Helix. He preferred the corner table. Back to the wall. Clear view of the front entrance. Jack on the rocks. Usually arrived after dark. Sometimes disappeared for days. Motorcycle most nights. Truck occasionally.

“Does Femi ride with him?”

Candi’s mouth hardened.

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Too fucking often.”

“Where?”

“How would I know?”

“You seem to know everything else.”

She smiled.

The compliment worked.

“His house.”

“Where?”

“Outside the city.”

“Where outside?”

“I don’t know.”

The man accepted that immediately. No disappointment. No pressure. That made Candi want to give him something else.

“About thirty minutes from Helix.”

His thumb moved once against his glass.

“Which direction?”

Candi thought.

“I’ve seen them leave toward Riverward.”

He nodded. Nothing more. But Candi felt absurdly pleased with herself.

The bottle emptied. Another appeared. Candi never saw him order it. By then she had stopped counting drinks. She told him about Malone. How he called Femi his daughter. How ridiculous that was.

“She isn’t actually his?”

“No.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“Then why daughter?”

“He found her.”

The man’s eyes changed.

Candi missed it.

“Found her where?”

“Eating garbage.”

Silence.

Candi laughed.

“Seriously.”

“Where?”

“Behind Helix, I think.”

“How old?”

“Twenty.”

“And he took her in.”

“Yep.”

“Immediately?”

Candi frowned.

“I guess.”

“Did he know her before?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly. The man noticed. Candi didn’t.

“At least that’s what he says.”

“What do you think?”

“I think Malone likes collecting broken things.”

“Daemon?”

She laughed.

“He’s the most broken one there.”

“Femi?”

“Second place.”

The man’s mouth curved.

“What makes her broken?”

“Besides being mute?”

“Yes.”

Candi considered it. The room had softened around the edges. She rested her chin against her hand.

“Scars.”

His glass stopped.

“Where?”

Candi looked at him.

“You really are interested in her.”

“Interested in why everyone treats her like glass.”

Candi accepted that.

“Stomach.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

“Old?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Burns?”

“No.”

“Cuts?”

Candi thought of glimpses in dressing rooms. A shirt lifting. Femi reaching. Pale marks against olive skin.

“Stab wounds, maybe.”

The man’s expression did not change. Not once.

“Anything else?”

“Her back.”

“Same?”

“Some.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Side.”

The man lifted his drink.

The silver serpent remained hidden against his palm.

“And her hands?”

Candi laughed.

“That was me.”

He watched her. She smiled proudly. Then remembered why she was sitting in Velvet Rope instead of dancing at Helix.

Her smile weakened.

“Mostly.”

“What happened?”

“Grease.”

“Both hands?”

“One worse than the other.”

“Which?”

Candi stared at him.

“Why the hell does that matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled.

“I’m listening.”

Candi tried to remember.

“Right, I think.”

He nodded. That answer mattered. She never understood how much.

Near midnight, Candi started crying. Not because she felt guilty.

Because she was angry.

Because she had nowhere to work.

Because Malone had embarrassed her.

Because Daemon had chosen Femi without ever giving Candi the chance she believed she deserved.

“I loved him.”

The man said nothing.

“I fucking loved him.”

He slid another hundred across the table.

Candi looked at it through blurred vision.

“He doesn’t even know her.”

“Apparently he wants to.”

“She doesn’t even fucking talk.”

“You mentioned that.”

“She can’t tell him anything.”

“She can write.”

Candi scoffed.

“Yeah.”

“Sign?”

“Some.”

“Who understands her?”

“Malone. Marta. Daemon’s learning.”

“How much?”

“What?”

“Sign language.”

Candi shrugged.

“Enough.”

“Does she carry anything to communicate?”

“Order pad.”

“Always?”

“Usually.”

“Phone?”

“Sometimes.”

“Identification?”

“How would I know?”

He let that one die. Candi took the hundred. Four hundred forty-three dollars. She smiled weakly.

“You really hate her too, don’t you?”

The man looked at her.

“Yes.”

It was the easiest lie he had told all night. Candi leaned across the table conspiratorially.

“You want to know what really scares her?”

He waited.

She smiled.

“Men.”

His expression did not change.

“Most women are cautious around men.”

“No. Not like that.”

“How?”

“She watches hands.”

That interested him. Candi saw it and mistook the interest for agreement.

“Told you.”

“What does she look for?”

“Weapons, probably.”

“Does she run?”

“Sometimes.”

“Fight?”

Candi laughed.

“Femi?”

“Yes.”

“She’d probably fall over.”

“Freeze?”

Candi nodded.

“There you go.”

“What else?”

She thought.

“Certain voices.”

“Whose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Names?”

“Don’t know.”

“Smells?”

Candi frowned.

“Maybe.”

“Touch?”

“Definitely.”

“Where?”

Candi shrugged.

“Grab her wrist and see.”

He smiled. Candi laughed. Neither was amused for the same reason.

“Anything else?”

She closed her eyes. Thought. Then opened them.

“Silver.”

The man’s thumb stopped. The ring remained turned inward.

“What about silver?”

“I don’t know.”

Candi reached for her drink.

“Saw her freak out over some guy once.”

“What guy?”

“Customer.”

“At Helix?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Months ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

His voice remained easy.

“Then why remember it?”

“Because she dropped a tray.”

The man did not breathe for one beat.

Candi never noticed.

“What was he wearing?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Think.”

Again. That word. Soft. Patient. Candi closed her eyes.

“Suit.”

“Color?”

“Dark.”

“Hair?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Jewelry?”

Her eyes opened.

“I don’t know.”

The man’s right hand slowly closed. Candi stared at the table.

Then laughed.

“Wait.”

He said nothing.

“Ring.”

“What kind?”

“Silver.”

His expression remained perfectly neutral.

“What shape?”

Candi squinted at nothing.

“Snake, maybe.”

Silence settled between them. The music continued beyond the booth. Women laughed. Glasses struck tables. Someone shouted near the stage. Candi reached for the bottle. The man poured for her before she could.

“She froze?”

“Completely.”

“Did she recognize him?”

“She said no.” Candi laughed again. “Well, wrote no.”

“But?”

“She answered too fast.”

The man watched her. Candi took another drink.

“That’s what Daemon said.”

“Daemon noticed?”

“Daemon notices everything about her.”

The man looked down at his hand. His thumb touched the hidden ring.

Not everything.

Candi woke the following afternoon on her couch. Her head felt split open. Her mouth tasted like cigarettes and whiskey. For several seconds, she could not remember how she got home. Then she saw her purse. She opened it. Six hundred dollars.

Candi smiled. The bastard liked her. She had known he did. Maybe she had finally found someone in Wolfwater who understood what Femi really was.

Someone who knew the little mute wasn’t innocent.

Someone willing to listen.

Someone willing to pay.

Candi never wondered why.

Across Ravenside, the man sat in the rear seat of a black sedan. No alcohol touched his breath. He had consumed less than half a glass all night. A small recorder rested in his hand. He pressed stop.

The driver looked at him through the mirror.

“Useful?”

The man removed the silver ring. Turned it between his fingers. The serpent caught the morning light.

“Very.”

He opened a black notebook.

The pages contained no opinions.

Only facts.

FEMI

Mute. Not deaf.

Communicates through writing/sign.

Trauma history likely childhood.

Multiple probable stab scars—abdomen, side, back.

Startle response: breaking glass, slammed doors, raised male voices.

Possible dissociation under stress.

Grounding response: name, orientation, familiar person.

Primary grounder: Malone.

Secondary possibility: Daemon Pallid.

Avoids blocked exits.

Tracks hands.

Sensitive to unexpected touch/restraint.

Sleep disturbance.

Early-morning kitchen routine.

Recent burns to hands.

Right hand possibly worse.

Malone publicly claims daughter relationship.

Daemon emotionally attached.

Daemon learning sign language.

Regular transport with Daemon.

Possible residence approximately thirty minutes from Helix, Riverward direction.

Helix:

Employee entrance—rear.

Dressing rooms—left corridor.

Kitchen—right.

Stairs—rear.

Malone office—behind bar.

Femi room—rear.

Daemon room—upstairs.

Cameras—multiple.

Recording capability beneath corner table.

Daemon prefers corner with wall protection/front-door visibility.

Primary drink: Jack on rocks.

Primary vulnerability—

The man stopped.

Then wrote:

Femi.

He turned the page.

Added one final entry.

Silver serpent recognition response: immediate freeze. Denial rapid. Possible retained childhood recognition.

The driver looked at him again.

“You believe the dancer?”

“About some things.”

“She sounds unstable.”

“She is.”

“Then why pay her?”

The scout closed the notebook.

“Unstable people still notice things.”

He slid the recorder into his coat.

“They simply don’t understand which things matter.”

“And the girl?”

The scout looked through the tinted window. Ravenside moved past them.

“She remembers more than they think.”

The driver said nothing. The scout slipped the silver serpent ring back onto his finger. He turned it inward. Hidden.

“Send the recording.”

“To who?”

The scout looked at him. The driver understood. He faced the road again. The scout rested the notebook across his knee. Candi believed she had spent the night explaining why she hated Femi. She had done something far more valuable. She had explained how to frighten her. How to isolate her. How Helix protected her. Who she trusted. Who could bring her back when fear took her somewhere else.

And, without realizing it, she had confirmed the one thing they had needed most.

The little girl remembered the serpent.

The scout looked down at Femi’s name.

Then closed the notebook.

Otis would want to know.

Candi did not give up.

She would not.

Daemon belonged to her.

It did not matter that he had never taken her to bed. It did not matter that he had rejected her in front of Helix, listened while she confessed everything, and stood beside Malone while she lost her job.

Candi considered those details temporary. Femi was the problem. Remove the mute girl, and Daemon would remember what kind of woman belonged beside him. Candi could no longer enter Helix. Mara could.

Mara was an old friend—at least, Candi called her one when she needed something. She danced at clubs beyond Wolfwater and accepted private work when the money was good.

At five feet seven, Mara possessed long black hair, striking blue eyes, and the kind of curves men looked at once before looking again.

Hard.

Candi showed her a photograph of Daemon.

Mara studied the pale hair, scarred face, and broad shoulders beneath black leather.

“How tall?”

“Six feet something.”

“Weight?”

“Two hundred pounds of muscle and bad decisions.”

Mara licked her lips.

“You want me to distract him?”

“I want you to make him forget Femi exists.”

Mara looked at the photograph again. Daemon was beautiful in a dangerous, damaged way. The kind of man who looked as though he might break a bed without realizing it.

“Anything for you, girl,” Mara sighed.

But by the time she entered Helix, the favor had become something else.

Mara wanted him for herself.

She arrived shortly after noon. Helix had not yet opened. Malone stood behind the bar reviewing invoices while Femi worked in the kitchen and two men repaired a light above the stage. Mara entered smiling. Malone looked up.

“Closed.”

“I’m looking for work.”

“You have a letter?”

“A letter?”

“From someone I know.”

“No.”

“Then who sent you?”

“No one.”

Mara approached the bar.

“I heard you hire dancers.”

“I do.”

Her smile widened.

“I’m Mara.”

“Malone.”

“I know.”

That answer interested him. People seeking work at Helix usually arrived with a letter from a current employee, a recommendation from Red, or the name of someone in Wolfwater willing to claim them. Mara had none. She also did not look at the stage. She watched the room. The front entrance. The stairs. The dark corner where Daemon usually sat. Malone folded his arms.

“Where have you worked?”

Mara listed three clubs outside Wolfwater. He recognized two. Neither owner would send a dancer without calling first. The kitchen doors opened. Femi entered carrying a tray of clean glasses. Daemon followed behind her holding a broken chair leg she had apparently asked him to repair.

“You could have asked Harlan.”

Femi signed without looking at him.

I asked you.

The Devil stirred immediately.

She asked us.

Daemon glanced at her.

“That doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”

Femi looked at the repaired leg.

One eyebrow rose.

She likes it.

She thinks it’s crooked.

Femi shook her head.

She likes it.

Daemon gave her a suspicious look. Femi smiled. Tiny. Private.

The Devil warmed beneath his ribs.

There.

Daemon’s mouth threatened to answer with one of its own. Then he felt someone watching. He looked toward the bar. Mara. Her eyes were not on Malone. They were on him.

The Devil lost interest almost immediately.

Who is that?

“No idea.”

Femi glanced between him and Mara. Daemon’s attention returned to her. Mara’s eyes narrowed. Malone saw it. She had been inside Helix for less than five minutes and already knew exactly who she had come to find.

“I’ll give you tonight,” Malone said.

Mara looked back at him.

“Tonight?”

“One set.”

“I was hoping for something more permanent.”

“You haven’t danced yet.”

Her fingers traced the bar.

“I need somewhere to stay too.”

Malone’s suspicion sharpened.

“No.”

“Just for a few nights.”

“No rooms.”

“I don’t take up much space.”

“You take up more than none.”

Mara sighed.

Then she smiled.

“I’ll take the set.”

“Six o’clock.”

She turned toward the door.

“Mara.”

She looked back.

Malone’s expression had changed.

“I don’t know what you think you’ll find here.”

Her smile remained in place.

“But if you bring trouble into Helix, know that trouble will follow you home.”

For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then Mara laughed.

“I’m only looking for work.”

“We’ll see.”

At seven that evening, every eye in the clubhouse rested on Mara. Except Daemon’s. She moved beneath the stage lights in a black-and-blue costume designed to draw attention to every curve. Men shouted. Money landed at her feet. One customer abandoned his chair to stand closer.

Daemon never looked toward the stage. He had noticed Mara walk beneath the lights. The Devil had noticed too. Neither cared. Femi waited tables. That interested them. She carried three drinks toward the pool tables, moving carefully between chairs. Her midnight hair was braided over one shoulder.

Pretty.

Daemon lifted his whiskey.

“I know.”

A small smile appeared whenever an employee attempted one of the signs she had taught them.

Again.

“What?”

Smile.

Daemon watched Harlan butcher another sign. Femi laughed silently and corrected him.

The Devil practically purred.

There.

Daemon took a drink.

“You’re becoming irritating.”

Little ghost is happy.

That shut him up. Mara followed his line of sight. Femi. Daemon watched her. His face revealed little. The intensity of his attention did not. Mara frowned and turned back toward the men who appreciated what she offered.

By the end of the routine, the floor beneath her was covered in money.

Daemon had not looked once.

Three nights later, Mara changed tactics.

She left the stage and began dancing between the tables. A hand here. A slow turn there. She moved through the clubhouse while men leaned back to give her room. Her path ended at Daemon’s corner. He held a Jack on the rocks in one hand, his attention on Femi as she worked behind the bar.

Femi was counting bottles.

Little ghost missed one.

Daemon watched her start the shelf again.

“She’ll find it.”

Third shelf. Left side.

“I know.”

Tell her.

“She’ll find it.”

Femi paused. Looked. Found it.

The Devil gave a smug little hum.

Told you.

Something moved between Daemon’s knees. His attention snapped downward. Mara. Her knee slipped between his.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon looked at her. At last. Mara smiled. She lowered herself toward his lap.

The Devil’s reaction was immediate.

Move.

Daemon stood. Mara nearly fell into the empty chair. He walked away. No anger. No warning. He treated her as though she had become an inconvenient piece of furniture.

Do not like her.

“That makes two of us.”

Smells wrong.

Daemon frowned.

“You say that about everyone.”

Not little ghost.

No.

Femi smelled like strawberries. Daemon’s eyes found her again without permission.

Strawberries.

“Shut up.”

Femi entered from the kitchen carrying a basket of bread. Too much bread. And an overloaded tray. The Devil noticed instantly.

Heavy.

Daemon was already crossing the room.

Take it.

“I am.”

Before she drops it.

“I see it.”

He took the basket from Femi before she could balance it against the tray.

Femi protested with her hands.

I can carry it.

“I know.”

She reached for the basket.

Daemon moved it out of reach.

Her eyes narrowed.

Angry.

“Yes.”

Pretty.

Daemon ignored that.

“I’m going that way.”

Femi pointed in the opposite direction. Daemon looked. She was right.

The Devil was useless.

Carry it anyway.

Daemon sighed.

“I changed my mind.”

Femi rolled her eyes but allowed him to carry it.

The Devil settled happily beneath his skin.

Helping.

Candi’s plan was not working. The man behaved as though he had been carved from ice. But he was not cold around Femi. Mara saw that now. The difference lived in small things.

Daemon moved whenever Femi needed to pass. He kept his hands visible when she approached. He accepted orders from no one at Helix, yet carried bread because she frowned at him.

Mara decided to become more direct.

She found him beside his motorcycle the following afternoon.

“Coffee?”

Daemon continued fastening the repair kit to the back of the bike.

“No.”

No.

Mara leaned against the wall.

“I only want to talk.”

“Talk to Candi.”

His voice remained low.

The Devil stirred.

Candi.

“Yes.”

Knew she smelled wrong.

Daemon tightened a strap.

Mara’s smile tightened.

“I don’t know what you mean, handsome.”

“She sent you.”

“I came because I needed work.”

“You came looking for me.”

Mara stepped closer.

“Maybe I found something better than work.”

Daemon looked at her. The Devil looked too. Cold. Uninterested. She lowered her voice.

“I want there to be a me and you.”

“There won’t be.”

Never.

“You haven’t tried.”

“I don’t need to.”

Little ghost.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. That was not an answer he intended to give Mara. It was apparently the only answer the Devil considered necessary. Mara moved close enough for her chest to nearly touch his arm.

No.

Daemon stepped out of reach.

“What I know,” he said, “is that you will not come back here after tonight.”

Her smile vanished.

“Or I will tell Malone exactly what you are attempting to do to his daughter.”

The Devil went strangely quiet at that word.

Daughter.

Then—

Family.

Daemon’s eyes hardened.

Yes.

Mara laughed.

“Malone doesn’t have children. Try again, handsome.”

The Devil’s answer came before Daemon’s.

Wrong.

She reached toward Daemon’s chest.

He moved away before her fingers touched him.

Do not touch us.

The kitchen door opened. Femi entered the lot beside Malone. They both stopped when they saw Daemon’s face. Death waited inside his gray eyes. Then Femi lifted one hand. A small wave.

The Devil transformed.

Little ghost.

Daemon turned toward her immediately. The violence vanished. Femi signed something.

Are you coming?

Yes.

Daemon almost answered the Devil instead of her.

“Yes.”

He crossed the lot to join her. Mara watched him walk away as if she had said nothing. As if she were nothing. Her humiliation demanded an audience. So Mara did what she had always done when a room refused to revolve around her.

She caused a scene.

That night, Mara started a fight near the stage. She accused another dancer of stealing money from her costume bag. When the woman denied it, Mara shoved her. A waitress attempted to intervene and received a glass of whiskey across the front of her shirt.

Within seconds, two tables overturned. Men rushed closer. Someone threw a punch. Mara screamed as though she were the victim. She had expected Daemon to become involved.

Expected him to cross the clubhouse, seize whichever man stood nearest, and reveal the violence beneath his stillness.

He remained in his corner.

Watching.

Messy.

“Yes.”

A man hit the floor.

Stupid.

“Yes.”

Someone picked up a chair.

Could end it.

“No.”

Thirty seconds.

“Malone’s house.”

The Devil settled.

That rule mattered now.

Malone handles it.

“Yes.”

Daemon’s glass emptied. He signaled for another drink.

The Devil immediately abandoned the fight.

Little ghost.

Femi was the only person who approached. Of course she was. She stepped around the overturned chair, placed a fresh Jack on the rocks in front of him, and collected his empty glass. Daemon’s gaze softened when it found her.

Pretty.

Femi’s fingers moved.

Too many.

Daemon looked at the glasses.

“Seven.”

She pointed toward the newest one.

Eight.

“I can count.”

She worries.

Femi lifted an eyebrow. Daemon almost smiled.

Smile at her.

“No.”

Femi tilted her head.

Daemon realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Not you.”

Her eyebrow climbed higher.

The Devil was delighted.

She thinks you’re strange.

“She already knows I’m strange.”

Femi’s mouth twitched. Mara saw everything.

By midnight, the fight had been settled. The other dancer received an apology from one of the men. Mara received none. She took a seat across from Daemon and waited. He ignored her. He finished his eighth whiskey slowly.

At one in the morning, Malone called last call earlier than usual. The room began clearing. Mara remained at Daemon’s table. He leaned back in the shadows, pale hair falling across his face. Alcohol had softened his posture but not his expression.

It had, however, made the Devil louder.

Where is little ghost?

Daemon looked toward the bar.

“Working.”

Want her.

“She is working.”

Want strawberries.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Please shut up.

Mara smiled. Now he would be easier. She leaned forward.

“Want me to help you to your room, handsome?”

The Devil recoiled so violently that Daemon’s lip curled.

No.

Malone reached the table before she finished the question. He looked at Mara. Then at the empty glasses.

Finally, he looked at Daemon.

“You’re an idiot.”

Daemon lifted his head.

“Eight.”

“I see that.”

“I can count.”

Little ghost says no.

“Femi disagrees.”

Daemon frowned toward the bar.

The Devil purred.

She was counting.

Malone raised one hand.

“Femi.”

Daemon’s attention sharpened instantly.

Coming.

She approached slowly. Her gaze moved from Mara to Daemon. Mara saw the caution in it and smiled.

“Help this drunken fool to his room, please,” Malone said.

Femi looked at the stairs. Then at Daemon.

Her hands moved.

Can you stand?

“Yes.”

Probably.

Daemon ignored that. He stood. The room shifted beneath him.

No.

Daemon swayed. Femi stepped beside him. The scent of strawberries reached him.

The Devil melted.

There.

For a moment, neither moved. Then Daemon placed one hand carefully on her shoulder.

The Devil surged toward the contact.

Soft.

Easy.

Closer.

No.

He did not grip. Did not pull her beneath his weight. He merely used the contact to steady himself. Femi slipped one arm around his back. Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil did too.

Then—

Oh.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly. That was an embarrassingly accurate assessment. Their progress toward the stairs was slow. Daemon attempted not to place his full weight on her. Femi adjusted each time he leaned too far.

She has us.

She shouldn’t have to.

She wants to.

Daemon looked down at her. Femi tightened her arm around his back and nudged him toward the stairs.

The Devil sounded unbearably smug.

Told you.

Mara watched them cross the clubhouse. Daemon stumbled once. Femi caught him. His hand tightened reflexively against her shoulder before immediately loosening.

“Sorry.”

Femi shook her head.

Little ghost strong.

Daemon looked down at her. Midnight braid. Green eyes. Strawberries beneath whiskey and smoke. The alcohol removed whatever barrier normally stood between thought and speech.

“Beautiful little ghost.”

His voice carried through the quiet room. Femi looked up at him. A blush warmed her cheeks. Her small smile appeared. The Devil went utterly still. Then purred through his blood.

Beautiful.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“Yes.”

Femi’s blush deepened. They reached the stairs and began climbing together.

Behind them, Malone watched the ugliness cross Mara’s face. There it was. The same hatred Candi had worn whenever Femi received something she could not take.

“Don’t come back,” Malone said.

Mara’s attention snapped toward him.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You started a fight, assaulted one of my dancers, threw a drink on my waitress, and waited until a man was too drunk to stand before offering to take him upstairs.”

“I was helping him.”

“No. Femi is helping him.”

Mara laughed bitterly.

“The mute?”

Malone’s expression changed. Mara remembered too late whose daughter she had mocked.

“She’s tiny. He’ll crush her if he falls.”

“Daemon would crawl before he let that happen.”

At the stairs, Femi paused. Daemon had heard him.

So had the Devil.

Crawl.

“Yes.”

Femi looked up at him. Daemon lowered his head near hers. His voice became quiet enough that no one else could hear.

“If I get too heavy, leave me here.”

Femi frowned.

No.

Her hands were occupied keeping him upright, so she shook her head instead.

“I mean it.”

Another shake.

She said no.

“I noticed.”

Femi nudged him toward the next stair. Daemon obeyed.

The Devil hummed.

Bossy little ghost.

A laugh escaped him.

Femi looked up.

“What?” He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Tell her.

“Absolutely not.”

Her eyes narrowed. Daemon’s drunken smile widened.

“Keep walking.”

Femi rolled her eyes and continued guiding him upward. Halfway up, Daemon’s boot caught the edge of a step. His weight shifted. Femi braced instinctively. Daemon caught the railing hard enough to make the wood groan rather than let his body fall against hers. Pain shot through his shoulder.

The Devil approved.

Good.

Daemon steadied himself. Femi touched his arm. Concern replaced her annoyance.

Okay?

“Yes.”

Her gaze remained suspicious. Daemon leaned toward her.

“I told you.”

She waited.

“I’d crawl first.”

Femi’s expression softened.

The Devil whispered against his bones.

Never hurt her.

Daemon’s gaze held hers.

Never.

Never frighten her.

Never.

Never make little ghost regret touching us.

Daemon swallowed.

“Never.”

Femi didn’t know what promise she had just heard. She smiled anyway. Then she wrapped her arm around him again. The Devil nearly came apart.

She touched us again.

Daemon sighed.

“You’re pathetic.”

Femi looked up at him.

“Not you.”

Now she was openly amused.

She knows.

Unfortunately, she probably did.

Downstairs, Mara looked at Malone.

“You can’t fire me because he doesn’t want her.”

“This was one-night work. I never hired you.”

“You let me dance four nights.”

“I let you prove why I shouldn’t make it five.”

Malone opened the employee door. Cold air entered Helix. Mara remained beside the table.

“Candi warned me about you.”

“That explains a great deal.”

“I came here on my own.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Mara’s face hardened. Malone waited. At last, she collected her coat. As she passed him, he lowered his voice.

“Tell Candi the next friend she sends will not get through the door.”

Mara stopped. Then she stepped into the night. Malone closed the door behind her. He turned the lock.

Upstairs, one floorboard creaked beneath Daemon’s uneven steps. Femi remained beside him. They reached his door. Daemon leaned one shoulder against the wall while Femi opened it.

The Devil had become almost unbearably content.

Little ghost brought us home.

Daemon looked at her.

Femi pointed toward the bed.

“Bossy.”

She pointed again.

Do what she says.

“You too?”

Femi stared at him.

Daemon sighed.

“Fine.”

He crossed the room and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. Femi remained near the door. Daemon looked up. For one terrible drunken moment, the Devil wanted to ask her to stay.

Stay.

No.

Ask.

No.

Little ghost. Stay.

Daemon curled his fingers into the blanket. She had helped him upstairs. That was enough. She owed him nothing else. Femi pointed toward the water on his bedside table.

“Yes, mother.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Family.

The word slipped softly through him. Daemon’s amusement faded. Femi turned toward the door.

The Devil stirred.

Tell her goodnight.

“Goodnight, little ghost.”

She stopped. Looked back. Smiled.

Then signed: Goodnight, Devil.

Daemon froze. The Devil did too. Femi slipped through the doorway. The door closed softly behind her. Silence. Daemon stared at it. Inside him, the Devil remained stunned for several seconds.

Then—

She knows me.

Daemon lay backward across the bed and covered his face with one hand.

“Yes.”

A long, pleased silence followed.

She said goodnight to me.

“I heard her.”

Little ghost likes me.

“Go to sleep.”

She does.

“Go. To. Sleep.”

The Devil curled warmly beneath his ribs.

Beautiful little ghost.

Daemon closed his eyes. For once, he didn’t disagree.

Mara had entered Helix believing her body could make any man look. She left understanding why the Devil never had.

Daemon was not made of ice.

He had simply saved all his warmth for someone else.

Daemon discovered that once he truly began looking at Femi, no one else would do.

Candi could climb naked into his bed.

Mara could dance between his knees.

Every beautiful woman in Ravenside could line up outside Helix wearing nothing but desire, and Daemon would still search the room for one small woman with green eyes and midnight hair.

The Devil searched too.

Little ghost.

Always her.

Daemon did not know what he was doing. He could not flirt to save his life. He knew how to frighten people. How to threaten them. How to make men confess things they had sworn they would carry to the grave. But speaking to Femi required a skill he did not possess.

She made him nervous. Not because she demanded anything. Because she did not. Femi approached him with folded notes asking whether he could repair a broken lock or fix a loose shelf. She signed requests for rides as though each one required courage.

The Devil treasured every request.

She comes to us.

Her smiles remained small, but they appeared more often now. Sometimes she laughed. The sound never reached his ears, but Daemon recognized it in the brightness of her eyes and the soft movement of her shoulders. He collected every one.

So did the Devil.

Again.

Her smiles.

Keep that one.

Her laughter.

Ours.

The way she touched him so carefully, as though he were the one who might break.

That confused the Devil most.

She is gentle with us.

Daemon thought often of her hand inside his.

Tiny.

Warm.

Trusting.

She gives it to us.

Every memory made his heart do that horrible thing.

Hope.

Daemon hated hope. Hope convinced a man to loosen his grip on survival. It persuaded him to imagine futures that could be taken away. It opened doors grief could later walk through. Yet he did not want to give up whatever was happening between them.

Neither did the thing inside him.

Keep her close.

Daemon found himself watching Femi again from his corner. Smoke drifted beneath the lights. The jukebox played loud enough to shake the glasses, and customers crowded the tables near the stage. Femi stood behind the bar speaking to Marta with her hands. When she turned, Daemon’s breath left him. The Devil went silent. The high collar of her white shirt covered the scar along her throat, but the top had no sleeves. It followed the shape of her body before disappearing into fitted black jeans.

Her midnight hair had been gathered into a high ponytail. It fell to her waist.

Daemon stared.

The Devil finally breathed through him.

Oh.

Daemon swallowed. Femi lifted his drink onto her tray and began walking toward him.

Little ghost.

There was something almost reverent in the whisper.

Look at her.

“I am.”

Look.

Daemon remained still. A single strand of hair had escaped and slid across her cheek. The urge to tuck it behind her ear became almost painful.

Move it.

“No.”

Softly.

“No.”

Please.

Daemon almost laughed. The Devil had never pleaded for permission to touch anyone in its life. He kept both hands on the table. He wanted her close. That did not give him the right to pull.

The Devil had learned that too.

Only if she lets us.

Femi reached the nearest table and paused when someone caught her attention. She leaned down to read a note a customer had written on a napkin. Daemon’s gaze moved slowly over her. The bare line of her arms. The curve of her waist. The way the fitted jeans followed her hips.

The Devil purred.

Beautiful little ghost.

Daemon looked away quickly. His body had noticed Femi long before his mind found the courage to admit it. The Devil had apparently noticed everything. When she reached his corner, her cheeks were already faintly pink.

Perhaps she had caught him looking.

She knows.

Quiet.

Femi placed his Jack on the rocks in front of him. Daemon leaned forward. Slowly. She stiffened only slightly when his mouth approached her ear. The Devil became impossibly still.

Careful.

“Do you want to go for a ride tomorrow?”

His voice came out low and throaty. Not remotely how he had intended to ask. Femi turned her face toward him. Their eyes met at close range. Daemon forgot every word he had prepared.

The Devil whispered:

Green.

Daemon nearly frowned.

Of all the things—

Her eyes. Look.

He was looking. A blush spread across her cheeks. Then she nodded. His heart struck his ribs.

The Devil surged with such sudden joy that Daemon almost lost his breath.

Yes.

“Four?”

Another nod.

She chose us.

Femi collected the empty glass and walked away. Daemon watched her return to the bar. Her ponytail swayed behind her.

Tomorrow.

“Yes.”

Little ghost and us.

“Yes.”

Alone.

Daemon took a long drink.

“Don’t make it strange.”

Already strange.

Unfortunately, the Devil had a point. Marta said something that made Femi look toward Daemon again. He immediately picked up his whiskey and pretended to be interested in it.

She is looking.

“I know.”

Look back.

“No.”

Coward.

Across the room, Malone laughed.

Daemon considered leaving before hope humiliated him further.

Stay.

He remained until closing.

The following afternoon, Daemon took care with his appearance. He showered. Combed his hair. Then combed it again after deciding the first attempt made him look as though he had combed it.

Again.

“No.”

Bad.

Daemon stared into the mirror.

“You’ve never combed hair in your life.”

Know bad when I see it.

Daemon combed it again. He selected a black shirt and left three buttons undone.

The Devil considered this.

Too many.

Daemon buttoned one.

No.

He unbuttoned it again.

Better.

“This is humiliating.”

The Devil did not care. Daemon put on his leather jacket and examined himself in the mirror. The scar remained. Nothing could be done about that. His gaze lingered on it. The Devil was quiet for a moment.

Then—

She touches it.

Daemon stilled.

Yes.

Femi had touched his scar.

Without disgust.

Without fear.

She likes our face.

“You don’t know that.”

She looks.

Daemon stared at himself. The scar seemed different somehow. Not beautiful. Not gone. Simply no longer something he needed to hide from one particular woman. He turned away. He reached the top of the stairs five minutes early. By the last step, the scent of strawberries stopped him.

The Devil lifted its head.

Little ghost.

His eyes found Femi. She waited near the back entrance holding the second helmet against her hip. Her hair had been gathered into a low braid falling nearly to her waist. She wore a fitted black shirt that followed her curves as though she had been poured into it. Black jeans disappeared into the leather boots they bought in Eastgate. Daemon forgot to descend the final step.

The Devil whispered with naked awe.

She dressed for us.

Daemon’s heart slammed.

Don’t assume that.

Pretty.

Femi looked up.

Her fingers began playing with the end of her braid.

Neither moved.

She is nervous too.

That somehow made everything worse. Malone cleared his throat from behind the bar.

“She works at six, Daemon.”

Daemon glanced at the clock. Four minutes after four.

“I know.”

“That means you have less than two hours.”

“I can count.”

“Apparently not while staring.”

Femi’s face turned red.

The Devil went warm.

Pink.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed at Malone.

Do not kill him.

Daemon almost looked offended.

The Devil continued softly.

Would ruin our afternoon.

Malone laughed and ducked into his office before the Devil could reconsider. Daemon descended the final step. Femi continued twisting the end of her braid.

“Ready?”

She nodded.

Ours for two hours.

Daemon opened the rear door. As she passed him, the scent of strawberries followed.

The Devil nearly melted.

So good.

Daemon wondered whether it came from her hair or the faint gloss across her lips.

Lips.

“Enough.”

Femi glanced back. Daemon realized he’d spoken aloud. He shook his head. Then nearly walked into the doorframe.

Femi saw.

Her silent laugh followed him into the parking lot.

The Devil sounded utterly enchanted.

Again.

The ride took them beyond Wolfwater.

Femi’s arms settled around Daemon’s waist with none of the hesitation from their first trip. The moment they closed around him, the Devil went quiet. Not dormant. Awed.

She holds us now.

Daemon smiled faintly. Femi moved with him through every turn. When he accelerated along an empty stretch of road, her grip tightened and her body pressed closer.

Closer.

The word was almost a sigh. Daemon smiled into the wind. He took them to Sunflower Park. The park rested near the eastern edge of Ravenside, built around a wide lake that reflected the afternoon sky. Walking paths curved between gardens of yellow flowers. Children ran through the grass while couples occupied benches along the water.

Daemon parked near the entrance. Femi dismounted and removed her helmet. Her braid had loosened during the ride. Several strands clung to her flushed face.

Beautiful.

“Too fast?”

She shook her head.

“Not fast enough?”

Femi smiled.

Daemon’s crooked one answered.

Ours.

Daemon’s smile faded slightly.

The Devil corrected itself.

Our smile.

That was different. Daemon allowed it. They walked side by side. Neither spoke. The silence did not feel empty. The Devil was content inside it.

She does not need noise.

No.

That was one of the things Daemon loved most about being near her. Femi stopped beside a fountain filled with coins. Daemon waited while she watched the water.

What does she wish for?

I don’t know.

Ask.

No.

Why?

Then it won’t come true.

The Devil considered that with surprising seriousness.

Then do not ask.

Femi paused near every flower bed, reading the small plaques naming each variety. Daemon waited at every one. The Devil never complained. At a vendor cart, Daemon bought two wrapped sandwiches, fruit, and strawberry lemonade.

Femi noticed the drinks and looked at him.

“You smell like strawberries.”

Her eyes widened.

Daemon immediately regretted speaking.

Good.

“I mean your hair.”

Femi touched it.

“Or something.”

Her hand moved toward her lips.

Daemon looked at the gloss.

“That.”

The Devil purred.

Knew it.

Her shoulders moved with silent laughter. Daemon took both drinks before he dropped his. They found a quiet place beneath a large weeping willow. Its branches formed a green curtain around a patch of grass near the lake. Femi sat with her legs folded to one side.

Daemon lowered himself beside her. They ate while watching sunlight move across the water. For several minutes, neither attempted conversation.

The Devil seemed almost sleepy beneath his ribs.

Stay here.

Daemon looked toward the lake.

Can’t.

Why?

She works.

Later, then.

Something about that hurt. Later. The Devil had begun assuming there would be one.

Daemon finished his sandwich first.

“Did you like the ride?”

Femi wiped her fingers and raised her hands.

Yes.

Then:

You go fast.

She smiled. Daemon laughed. The sound surprised both of them.

The Devil stirred.

Again.

“You like it fast, Femi?”

The words came out far more suggestive than he intended. Femi’s face turned crimson. Daemon closed his eyes. The Devil went silent.

Then—

Oh.

“I meant the motorcycle.”

Her silent laughter became impossible to hide.

“I know what I meant.”

Femi continued laughing.

She likes teasing us.

Daemon lowered himself onto the grass, one arm beneath his head.

“You enjoy watching me suffer.”

She looked down at him. Her smile was soft. Beautiful. Sunlight passed through the willow branches and moved across her face. Her braid rested over one shoulder, the end touching the grass beside his arm. Daemon stared.

The Devil whispered as though speaking too loudly might make her disappear.

Look at her.

Daemon did.

Gods.

He had never heard awe in the Devil before.

Femi’s hands rose.

I like you.

Everything stopped. Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil vanished into complete silence. The smile remained, but a blush warmed her cheeks. Daemon read the signs again in his memory.

I like you.

Not his motorcycle. Not the rides. Him.

The Devil whispered so softly Daemon almost mistook it for his own thought.

Us?

His throat tightened. His heart did the thing he hated.

Harder than ever.

She likes us.

There was no arrogance in it. No claim. Only wonder.

Daemon looked at Femi.

“I like you too, Femi.”

His voice was soft. Femi’s eyes shimmered. A strand of midnight hair moved across her cheek. The same unbearable urge returned. Daemon lifted his hand. Stopped before touching her.

The Devil did not demand.

It whispered:

Ask.

“May I?”

She nodded.

The Devil trembled.

Yes.

Daemon tucked the strand behind her ear. His fingertips brushed her temple.

Warm.

Soft.

Real.

Femi shivered.

Daemon immediately stopped.

“Is that okay?”

Another nod.

She lets us touch her.

The awe in the Devil’s voice hurt.

She trusts our hands.

Daemon looked at his fingers. Hands that had broken bones. Hands that had killed. Hands men watched because they knew what those hands could do. Femi had just given him permission to touch her face.

The Devil whispered:

Gentle.

Always. Her gaze moved over his face.

Then her hands rose.

Are you afraid?

Daemon frowned.

“No.”

Liar.

The lie had come immediately. Femi tilted her head. Her green eyes held his. She knew.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“A little.”

Of what?

Her hands paused.

Then she pointed toward herself.

Me?

“Yes.”

The answer left on a breath. Confusion entered her face.

Why?

Daemon stared up at her.

She genuinely did not understand.

Because you matter.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“You don’t know, do you, little ghost?”

Femi tilted her head farther to the left.

Tell her.

Daemon made a helpless sound.

“Gods, little ghost. You are killing me.”

Concern replaced her confusion. She leaned closer.

The Devil surged with tenderness.

No, no, sweet ghost.

Daemon almost laughed.

“Not literally.”

Femi frowned and struck his shoulder lightly. He caught her hand before she withdrew it. Not to restrain her. Only to hold it. Her tiny fingers rested inside his palm. The Devil became silent again.

Daemon looked at their joined hands.

Ours.

Daemon’s fingers loosened slightly.

The Devil corrected itself.

Given.

That distinction mattered.

She gave us her hand.

Yes.

What frightened him?

That she made him want mornings.

Mornings with her.

A home.

Her things beside ours.

A reason to return alive.

Come home to little ghost.

That her smile had begun to matter more than his anger.

Keep her smiling.

That she touched him as though the blood on his hands had not made him untouchable.

The Devil’s voice became almost unbearably soft.

She does not think we are ruined.

Daemon could have told her. The words rose. Then stopped. He was not ready. Perhaps neither of them was.

“Later,” he said.

Femi narrowed her eyes.

“I’ll tell you later.”

Promise.

Daemon looked at her.

“I promise.”

That seemed to surprise her. She still did not appear satisfied. Daemon sat up. Near the edge of the willow’s shade, a single sunflower grew beside the path. He plucked it carefully and held it toward her. Femi looked from the flower to him.

“A distraction.”

Her smile returned.

Worked.

She accepted the sunflower. The Devil went still. Femi held the yellow flower between her fingers. The sun had begun lowering behind her, turning the lake gold. Light moved through the edges of her black hair. Daemon’s heart ached.

The Devil whispered:

Keep this.

Daemon frowned slightly.

Remember her like this.

Femi looked down at the sunflower.

Green eyes.

A breeze moved her hair.

Black hair.

She smiled at him.

That smile.

Daemon stared.

Remember.

Something about the command felt different. Not possession. Fear. The Devil knew what Daemon knew. Beautiful things could disappear.

Please remember.

Daemon committed every detail to memory.

“I have to get you back before Malone kills me.”

Femi looked toward the sky. Then at the time. Her eyes widened. Daemon stood and offered his hand. She took it without hesitation.

The Devil shivered.

Again.

Daemon pulled her gently to her feet. Neither released the other immediately.

The Devil barely breathed.

Don’t move.

Daemon didn’t.

Femi’s hand remained in his.

Warm.

Small.

Voluntary.

She stays.

For another heartbeat. Then another. Daemon finally loosened his fingers. Femi did too.

They walked back toward the motorcycle with the sunflower in Femi’s free hand.

Daemon returned her to Helix at five fifty.

Ten minutes early.

Malone stood near the back door with his arms folded. He looked at the clock. Then at Daemon.

“Miracles happen.”

Do not ruin it.

Daemon ignored the Devil. Femi entered carrying the sunflower. Marta saw it and immediately began signing questions. Femi’s face turned red.

The Devil was delighted.

She kept it.

Daemon escaped to his corner before anyone could involve him.

At six, Femi started working.

She changed into her uniform, tied her hair back, and moved between the tables carrying drinks. Daemon watched her. The Devil watched with him. Quietly now. He had almost told her. Beneath the willow, with her hand inside his, he had nearly revealed how deeply she had entered him. How afraid he was of wanting something gentle. How hope had begun growing in places he had believed permanently dead.

She put it there.

Daemon stared at her.

Yes.

Then Femi looked toward his corner. Their eyes met. She smiled.

The Devil whispered:

Ours.

Daemon lowered his head, allowing his pale hair to conceal his face. But the Devil corrected itself one last time. Soft. Possessive. Awed.

No.

Daemon waited.

We are hers.

He smiled behind his hair. Femi liked him. The knowledge moved through him with terrifying warmth.

His heart did that thing again.

Let it.

This time, Daemon did.

Daemon did not know how it happened.

One moment, he and Femi were sitting beneath the willow at Sunflower Park, sharing food and laughing about his terrible attempt at flirting.

The next, everything had changed.

He had left her alone for less than five minutes.

A vendor near the walking path sold strawberry lemonade. Femi had watched another woman carry one past them, her green eyes following the bright red drink with unmistakable interest.

Daemon noticed. Of course he did.

The Devil had noticed too.

Little ghost wants one.

Daemon looked at her.

“You could just ask.”

Femi blinked innocently.

She wants one.

“I know.”

Strawberry.

“Yes.”

Get it.

Daemon sighed and stood.

“I’ll be back.”

Femi smiled.

The Devil warmed.

Pretty.

Daemon told Femi to stay beneath the tree while he bought two.

When he returned, Candi stood over her. Daemon stopped. The two cups of strawberry lemonade remained in his hands. Femi had risen from the grass. The sunflower Daemon gave her lay near the blanket.

Candi’s face was twisted with rage. The Devil recognized her first.

Everything inside Daemon changed.

Her.

“You think you won?”

Candi advanced on Femi.

The Devil rose.

No.

“You think a man like him will stay with you?”

Femi stepped backward. Candi followed. Daemon began walking. Slowly. The lemonade slipped from his fingers. One cup struck the grass. Then the other.

Get away from her.

“You think someone like Daemon believes you matter?”

Candi laughed.

The sound carried across the grass.

“Oh, yeah. You can’t talk, can you?”

Femi’s hands remained at her sides.

Do not speak to her.

Candi came closer.

“You’re a stupid fucking mute. Once he gets you into his bed, he’ll forget all about you.”

The Devil snarled.

Never.

Femi’s expression closed.

“You’re nothing but a dirty street whore.”

Candi flicked her fingers against Femi’s cheek. The contact turned her face. Daemon stopped breathing.

The Devil screamed.

SHE TOUCHED HER.

Femi went still.

Daemon started forward.

She touched our little ghost.

“A fucking street rat Malone took pity on.”

Kill her.

Candi crowded her.

“You took my job. You had me fired.”

Femi shook her head.

“You did.”

Candi’s voice rose.

“You did that to me, stupid mute. You’re going to pay. Do you hear me?”

Femi saw the movement before it happened. Candi raised her fist. The sunlight vanished. Daemon’s shadow fell over her like a cloud covering the sun. Candi froze. Daemon stood behind her. The two cups of lemonade lay forgotten in the grass near his boots, red liquid soaking into the earth. His pale hair had fallen across his scarred face. His hands hung loose at his sides. His breathing was low. Slow.

The terrible calm before violence.

Inside him, there was nothing calm.

Break it.

Daemon stared at Candi’s raised fist.

The hand. Break it.

Candi looked over her shoulder.

Every trace of anger left her face.

“Daemon.”

He did not answer. His steel-gray eyes settled on the raised fist.

She was going to hit her.

Then his gaze moved to Femi’s cheek. Red. The mark of Candi’s fingers was already appearing against her skin. Something inside him broke.

The Devil roared through the ruins.

She marked her.

Daemon’s fingers twitched.

Kill her.

Candi lowered her hand.

Too late.

Kill her.

“She started—”

Daemon took one step forward.

Candi backed away.

“We were only talking.”

Another step.

Throat.

“She came at me.”

Neck.

Daemon said nothing.

Hands.

The silence terrified her more than shouting would have.

Break her.

Femi looked at him.

She touched our little ghost.

Daemon could barely hear anything else.

She hurt her.

His hands were already remembering.

Pressure.

Angle.

Force.

Kill her.

He knew exactly how quickly he could do it. Two seconds. Perhaps less. One hand beneath the jaw. One at the back of the skull. Turn. Done.

Do it.

Daemon was no longer standing in Sunflower Park beneath an open afternoon sky. He was somewhere else. Somewhere made of blood, orders, and bodies that stopped moving beneath his hands.

The Silent Order. Rooms without windows. Men kneeling. Men begging. Men learning too late why Daemon Pallid had survived everything done to him.

Executioner.

Femi saw it. Not anger. Not threat. Decision. She looked toward Candi. Then back at him. She could see it as clearly as if it had already happened. Daemon’s hands closing around Candi’s throat. The sharp movement that would end her. The silence afterward. Candi had hurt her. Threatened her. Humiliated her. Yet Femi did not want Daemon to carry another death.

She moved around Candi. Daemon barely noticed. His attention remained fixed on the woman who had raised a fist toward Femi.

Now.

One more step.

Kill her.

His fingers curled.

For our little ghost.

Then—

A small hand slipped into his. Warm. Soft. Alive. Daemon stopped.

The Devil did not.

Kill—

Femi’s fingers threaded through his.

The voice fractured.

Kill. She touched—

Femi squeezed. Daemon inhaled. Strawberries. Warm skin. Tiny fingers woven through his.

The park began returning around him.

Little…

The Devil faltered. Daemon looked down. Femi stood beside him. Her hand appeared impossibly small inside his. Her body trembled. But her green eyes held his without fear.

The Devil stared through him.

Ghost.

The rage stumbled.

Our little ghost.

Femi smiled. Tiny. Trusting. The Devil went silent. Daemon could almost feel the thing inside him staring at their joined hands. At the little fingers resting between his. At the woman who had seen exactly what he was about to become— and touched him anyway.

The Devil whispered again. But the rage was gone from its voice.

She came to us.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

Yes.

She touched us.

Yes.

She is not afraid.

No.

Something ancient and violent folded itself down inside him. Not defeated. Not forced. Yielding. Because she had asked without words.

Little ghost wants us here.

Here. Not inside those old rooms. Not with blood beneath his fingernails. Here. Under sunlight. Beside a lake. Holding her hand.

Stay with her.

The killing feeling receded. Not entirely. Never entirely. But Femi’s warmth pushed it back. Daemon blinked. His fingers had already begun remembering the shape of Candi’s throat.

Now they remembered something else. Femi. Tiny. Warm. Trusting.

Hold her instead.

Daemon tightened his fingers around hers. Not enough to hurt. Enough to answer.

The Devil curled around the contact.

Mine.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The whisper softened immediately.

Ours.

Another pause.

Then, almost reverently—

No. We are hers.

Candi stared at them.

“Daemon, she’s manipulating you.”

The Devil stirred.

Careful.

Daemon looked at Femi’s cheek. The mark was growing redder.

Rage breathed again.

She marked our little ghost.

Femi felt the change. Her fingers tightened.

Immediately, the Devil softened.

There.

Daemon looked down at their joined hands.

Stay here.

“She’s lying to you,” Candi continued. “You don’t know what she is.”

The Devil answered quietly.

We know.

Daemon’s eyes remained on Femi.

She is gentle.

Femi’s thumb moved against his hand.

She is brave.

Her body was still trembling.

She is ours to protect.

Daemon breathed.

And we are hers to stop.

That one landed differently. Daemon looked at Femi. She did not know the thing inside him had just surrendered something it had never surrendered to anyone. Control. Not because she took it.

Because the Devil gave it to her.

Take little ghost home.

Daemon made his decision. They were leaving. Femi mattered more than punishment. He turned away from Candi. Her mouth fell open.

“Where are you going?”

Daemon did not answer.

Away.

He bent, retrieved the sunflower from the grass, and handed it to Femi.

The Devil watched her take it.

Her flower.

Then he gathered their things with his free hand. He did not release Femi.

Candi followed.

“You can’t just walk away from me.”

Daemon continued toward the parking lot.

“I’m talking to you!”

Nothing.

“Daemon!”

Femi walked beside him, her hand locked in his.

The Devil had gone strangely peaceful.

She chose our hand.

Daemon looked down briefly.

Femi was still holding him.

Still here.

Candi’s voice rose behind them.

“That little mute bitch will leave you. She’ll use you like everyone else.”

Daemon stopped.

The Devil exploded.

TURN AROUND.

Femi looked up.

ONE MINUTE.

Daemon’s jaw flexed.

Give me one minute.

His hand tightened around Femi’s. She squeezed back.

The Devil shuddered.

Little ghost.

Daemon did not turn.

She wants us here.

Yes.

Stay.

He stayed.

“Come near her again,” he said without looking at Candi, “and you will learn how much mercy she bought you today.”

The Devil whispered beneath the words.

All of it.

Candi became silent. Daemon and Femi continued walking.

Every breath you have.

Another step.

She bought it.

Another.

Remember that.

He did not release Femi until they reached the motorcycle. Then only because he needed both hands to unlock the helmets. The moment their fingers separated, the Devil noticed.

Gone.

She is standing right there.

Hand.

Daemon ignored it. Femi stood beside him, trembling slightly. The Devil’s attention changed instantly.

She is shaking.

Daemon placed the helmet on the seat.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

He looked at her cheek.

Red.

Femi touched the mark.

No.

“She touched you.”

The Devil’s voice darkened.

She touched you.

Femi nodded.

“I should have—”

Killed her.

Her hand closed around his wrist. Everything stopped again.

The Devil melted beneath the contact.

There.

Daemon looked at her fingers around him. Femi signed with her other hand.

You came back.

The words struck him.

The Devil whispered: Always.

“I will always come back.”

He had not meant to make a promise. The truth made it one. Femi watched him. The Devil went quiet.

Almost awed.

She waits for us to come back.

Daemon brushed his thumb beneath the mark on her cheek. The touch was nearly weightless.

Gentle.

“May I?”

She nodded.

She lets us.

He examined the skin without pressing it.

The Devil’s rage stirred again at the sight.

Candi did this.

“Yes.”

Femi watched him. Daemon realized he’d answered aloud.

He lowered his hand.

“I’ll deal with Candi later.”

Yes.

Femi frowned.

“Without killing her.”

The Devil objected immediately.

No.

Her expression remained doubtful.

Daemon gave her his crooked smile.

“I’ll try.”

Femi struck his arm lightly.

The Devil went silent.

Then—

She hit us.

Daemon almost smiled.

“I said I’ll try.”

She shook her head.

“No killing.”

Femi nodded firmly.

The Devil grumbled.

Little ghost asks too much.

Daemon waited.

Femi stared.

Fine.

“No killing.”

Satisfied, she accepted the helmet.

The Devil muttered:

Only because she asked.

Daemon helped fasten it beneath her chin.

His fingers moved carefully around the strap.

Pretty little ghost.

He climbed onto the motorcycle. Femi settled behind him. Her arms came around his waist. The Devil sighed. Not growled. Not purred.

Sighed.

Home.

Daemon reached down and gathered both her hands into one of his.

He held them against his stomach.

Keep them.

“She will never be you, little ghost.”

Femi became still behind him.

The Devil whispered against his ribs.

No one.

“Do you understand?”

Her fingers moved beneath his palm.

A small nod touched his back.

“No one will.”

There is only you.

Daemon released her hands and started the motorcycle. The engine roared. Femi made a soft breath as the bike surged forward. Then she pressed her slight weight fully against him. Daemon felt her melt into his back. Her arms tightened around his waist.

The Devil settled.

Closer.

Daemon sighed.

Safe.

The rage remained behind them in Sunflower Park.

Candi remained with it. For now, Femi needed him. That mattered more.

The Devil understood.

Little ghost first.

Daemon accelerated onto the road, smiling into the wind as Femi held him closer.

Always.

He had spent most of his life believing violence was the greatest power his hands possessed. Those hands had broken men. Killed them. Carried out orders. Built the Devil’s reputation one body at a time. Then Femi placed one small hand inside his— and the Devil stopped.

Not because she defeated it. Not because she frightened it. Not because Daemon forced it back into the darkness.

The Devil stopped because it recognized her.

Little ghost.

Because she touched the hand built for killing and trusted it to hold hers.

Ours to protect.

Because when she silently asked the monster to stay with her instead of following its rage— it chose her.

We are hers.

And for the first time in Daemon’s life, the Devil surrendered willingly.

Daemon thought about the park. He had been thinking about it for three days.

Not continuously. He had other things to do. People to speak with. A warehouse on the south side needed visiting. Malone wanted copies of Candi’s confession distributed to every club between Wolfwater and Eastgate.

There were motorcycles requiring maintenance.

A man owed Red money. Normal things.

Still—

Sunflower Park kept returning.

The Devil approved.

Take little ghost.

Daemon sat in his usual corner at Helix with a Jack on the rocks resting untouched beneath his hand. Across the clubhouse, Femi carried two plates toward a table. She had been quieter since Candi.

That was an impressive accomplishment for a woman who did not speak. Daemon noticed anyway.

The Devil did too.

She does not look at us enough.

“She looks at us.”

Not enough.

Femi delivered the plates. One of the customers thanked her. She smiled.

The Devil immediately objected.

That one got a smile.

“He said thank you.”

We say thank you.

“Sometimes.”

Say it more.

Daemon lifted his glass. Femi turned. Their eyes met. She gave him a tiny smile.

The Devil settled instantly.

There.

Daemon almost laughed.

Pathetic.

Again.

“No.”

Femi returned to the service window.

The Devil watched.

Park.

Daemon had taken her there twice. Sunflower Park sat in Westheaven where Wolfwater’s concrete slowly surrendered to grass, old trees, walking paths, and a lake large enough to catch the afternoon sky.

Families went there. Children. Old couples. People walking dogs. Women reading beneath trees. Men jogging badly while pretending they enjoyed it. Nothing happened there. That was what Daemon liked about it. Nothing. No one expected anything from him. No one called him Devil. No one handed him photographs or names. No one needed something broken. Femi could sit beneath the willow beside the lake and read while he pretended not to watch her.

The Devil never pretended.

Pretty.

Daemon watched her carry another order.

“You say that constantly.”

Because she remains pretty.

Fair. He took a drink. Sunflower Park. Tomorrow.

He would take her tomorrow.

The Devil noticed the car before Daemon did. Gray sedan. Nothing remarkable about it. It passed Helix shortly after eleven. Continued through the intersection. Gone.

Car.

Daemon glanced toward the window.

“What about it?”

The Devil had no answer. Nothing inside him sharpened. No warning. No instinct.

Just—

Saw it.

Daemon returned to his whiskey. Cars drove through Wolfwater. That was generally what roads were for.

The Devil grumbled.

Femi appeared beside the table with a plate. Apple pie. Daemon looked at it.

“I didn’t order this.”

She placed a fork beside it.

Little ghost brought us pie.

“I can see that.”

Femi raised an eyebrow.

Daemon picked up the fork.

“Thank you.”

The Devil became unbearably smug.

We said thank you.

Femi smiled.

There.

Daemon forgot the car.

The following afternoon was warm. Too warm for the jacket Daemon wore anyway. Femi appeared outside Helix in a pale-blue dress and sandals. Daemon looked at her. The Devil stopped thinking entirely. For several seconds there was only silence inside him.

Then—

Oh.

Daemon nearly smiled.

Femi approached the motorcycle. Her midnight hair hung loose down her back. The dress moved around her knees in the breeze. She carried a small bag with a book tucked beneath one arm.

Pretty little ghost.

“Get on.”

She narrowed her eyes.

Tell her.

“No.”

Femi waited.

The Devil became irritated.

Tell her she is pretty.

Daemon handed her the helmet.

“You look nice.”

Femi’s expression softened. Color touched her cheeks.

The Devil purred.

Better.

Daemon climbed onto the motorcycle. Femi settled behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist.

The Devil immediately forgot every complaint it had ever possessed.

Park.

“Yes.”

Strawberries.

“If they have them.”

They will.

“You don’t know that.”

Make them.

Daemon started the motorcycle.

Sunflower Park was crowded. Saturday. Families covered the lawns. Children chased one another between picnic tables. Music drifted from somewhere near the lake. Food vendors lined the walking path.

Daemon parked near the western entrance. A gray sedan sat three rows away. He noticed it because the Devil had noticed another gray sedan the night before. For a moment, Daemon looked at it. Four-door. Clean. Tinted windows. Nothing distinctive. Different license plate. Probably a different car.

Gray.

“There are millions of gray cars.”

The Devil considered that.

Ugly.

Daemon got off the motorcycle. Femi was watching him.

She signed.

What?

“Nothing.”

She looked toward the sedan. Then back at him. Daemon shook his head.

“Come on.”

The Devil forgot the car the moment Femi took his hand.

They found their willow. Femi spread the blanket. Daemon had brought sandwiches. Femi had brought enough food to feed six people because apparently she did not understand picnics.

The Devil approved of everything. Especially the strawberries.

She brought them.

“For herself.”

For us.

Daemon took one. Femi slapped his hand. The Devil went silent. Daemon stared at her. She stared back.

She struck us.

“She did.”

Femi pushed the container farther away. Daemon took another strawberry. She slapped his hand again.

The Devil seemed fascinated.

Again.

Daemon laughed. Femi froze. Not from fear. Surprise. Daemon realized why. He did not laugh often. Her face changed. Slowly. A smile. Then silent laughter moved through her shoulders. Daemon watched. Something in his chest became painfully soft.

The Devil whispered:

Keep this.

Daemon looked toward the lake. He understood. He wanted to. He wanted afternoons where nothing happened. Strawberries stolen from containers. Books. Blankets beneath trees. Femi laughing at him because he had apparently forgotten how picnics worked. He wanted things he had never known existed until she sat beside him and made them seem ordinary.

The Devil wanted them too.

Our little ghost likes the park.

“Yes.”

Bring her again.

“I will.”

Femi looked between them as though she somehow knew he was having an argument no one else could hear.

Daemon handed her the strawberry. She accepted it.

The Devil sighed happily.

Good.

Then Daemon felt it. Watching. His eyes lifted. Across the walking path, people moved beneath the trees. A man pushed a stroller. Two women walked side by side. An older couple sat on a bench. A man stood farther back near the tree line. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Phone in his hand. Looking toward them. Daemon’s body went still.

The Devil noticed.

What?

“Nothing.”

The man looked away. Toward the lake. Bystander. Probably wondering why a scarred man dressed in black was stealing strawberries from a woman half his size. Daemon dismissed him.

Femi touched his arm.

What?

“Nothing.”

Her eyes followed his previous line of sight. The man was walking away.

Daemon looked back at her.

Eat.

Femi rolled her eyes.

The Devil was offended.

She orders us now.

Daemon picked up his sandwich.

“You like it.”

A pause.

Yes.

The man beneath the trees did not leave. He changed positions. That was all. A bench closer to the walking path. Phone lowered. Camera angled through the gap between two families.

Femi laughing.

Click.

Daemon leaning toward her.

Click.

Femi signing.

Click.

Daemon watching her hands.

Click.

The scout never photographed Daemon alone. There was no need. They had photographs of Daemon Pallid. Everyone did. Femi was the assignment.

Face.

Height.

Build.

Hair.

Clothing.

Movement.

Relationship.

How close she allowed Daemon. Whether she touched him. Whether he touched her. Whether she watched exits. Whether she noticed strangers. Whether she startled when children screamed nearby. Whether the information Candi provided matched reality.

Most of it did.

The scout waited.

Patience had always been rewarded.

Then Daemon stood. The scout lowered his phone. Strawberry lemonade. Daemon walked toward the vendor. Femi remained beneath the willow.

Alone.

The scout lifted his phone again.

Click.

No Daemon.

Click.

Femi reading.

Click.

Distance from nearest crowd.

Click.

Clear face.

Then a woman entered the frame. Blonde. Angry. The scout recognized her. Candi. He almost laughed.

Instead, he started recording.

Daemon waited while the vendor made two lemonades. Something beneath his skin shifted. Not the Devil. Him. He looked toward the willow. Candi stood over Femi. Everything inside him changed.

The cups remained in his hands.

The Devil recognized her.

Her.

Daemon began walking. Candi shouted. People turned. A mother gathered her child closer. Two joggers slowed. Someone near the lake stopped. A man beneath the trees lifted his phone. Perfectly ordinary. Everyone had phones out now. Everyone watched. A public argument.

A woman screaming at another woman. A dangerous-looking man approaching. Concerned citizens became spectators. Spectators became cameras.

No one knew which camera mattered.

“You think someone like Daemon believes you matter?”

Candi laughed.

Femi stepped backward.

Click.

Her face.

Fear beginning.

Click.

Distance response.

One step.

Candi advanced.

Femi retreated.

Click.

Does not confront.

Does not flee immediately.

Candi crowded her. Femi’s shoulders tightened.

Click.

The scout zoomed. Her hands remained at her sides. No sign language. No attempt to call for help.

Freeze response beginning.

Confirmed.

“Oh, yeah. You can’t talk, can you?”

Click.

Femi’s expression closed. The scout photographed that too.

Emotional concealment.

Useful.

Then Candi touched her. Fingers against cheek. Femi’s face turned.

Click.

Perfect.

The scout saw Daemon before Candi did. The change was immediate. Pallid stopped being a man walking across a park. He became something else. The scout lowered the phone slightly.

Not from fear. To watch. Daemon’s focus narrowed completely onto Candi. No environmental scan. No crowd assessment. No secondary threat check. Nothing. Only Femi. Interesting. Very interesting. Candi raised her fist. Daemon stepped behind her.

The scout took another photograph. Daemon. Candi. Femi. All three in frame. Then Daemon looked at Femi’s cheek. The scout zoomed. There. The mark. Red against olive skin.

Daemon’s expression changed. The scout photographed that too. Protective trigger. Visible injury.

Immediate escalation.

Daemon barely heard the park anymore. The Devil wanted Candi dead. Everything narrowed. Her raised fist. Femi’s cheek. The red mark.

Kill her.

He sensed movement beyond the trees. His eyes flicked toward it. A man stood there. Phone raised. Watching. The Devil barely acknowledged him.

Witness.

Daemon agreed. A bystander. Someone frightened by the argument. Probably recording in case the scarred bastard in black murdered a woman in broad daylight. Then Candi spoke again. Daemon’s attention returned. The watcher disappeared from his mind.

That was the mistake.

Femi took his hand.

The scout nearly missed the photograph.

Daemon Pallid had been seconds from violence. Anyone could see it. The posture. Hands. Stillness. Candi sensed it. The surrounding crowd sensed it. Then Femi touched him.

Everything changed.

Click.

Daemon looked down.

Click.

Femi threaded her fingers through his.

Click.

His shoulders lowered.

Click.

The scout stopped photographing. He watched. That was more important. One touch. No command. No force. No intervention from Malone. No weapon. The mute girl took Daemon Pallid’s hand— and the Devil stopped.

The scout remembered Candi’s drunken voice.

She can get him to do anything.

He had assumed jealousy exaggerated the claim. Apparently not. He resumed photographing. Femi’s hand inside Daemon’s. Daemon turning away from Candi. Daemon choosing to leave. Femi trembling. Daemon staying close. Every photograph added another line to the profile.

Femi was not merely Daemon Pallid’s weakness.

She was his restraint.

By the time they reached the motorcycle, the scout was moving. No hurry. Hurry drew attention. He walked toward the parking lot with three other people leaving the park. A concerned citizen. Nothing more. Daemon examined Femi’s cheek. The scout photographed from between two parked vehicles. Daemon touched beneath the mark. Carefully.

Femi allowed it.

Click.

She touched his wrist.

Click.

Daemon stopped immediately. Another control point. The scout lowered the phone. Enough. He got into the gray sedan. Waited.

Daemon fastened Femi’s helmet. Something bothered him. He looked toward the trees. The man was gone.

Watcher.

“Bystander.”

The Devil remained unsettled.

Watched little ghost.

“So did half the park.”

True.

Children had stopped playing. Parents stared. People had phones out. Candi had screamed loudly enough to turn an afternoon picnic into public theater. There had been dozens of witnesses. Nothing unusual about one more. Femi climbed onto the motorcycle. Her arms wrapped around him.

The Devil settled.

Home.

Daemon started the engine. He pulled from the parking space. Then stopped. Gray sedan. Three rows over. Engine running. The same one he had noticed when they arrived. The windshield reflected sunlight. He could not see the driver. Daemon stared. The sedan pulled away. Normal speed. No squealing tires. No sudden turn. It joined traffic leaving the park.

Gone.

Femi tapped his stomach.

What?

Daemon watched the road.

“Nothing.”

The word felt wrong.

The Devil agreed.

Gray.

“Yes.”

Yesterday.

“Different plate.”

Gray.

“That does not make it the same car.”

The Devil went quiet. Femi rested her helmet against his back. Daemon looked once more toward the exit.

Nothing.

He pulled onto the road.

Three miles later, the feeling remained. Daemon checked the mirror. No gray sedan. Another mile. Nothing. He took an unnecessary turn. Then another. No one followed.

The Devil remained awake.

Someone watched.

“Everyone watched.”

Someone watched her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. That was different. He thought back.

The man beneath the trees. Phone. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Nothing memorable. That bothered him most. Daemon remembered faces. He had survived by remembering them. This one dissolved the moment he tried to hold it.

Femi’s arms tightened around him when he accelerated.

The Devil immediately softened.

Little ghost.

Daemon slowed.

“Sorry.”

She patted his stomach. The Devil purred.

Then Daemon understood something else. Candi had done more than confront Femi. She had made everyone look. She had dragged Femi from beneath the willow into open grass. Forced her backward. Turned her face toward the walking path. Made her freeze. Made her afraid. Made Daemon cross half the park toward her. Anyone watching had seen everything. Femi’s face. Her height. Her reactions. The way she froze when threatened. The way she retreated instead of fighting. The way her hands stopped moving when fear became too large. The mark on her cheek.

And him. How quickly he came. How completely his attention narrowed. How close he stood. How violently he reacted to someone touching her. How one small hand in his could stop him.

The Devil became very still.

They saw.

Daemon looked into the mirror again. Empty road.

“We don’t know anyone was watching.”

We saw him.

“A man with a phone.”

Watching her.

“Watching Candi.”

The Devil rejected that immediately.

No.

Daemon remembered. The angle. The phone had not been pointed toward Candi when he first noticed it. It had been pointed toward the willow. Before Candi arrived. His stomach tightened. Femi shifted behind him. Daemon covered one of her hands with his.

The Devil whispered:

Someone watched our little ghost.

This time Daemon did not argue.

The gray sedan reached Crown Center twenty minutes later. It entered an underground garage. The scout parked on level three. He remained behind the wheel. Opened his phone.

One hundred twelve photographs. He deleted most. Duplicates. Blurred frames. Crowd obstruction. Candi blocking the subject.

He kept twenty-three. Femi beneath the willow. Femi alone. Femi looking up at Candi. Femi retreating. Femi frozen after contact. Clear image of facial injury.

Daemon approaching. Daemon seeing the injury. Daemon preparing for violence.

Femi taking his hand. Daemon stopping. Daemon examining her cheek. Femi touching his wrist. Daemon responding.

The scout selected nine. Attached them to a message. No names. Names were unnecessary. The recipient knew who mattered. He added his observations. Visual confirmation obtained. Female matches description. Mute confirmed behaviorally. Freeze response under direct aggression confirmed. Pallid response to physical contact/injury immediate.

He paused.

Looked at the photograph of Femi’s hand inside Daemon’s.

Added:

Subject can interrupt Pallid escalation through touch alone. Another photograph. Daemon looking down at Femi while Candi stood forgotten beside them.

The scout studied it.

Then typed:

Pallid loses environmental awareness when subject is threatened. He sent the message. A reply arrived less than a minute later. Two words.

More soon.

The scout deleted the conversation.

Removed the SIM. Snapped it. He sat in silence for another moment.

Candi had been useful again.

She believed she had gone to Sunflower Park to punish the mute girl who ruined her life.

Instead, she had created a field test.

Every weakness she described over whiskey had been placed beneath sunlight and confirmed. The scout looked once more at Femi’s photograph. Green eyes. Midnight hair. Red mark across her cheek. Fear carefully contained behind stillness. Then another.

Her hand inside Daemon Pallid’s. The monster stopping. Candi had given them the psychological profile.

Today she had given them proof.

And neither Daemon nor his Devil had understood until the gray sedan was already gone.

Daemon entered Malone’s office and slammed the door behind him. Malone looked up from the paperwork covering his desk. Shock crossed his face. Daemon rarely entered the office without being invited. He never closed the door hard enough to shake the glass.

“Call Red.”

Malone set down his pen.

“What happened?”

“Candi touched her.”

The Devil surged beneath Daemon’s ribs.

She put her hands on our little ghost.

Daemon’s voice filled the small office.

“She put her hands on Femi. Left a mark on her face.”

Red.

His fingers curled.

On her skin.

Malone stood so quickly that his chair struck the wall.

“She did what?”

“I want her gone, Malone.”

Gone.

Daemon paced once across the office, then turned.

“I want her run out of Wolfwater. She’s hiding somewhere, and I want to know where.”

Find her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Give her to me.

No.

Malone looked at him.

Daemon ignored the question in his expression.

The Devil snarled.

She hurt her.

I know.

She raised her hand to her.

I know.

She should not have a hand.

Daemon exhaled slowly.

We made a promise.

The Devil recoiled.

Little ghost asks too much.

No killing.

Did not say killing.

Daemon stared at the wall.

You were thinking it.

The Devil offered no denial. Malone marched toward the door and opened it. His gaze swept the clubhouse. He found Femi across the room carrying a tray toward the kitchen. Her midnight hair had been gathered into a braid, exposing the faint red mark across her cheek. Daemon saw it again.

The Devil went feral.

There.

Malone saw it. Something inside his expression died. He closed the door again.

Softly this time.

“She won’t be here in the morning.”

His voice had become cold.

Low.

“She hurt my daughter.”

The word settled in the room. Not employee. Not Iris’s child. His daughter.

The Devil went still.

Daughter.

“Yes,” Daemon answered.

Family.

“Yes.”

The rage remained, but something warmer moved beneath it.

Our little ghost has family.

Malone looked at him.

“And she’s still breathing?”

“Yes.”

Malone’s eyebrows rose.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Femi was there.”

Understanding moved through the older man’s face.

“She stopped you.”

“Her hand stopped me.”

The Devil quieted instantly at the memory. Tiny fingers. Warm skin. Her hand sliding into his.

She touched us.

Malone looked toward the closed office door.

“Of course it did.”

Daemon looked at him.

Malone’s mouth almost moved.

“You should have seen your face.”

Daemon frowned.

Little ghost held us.

He remembered her trembling beside him.

Yet reaching anyway.

She knew what we wanted to do.

Yes.

And she came closer.

Daemon swallowed. A soft knock interrupted them. The men looked at one another.

The Devil lifted its head.

Little ghost.

Daemon knew before the door opened. Every trace of rage vanished from Malone’s posture. Daemon stepped away from the desk and forced his hands open.

She is here.

“Come in.”

The door moved inward.

Femi entered carrying two dinner plates and two glasses containing two fingers of whiskey each. The office filled with the smell of roasted meat, tomatoes, peppers, and warm bread. Beneath all of it— Strawberries.

The Devil softened.

There she is.

Malone’s gaze immediately returned to the mark on her cheek.

“Femi…”

She turned toward him. His expression changed so quickly it would have been amusing under different circumstances.

“What’s for dinner?”

Femi lifted one plate.

Malone leaned closer.

“Meatloaf?”

She nodded.

“The taco meatloaf?”

Another nod.

Malone’s face brightened.

“I’ve been praying.”

Femi’s lips curved.

The Devil purred.

Smile.

“You don’t make this often enough,” Malone continued. “Do you know what I ate before you came here?”

Femi pointed toward the trash. Daemon’s mouth moved.

The Devil was delighted.

She knows him.

Malone looked offended.

“I did not eat from the trash.”

Femi lifted an eyebrow.

“Not regularly.”

She placed the plate in front of him. Malone immediately cut into the meatloaf. Cheese, peppers, and seasoned meat filled the center. He took one bite. His eyes closed.

“You are amazing, Femi.”

She looked pleased with herself.

She likes feeding us.

Daemon glanced at her. Femi crossed to him and placed the second plate before him. His whiskey followed.

The Devil watched every movement.

Ours.

Daemon’s fingers paused near his fork.

The Devil corrected itself.

She brought ours.

Better.

Femi looked at him expectantly. Daemon tasted the food.

“Well?”

He swallowed.

Femi waited.

Tell her.

“It’s good.”

Her expression became unimpressed.

The Devil immediately objected.

Wrong.

Daemon frowned. Malone laughed.

“From him, that is a declaration of eternal devotion.”

Daemon glared at him.

Tell her better.

“I’m eating it.”

Femi’s expression somehow became more unimpressed.

Terrible.

“Shut up.”

Femi blinked. Malone’s smile widened.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly.

“Not you.”

Femi’s mouth curved. That tiny, soft smile transformed her face. The anger inside Daemon shifted. Not gone. Contained.

The Devil forgot Candi entirely.

Beautiful.

Femi turned toward the door.

No.

Daemon’s gaze followed her.

Stay.

“Femi.”

She looked back. Malone had spoken. His gaze touched the mark on her cheek again. For one second, the cold returned. Then he smiled.

“Save me another piece.”

Femi nodded.

The Devil watched her.

One for us too.

Daemon glanced toward his plate. There was still half a piece sitting on it.

Later.

Femi left the office. The door closed. Both men remained silent while her footsteps moved away. The Devil followed them until they disappeared beneath the noise of Helix.

Gone.

She works here.

Still gone.

Daemon ignored it. Malone continued eating. Daemon did the same. For several minutes, the only sounds in the office were silverware striking plates and the muffled music beyond the walls.

Malone finished first.

He wiped his mouth, set aside the plate, and reached for the phone.

Daemon closed his hand around the whiskey.

The Devil returned.

Cold.

Focused.

Red.

Malone called her.

She answered on the second ring.

“How can I do you, honey?” Red’s sultry voice moved through the office like silk dragged across a blade.

“I need a favor, sweetheart.” Malone leaned back in his chair. “Something permanent for a friend of ours.”

The playfulness left Red’s voice.

“What do you need, and for whom?”

“I need someone removed from Wolfwater. Every room she uses. Every corner she works. Every friend hiding her.”

“Alive?”

The Devil answered first.

No.

“Yes,” Malone said.

Daemon stared at the whiskey.

The Devil growled.

Malone.

Malone’s gaze found Daemon.

“For now.”

Better.

Red was silent for a heartbeat.

“What did she do?”

“Something deserving an equal answer.” Malone’s fingers tightened around the phone. “She put a mark on my daughter. Tried to frighten Femi out of Helix.”

“Who?”

“Candi.”

Red paused.

“The hooker Candi? The one you let dance at your clubhouse?”

“One and the same.”

Daemon leaned closer to the phone.

“She approached Femi at Sunflower Park.”

Red heard him.

“Oh. The Devil is there.”

The thing inside Daemon lifted its head.

Can’t stand Red.

“Yes,” Daemon said.

“How bad?”

“She touched Femi’s face.”

The Devil snarled.

Marked her.

“Threatened her.”

Frightened her.

“Raised a fist.”

Tried to hurt our little ghost.

Red inhaled slowly.

“That was unwise.”

“She won’t do it again.”

“No, handsome. She won’t.”

A note of pleasure entered Red’s voice.

“I have something good for that one. Shall I add a message?”

Malone looked toward Daemon. His steel-gray eyes had become cold.

The Devil pressed close beneath his skin.

Yes.

“Give her a mark she’ll never forget,” Daemon said.

Let her remember.

“Tell her the difference between her and Femi.”

“What difference is that, honey?”

Daemon thought of Femi beneath the willow. Her hand inside his. Her sunflower. Her quiet smile. The way she had looked at another woman without jealousy. Without cruelty. Without needing to tear someone else apart to believe herself worthy.

The Devil softened around the memory.

Little ghost never asks to be seen.

“Femi never needed to hurt another woman to make herself worth seeing.”

Silence.

Then Red made a soft sound of approval.

The Devil whispered:

She was always worth seeing.

Daemon’s eyes lowered.

Yes.

“And tell her it is a gift from the Devil.”

The thing inside him went very still.

Then purred.

Good.

“Oh, I like that.”

Red’s voice became smooth again.

“I’ll have her found and dealt with within the hour.”

“Make it hurt,” Daemon said. “Make sure she understands what she’s done.”

She touched what we protect.

“Mhm.”

Red seemed to consider the possibilities.

“I’ll make it something everyone remembers.”

“Get her out of Wolfwater,” Malone added. “Before sunrise.”

“She’ll be gone.”

“Alive.”

The Devil sighed.

Little ghost.

Daemon understood.

That was the only reason.

Red laughed softly.

“You boys take all the fun out of friendship.”

“I mean it, Red.”

“I heard you, darling. Alive and marked.”

“And if she returns?”

“She won’t.” The certainty in Red’s voice required no explanation. “I’ll send a message when it’s done.”

The line went dead. Malone placed the phone on the desk. Daemon finished his whiskey. Neither man discussed what would happen during the next hour. They already knew.

The Devil settled back into the darkness.

For her.

Daemon stared toward the office door.

No.

The Devil waited.

Daemon thought of Femi stopping him in the park. Her hand. Her trust. Her silent demand that he remain something other than an executioner.

Because of her.

The Devil considered the distinction.

Then softened.

Better.

Helix reached full capacity that night.

Music thundered through the clubhouse.

People crowded the bar and shouted over one another while a dancer moved beneath the red stage lights, slowly removing pieces of a silver costume.

Daemon barely noticed her.

His gaze belonged to Femi.

So did the Devil’s.

There.

Tonight, she wore a simple black dress. The high collar covered her throat, and the hem ended below her knees. The fabric followed her shape without decoration. On anyone else, it might have disappeared into the room.

On Femi, it looked divine.

The Devil went quiet.

Daemon swallowed.

Oh, little ghost.

She wore her heavy leather boots beneath it.

The combination should not have worked.

It did.

Beautiful.

Daemon’s gaze traveled back to her face.

“Very.”

The Devil purred.

You said it.

“Not to her.”

Coward.

Daemon reached for his whiskey. Evening settled over Wolfwater.

The final sunlight entered through Helix’s front windows, crossing the floor in a narrow golden path. Femi stepped into it. Daemon forgot to lift the glass. Golden light touched her midnight hair. Her skin. The black dress. The Devil became utterly silent. For one impossible moment, the smoke, noise, and bodies around them vanished. Daemon saw only her.

Then the Devil whispered with something approaching worship.

Look.

Daemon couldn’t do anything else.

Look at our little ghost.

Femi walked toward him carrying a fresh drink.

She is coming to us.

Daemon drained the last whiskey in his glass. His phone vibrated against the table. He looked down.

A message waited.

We gave her your message. She understood. Candi will be beyond Wolfwater before dawn. —R

Daemon stared at the words.

The Devil surfaced.

Gone.

Yes.

She cannot touch little ghost again.

Not in Wolfwater.

Good.

Daemon deleted the message. A smile moved behind the curtain of pale blond hair covering his face.

Good.

Now Candi understood what it meant to be unwanted by everyone whose protection she tried to purchase with cruelty. The Devil’s satisfaction was cold.

Brief.

Because strawberries reached him.

Femi.

Daemon lifted his gaze. Her green eyes met his. Everything involving Candi disappeared. His crooked grin spread. Femi stopped. For a moment, she only stared at him. Color entered her cheeks.

The Devil practically sighed.

Pink.

Femi lowered her eyes and placed the fresh whiskey on the table.

The scent of strawberries surrounded him as she leaned close.

Closer.

Daemon did not move.

Touch her.

“No.”

The Devil quieted. Daemon wanted to. Gods, he wanted to. But Femi decided how close she came.

Always.

The Devil had begun understanding that.

Let her choose.

Yes.

Femi collected the empty glass. Her fingers brushed his.

The Devil froze.

There.

Neither moved immediately. Daemon stared at their hands. Femi’s fingertips rested against his. Not trapped. Not held.

Simply there.

She stayed.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Don’t move.

Daemon barely breathed. Then Femi straightened. Her fingers slipped away.

The Devil followed the loss.

Come back.

She returned to work. Daemon lowered his head, allowing his hair to cover his face again.

The Devil hummed beneath his ribs.

She touched us.

“Barely.”

She did.

Daemon waited until he believed she was no longer looking.

When he raised his eyes, Femi was walking away.

Beautiful.

Across the clubhouse, Malone leaned against the bar. He had seen everything. He laughed. Daemon lifted one finger toward him. Malone laughed harder.

Kill him.

“No.”

Scare him.

“He isn’t scared of me.”

The Devil considered that.

Family.

Daemon’s hand lowered.

Yes.

Family.

The dancer continued removing her clothes beneath the stage lights.

Men watched.

Daemon did not.

The Devil did not even turn its head.

Not her.

No.

The Devil sat in his dark corner with Candi’s punishment erased from his phone and the scent of strawberries lingering around him.

His eyes followed Femi.

Only Femi.

She stopped beside another table.

Smiled at something one of the bikers signed badly.

The Devil softened.

Our little ghost.

Daemon watched.

Pretty.

She tucked a strand of midnight hair behind her ear.

Gentle.

She glanced toward his corner.

Ours.

Daemon’s expression changed.

The Devil caught itself.

A pause.

Then—

No.

Daemon waited.

The whisper came softer.

We are hers.

His crooked smile returned. Once he had begun looking at her, no other woman would do. The Devil understood why before Daemon did. It had never wanted another woman. Never watched one cross a room with awe. Never gone quiet because fingertips brushed its hand. Never surrendered murder because someone small and gentle asked it to stay.

Femi had not conquered the Devil.

She had done something infinitely more dangerous.

She had become precious to it.

And now, sitting in the darkness, the monster watched her move beneath the lights and whispered the only truth that mattered.

Only Femi.

Femi walked along the upstairs hall of Helix carrying Daemon’s clean towels and freshly washed sheets.

Black towels.

Black satin sheets.

Of course.

She ran her thumb over the smooth fabric and laughed silently. Her shoulders moved with the sound. The man surrounded himself with black as though color had personally offended him.

Femi reached his room and knocked.

The same tiny knock she always used.

The Devil recognized it immediately.

Little ghost.

Daemon looked toward the door.

His pulse changed.

She came to us.

“Come in.”

Femi entered. She intended to place the linens on the chair and leave. Then she saw him. Daemon stood beside the dresser with a black towel around his neck. He wore nothing except a pair of black jeans, only half fastened and hanging low on his hips.

Femi stopped. Daemon looked up. Their eyes met. Neither moved.

Water still shone across his chest and shoulders from the shower. Tattoos covered much of his upper body, dark designs following the heavy lines of muscle across his arms, chest, and ribs.

Femi stared.

Daemon became painfully aware of every inch of himself.

The Devil did too.

She is looking.

I know.

At us.

Daemon swallowed. Femi’s gaze moved slowly over him. The broad shoulders. The powerful chest. The narrow line of hair disappearing beneath the loose waistband of his jeans. The scars crossing his skin. The Devil went strangely quiet. Daemon stood completely still. His hands remained loose at his sides. He allowed her to look. Every place Femi’s eyes touched became painfully awake.

His heart began pounding.

She is still looking.

Yes.

Why is she still looking?

Daemon almost laughed.

For once, the Devil sounded nervous.

I don’t know.

Femi’s gaze moved across another scar.

The Devil whispered:

Does she hate them?

Daemon’s amusement vanished. His scars. The marks of everything done to him. Everything he had survived. Everything he had become. Femi looked at them without disgust. Without pity.

Her gaze lingered.

She does not look away.

No.

Daemon swallowed.

“Like what you see, little ghost?”

His voice came out deep. Throaty. Far more affected than he wanted her to know. Crimson flooded Femi’s face. She lifted both hands and covered it. Daemon laughed. He could see her bright green eyes peeking through her fingers.

The Devil sounded delighted.

Pink.

“I’m right here.”

Femi looked down. She did not turn away.

The Devil became quiet again.

She stayed.

That made his heart pound harder. Daemon took pity on both of them. He pulled on a black shirt, fastened only two buttons, and rolled the sleeves to his forearms.

Why?

Because I would like to survive this.

The Devil considered that.

Take it off.

No.

When he turned back, Femi still stood near the door clutching his linens. Her face remained red.

Daemon smiled.

He reached for the sheets.

“I can take those.”

Femi handed them to him. Their fingers touched. Neither moved. The black satin remained suspended between them.

The Devil froze.

There.

Daemon looked at their hands.

She is touching us.

Barely.

Still counts.

Femi’s eyes lifted. Daemon felt the air change.

So did the Devil.

Something is happening.

Daemon’s heart struck his ribs.

What?

The Devil had no answer. Femi released the sheets and turned toward the door.

“Femi.”

She stopped. Daemon had intended to ask if she was working that night. Perhaps ask whether she wanted another ride. Instead, he became distracted by the expression on her face. He had seen Femi frightened. Angry. Confused. Shy. He had never seen her look at him like this. Her eyes moved across his partially buttoned shirt. Then returned to his face.

The Devil whispered:

Again.

Her hands rose.

You are beautiful.

Silence. Femi fled. The door closed behind her.

Daemon remained standing with the sheets in his hands. His mind emptied. The Devil said nothing. Daemon stared at the door.

“Did she just—”

Nothing.

Thought stopped again.

“Did she just call me beautiful?”

A long pause.

Then the Devil whispered:

She did.

Daemon looked down at himself. Then back at the door.

The Devil sounded stunned.

Beautiful.

Daemon dropped the linens onto the chair and fell backward onto the mattress. His arm settled over his eyes. A smile spread across his face. Then widened.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

The Devil was still trying to understand.

She saw the scars.

“Yes.”

All of them.

“Yes.”

And said beautiful.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

A laugh moved through him.

“She was flirting with me.”

The Devil went completely silent.

Daemon removed his arm from his eyes.

“She was.”

With us?

Daemon laughed harder.

“Yes.”

The knowledge left both of them awed. Femi had looked at his scars. His tattoos. The body he had used to hurt people. And called him beautiful. The Devil whispered the word again. Softly. As though it had never belonged to them before.

Beautiful.

Daemon remained on the mattress smiling like an idiot. He could not let her go. Not now.

The Devil curled warmly beneath his ribs.

Little ghost thinks we are beautiful.

Later that evening, Daemon found Femi in the kitchen.

She moved between the preparation counter and stove, cutting vegetables for the nine-o’clock meal. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows. A white apron protected her black dress, and midnight hair fell loose down her back.

Daemon leaned against the wall. He watched her through his blond lashes, eyes half-lidded. Gods, he could not help himself.

Once he began looking at Femi, the rest of the world lost its ability to hold him.

Beautiful.

Daemon’s mouth twitched.

You’re going to keep saying that now?

She said it first.

That was apparently enough justification.

Femi glanced toward him. Caught him staring. Daemon did not look away.

Femi’s cheeks warmed.

Pink.

She returned to the vegetables, but the small smile remained on her lips.

The Devil softened.

She smiles when we look.

Daemon’s chest tightened. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his fingertips along the soft curve of her cheek and feel the smile form beneath them.

Touch.

No.

Ask.

She’s cooking.

The Devil considered this.

Later.

Daemon wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her close enough that nothing could fit between them. The wanting grew painful. Femi set down the knife. She wiped her hands on the apron. Then approached him. Daemon straightened.

The Devil did too.

Coming.

She stopped close. Closer than usual. Her strawberry scent surrounded him.

The Devil nearly purred.

So close.

Daemon did not move.

Femi lifted one hand.

What is she doing?

I don’t know.

Her fingers slid into his pale hair. Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil disappeared into shocked silence. Femi brushed his hair away from his face. Daemon’s eyes closed. Her touch was gentle. Almost reverent. She touched him as though he were something fragile.

The Devil whispered:

Oh.

Nothing else.

Just—

Oh.

Daemon opened his eyes. Femi leaned closer. His thoughts stopped.

Is she going to—

The Devil lifted its head.

What is happening?

Daemon almost answered.

Then her lips touched his scarred cheek.

Everything stopped.

She kissed us.

Daemon forgot to breathe. Femi kissed his forehead.

The Devil sounded stunned.

Again.

Then his other cheek.

Again.

Each touch remained soft.

Careful.

She is kissing the scars.

Daemon’s chest hurt.

She called them beautiful.

She drew back. Not far. Her lips hovered inches from his. Daemon tasted strawberries on her breath. Femi’s breathing became shallow. So did his. The Devil became nervous. Not hungry. Not demanding. Nervous.

Do not move.

Daemon held perfectly still.

Do not frighten her.

He wouldn’t.

Do not ruin this.

Please, Daemon thought.

The Devil quieted.

Then, almost pleading with whatever gods might still listen to monsters— Just this once.

Let us have this once.

Femi closed the distance. Her mouth touched his. Daemon went completely still. So did the Devil. The first kiss was light. Barely there. A question asked without words.

The Devil whispered in absolute disbelief:

She kissed us.

Daemon could not think.

Little ghost kissed us.

Femi started to pull away. Panic flashed through him.

The Devil panicked too.

Wait.

Daemon slid one hand into her hair. She stopped. His fingers settled against the back of her head, giving her every opportunity to retreat. The Devil immediately became anxious.

Too much?

Daemon loosened his fingers.

Femi did not leave.

Did we do wrong?

Then she leaned closer.

The Devil nearly came apart.

No.

Daemon deepened the kiss. He angled her head slightly and allowed his mouth to move over hers. A small sound came from the back of her throat. Breathless. Soft. Daemon’s blood ignited.

The Devil froze.

What was that?

Daemon had no idea.

Again.

Femi stepped into him.

She came closer.

Daemon closed the distance, pulling her carefully against his body.

She wants closer.

Her hands lifted and settled on his shoulders. The Devil sounded awed.

Her hands.

One of Daemon’s palms pressed against the wall beside her. The other remained in her hair before sliding gently to the back of her neck.

Careful.

He caressed the warm skin with his thumb. Femi shivered. Daemon immediately noticed.

So did the Devil.

She shook.

Femi pulled away. Daemon released her instantly.

The Devil recoiled.

Wrong.

His mouth followed hers for half a heartbeat before he stopped himself.

We did something wrong.

“Are you cold?”

The question came softly. His fingers still rested against the back of her neck, but without pressure. Femi shivered again. Daemon’s crooked smile appeared. The Devil remained uncertain.

Cold?

I don’t think so.

She looked at his mouth. There was that expression again. The one he had not understood upstairs. This close, he recognized it. Hungry. Curious.

The Devil stared through him.

At us?

Femi licked her lips. The tip of her tongue brushed Daemon’s lower lip. His entire body shuddered.

The Devil made a sound somewhere between shock and worship.

Gods.

“Don’t look at me like that, little ghost.”

His breath moved across her mouth.

“The things you do to a man.”

Femi kissed him again. The Devil’s nervousness vanished beneath sheer astonishment.

She did it again.

Daemon growled. The sound came from deep in his throat. One of her legs moved between his, pressing close.

Closer.

Both of Daemon’s arms wrapped around her. He held her as though he could merge their bodies into one. The kiss continued. Femi tried to move closer, her hands gripping the front of his shirt.

She wants us.

The Devil sounded as though it could not believe the words.

Little ghost wants us.

Daemon shivered again. He made that low sound. Femi’s fingers tightened as though his shirt were the only thing holding her upright. Her heart pounded against his stomach. Daemon lifted her onto the edge of the counter as though she weighed nothing.

Then stopped.

The Devil immediately became alarmed.

Wait.

Daemon froze. Femi could stop him. Push him away.

Climb down.

Let her choose.

“Yes.”

He loosened his hold. Femi looked at him. Then wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer. The Devil went completely silent. Daemon stared at her.

She—

Femi kissed him.

She chose closer.

Daemon let her. Their breathing became ragged. Neither wanted to break the kiss. Femi’s fingers tangled in his hair. Daemon held her carefully while every other part of him burned.

The Devil was almost overwhelmed.

Ours.

Daemon’s hands softened around her.

The Devil caught itself.

No.

Femi pressed closer.

She is giving this.

Yes.

She chooses us.

Yes.

Do not ruin it.

Daemon would rather cut off his own hands. He wanted her. In his bed.

Yes.

In his life.

The Devil paused.

Yes.

Beside him when he woke.

The whisper softened.

Mornings.

He wanted to learn every sound she could make and know which belonged to joy, which belonged to pleasure, and which belonged only to him.

Ours alone.

Femi pressed closer. Then a voice entered her mind.

Candi. Once he gets you into his bed, he’ll forget all about you.

Femi’s hands stopped moving. Daemon felt it immediately.

So did the Devil.

What happened?

You are nothing.

Her body stiffened.

No.

Forgettable.

Daemon released her. Immediately.

The Devil panicked.

What did we do?

Femi pulled away. Her face had lost its warmth.

Daemon’s stomach dropped.

Wrong.

“Femi?”

She looked at him. Fear entered her eyes. Not fear of him. Something else. Something distant. Daemon lowered his hands.

The Devil was frantic now.

We frightened her.

“Did I hurt you?”

Femi shook her head.

Then what?

“Did I touch you wrong?”

Another shake.

The Devil searched desperately through every second.

Hair?

No.

Neck?

Maybe.

Counter. We lifted her.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

“Then what—”

She slipped from the counter.

Daemon stepped aside, giving her room.

Move. Give her room.

He did.

Femi’s face turned red. Not the blush from before.

Shame.

The Devil recoiled from it.

No.

She straightened her dress.

Little ghost, no.

Grabbed the abandoned knife from the counter.

Please don’t leave.

And hurried away.

“Femi.”

She did not stop.

The Devil strained toward the doorway.

Go after her.

Daemon didn’t move.

“No.”

She is upset.

“I know.”

Fix it.

“I don’t know what I did.”

The Devil went silent. That frightened Daemon more than its shouting would have. His heart still pounded. His body still remembered her wrapped around him. He watched her leave the kitchen.

Malone caught her attention near the bar. Femi signed quickly. Malone frowned and looked toward the kitchen.

Daemon stepped farther into the shadows.

He knows.

Daemon swallowed.

“What happened?”

The Devil had no answer.

Did we hurt her?

“I don’t know.”

She said no.

“To the questions.”

She said we didn’t hurt her.

“Then why did she run?”

Silence. What had happened? Had he gone too far? Lifted her without asking? Held her too tightly? Touched the wrong part of her neck? Daemon frowned.

He replayed every second.

The Devil replayed it with him.

She kissed first.

“Yes.”

She came closer.

“Yes.”

She pulled us closer.

“Yes.”

Then she stopped.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

The Devil whispered:

Something changed.

“I know.”

Something we cannot see.

That uncertainty followed him back to his corner. He ordered a whiskey. Then another. The clubhouse filled. Music rose. Smoke gathered beneath the lights. Femi returned to waiting tables but avoided Daemon’s corner.

The Devil noticed immediately.

She won’t come here.

Daemon drank.

“She is working.”

She always comes here.

He drank more heavily. Nothing made sense. He knew she enjoyed the kiss. Hell, she had started it after calling him beautiful. For several glorious minutes, it felt as though she intended to consume them both. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her hands moved across the muscles of his chest. She pressed against him as though no distance would ever be small enough.

That breathless sound she made—

The Devil remembered.

Ours.

Daemon’s eyes closed. He wanted to coax it from her again. The sound felt like something given only to him. His little ghost. He wanted Femi in his bed. He wanted her in his home. In his life. He wanted her beside him for so long that the idea frightened him more than death.

The Devil whispered:

Want her forever.

Daemon stared into his whiskey.

“Don’t.”

Why?

“Because she ran.”

The Devil fell quiet.

Perhaps she regretted it.

No.

Perhaps touching him had reminded her what he was.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Perhaps the scar and tattoos had looked beautiful from across a room but felt different beneath her hands.

She kissed the scar.

Daemon stared into the amber liquid.

“She could have changed her mind.”

The Devil became very small inside him.

Does she not want us now?

Daemon’s chest hurt.

“I don’t know.”

Did we ruin it?

He finished the drink.

Ordered another.

Daemon.

He ignored it.

Did we ruin our little ghost?

“No.”

He said it too quickly. A man at the neighboring table glanced toward him.

Daemon lowered his voice.

“No.”

The Devil did not sound convinced.

She will not look at us.

Across Helix, Femi carried a tray toward a table of unfamiliar men. Daemon watched. The Devil watched too. Even hurt. Even confused. It always found her.

Little ghost.

One of the men spoke to her. Femi nodded and placed the drinks down. The man caught her wrist. The Devil changed. Instantly.

All nervousness vanished.

Hand.

Daemon sat forward.

Femi attempted to pull free.

Let her go.

The customer said something Daemon could not hear over the music. His grip tightened.

The Devil rose.

LET HER GO.

Femi shook her head. The man’s face darkened. He stood. Daemon was already moving. The man’s open hand struck her across the face. The sound cut through Helix. Femi staggered into the table. Daemon’s whiskey glass shattered inside his hand. Every head in the clubhouse turned.

Blood ran between Daemon’s fingers. He did not feel it. The Devil stood. For the first time that night, there was no uncertainty. No nervousness. No fear that it had misunderstood Femi. No question about what she wanted. A man had put his hands on their little ghost. A man had hurt her.

The Devil looked through Daemon’s eyes.

He hit her.

Daemon rose.

He put his hands on her.

The room became very still. Femi looked toward him. The Devil remembered her hand stopping them in Sunflower Park. Remembered the promise. No killing. Its rage shook Daemon’s bones.

Little ghost said no killing.

Daemon stepped from the shadows.

Yes.

She did not say anything about the rest.

The Devil stood.

The Devil crossed Helix before Femi regained her balance.

He hit her.

Daemon struck the man once.

The customer fell backward across the table, scattering drinks and glass across the floor.

Again.

Daemon caught the front of his shirt before he could fall. Then he struck him again. Blood burst from the man’s nose. The room erupted. Chairs scraped. Women shouted. Several men stood, but no one approached Daemon.

He drove the customer against the wall.

“You hit her.”

He put his hands on our little ghost.

The man raised both hands.

“She wouldn’t let go of me.”

The Devil went still.

What?

Daemon hit him again.

“You grabbed her.”

“I was trying to order.”

Liar.

Daemon’s fist struck his mouth. Teeth cut through the man’s lower lip. Blood ran over his chin. He attempted to cover his face. Daemon dragged his arms down and hit him again.

Hands down.

The man’s knees folded.

Daemon held him upright.

Not finished.

Across the clubhouse, Femi remained beside the overturned table. One hand covered her cheek. Her green eyes were enormous. She did not move. Marta approached her slowly, but Femi seemed unable to see her. Daemon noticed. The Devil noticed with him.

And everything inside them changed.

Little ghost?

For one second, Daemon’s attention left the man.

Femi stared through the room.

Why isn’t she moving?

Daemon’s rage faltered.

Femi.

Then the customer attempted to pull free.

The Devil snapped back.

No.

Daemon slammed him face-first against the table. Malone came from behind the bar. He looked at Femi. Then at the man bleeding across his floor.

“Outside.”

Daemon did not need to be told twice.

Make him talk.

He caught the customer by the back of his collar and dragged him toward the front doors.

The man kicked at the floor.

“Get him off me!”

No one helped. Regulars moved chairs out of Daemon’s path. Someone opened the doors. Daemon dragged the man into the parking lot. Cold air struck them. The customer managed to twist free and stumbled toward the line of cars.

Daemon followed.

“Wait.”

The man wiped blood from his mouth.

“I’m leaving.”

“No.”

No.

“It was one slap.”

Daemon’s expression emptied.

The Devil became terrifyingly quiet.

One?

“One?”

The man began backing away.

“She’s just a waitress.”

The Devil whispered:

Wrong.

Daemon punched him in the stomach. Air left the man in a broken gasp. He doubled over. Daemon caught him by the hair and forced his head up.

“Why her?”

“What?”

“You came into Helix. Sat where she would serve you. Grabbed her when she tried to leave.”

Daemon’s fist tightened in his hair.

“Why Femi?”

Why our little ghost?

“I don’t know her.”

Daemon drove a knee into his ribs. The man cried out and fell. Daemon kicked him onto his back.

“Wrong answer.”

He knows her name.

Daemon looked down.

Yes.

Someone had sent him. He dropped over him. The first punch broke the man’s nose. The second opened the skin above his eye.

Daemon continued until the customer stopped attempting to defend himself and began trying only to breathe.

“Who sent you?”

“No one.”

Daemon struck him again.

“Who?”

“I came for a drink.”

Lie.

Another punch.

The man’s blood covered Daemon’s knuckles.

“I swear.”

Daemon caught his shirt and hauled him halfway upright.

“You watched the kitchen door from the moment you entered. You waited until Malone left the bar. You chose a table in her section.”

The Devil had noticed too. Now that rage no longer blinded it, every detail returned.

He was waiting for her.

The customer stared at him through one swelling eye.

Daemon leaned close.

“You knew exactly who you came to hurt.”

Fear entered the man’s face.

There.

Daemon saw it.

“Who sent you?”

“I can’t.”

The Devil almost laughed.

Can’t?

Daemon’s fist drove into his side. Something cracked.

The man screamed.

“One rib,” Daemon said. “You have more.”

Many more.

“All right!”

Daemon waited.

The customer coughed, then spat blood onto the pavement.

“Candi.”

The name quieted everything inside Daemon.

Not calmed.

Focused.

The Devil went utterly still.

Candi.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Again.

Sunflower Park.

Femi’s red cheek.

Her hand slipping into his before he could kill.

She sent someone else.

“What did she tell you?”

The man looked away. Daemon pressed his thumb into the broken rib. A scream tore from him.

“She said the girl needed a message.”

The Devil stared down at him.

She has a name.

“What message?”

“That Candi was coming for her.”

No.

The word was soft.

Certain.

Candi would never reach her.

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

Daemon increased the pressure.

The man’s body arched.

“She wanted me to smack her around a little.”

A growl entered Daemon’s breathing.

The Devil was worse.

Around?

“She paid me five hundred upfront.”

“For a slap?”

The man hesitated.

Daemon drew back his fist.

Tell us.

“Five hundred more afterward!” he shouted. “When I finished.”

Daemon’s hand stopped.

“Finished what?”

The customer closed his eyes.

“Beating her.”

The world went silent. Daemon became still. The Devil did not speak. For several seconds, it simply stared through him. Femi. Small. Quiet. Standing beside that table while this man held her wrist. Five hundred dollars. To beat her.

The Devil finally whispered.

Our little ghost?

The disbelief was almost worse than rage.

“How badly?”

The man did not answer. Daemon drove another punch into his ribs. A second crack sounded beneath his fist.

“How badly?”

“Bloody!”

The confession burst from the man.

“She wanted the girl beaten bloody. That was all. Five hundred before, five hundred after. I swear.”

Daemon heard Femi laughing beneath the willow. Saw the sunflower in her hands. Remembered her calling him beautiful. Her lips against his. Her little hand wrapped around his in Sunflower Park.

Bloody.

The Devil rose.

Kill him.

Daemon stood.

The man collapsed onto the pavement, clutching his side.

Kill him.

“No.”

He came to beat her bloody.

“I know.”

Kill him.

“Femi said no.”

The Devil raged against his ribs.

He HIT her.

Daemon searched the man’s pockets and found a set of car keys. He pressed the alarm button. A gray sedan flashed near the edge of the lot. The man saw it.

“No. Come on. Leave my car out of this.”

Daemon grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him across the pavement. The customer attempted to resist. His broken ribs ended the effort. Daemon hauled him upright and threw him against the hood of the sedan.

Metal dented beneath his back. The alarm began screaming. Daemon leaned over him.

“You tell Candi the Devil will find her.”

Tell her.

The man coughed.

“She’ll kill me.”

“If she does, you’ll suffer less.”

Much less.

Daemon released him.

The customer slid down the side of the car.

“Tell her Femi is not a message board.”

The man nodded frantically.

“And if you enter Wolfwater again, I will finish the lesson.”

Slowly.

Daemon dropped the keys onto his chest. Then he walked back into Helix.

Little ghost.

The Devil had forgotten the man before the door closed.

The music had stopped. No one spoke. Broken glass remained across the floor. The table had been righted, but spilled drinks ran between its legs. Femi stood exactly where Daemon left her.

His steps stopped. Her hand still covered her cheek. Her eyes were wide with terror. Marta remained several feet away. She had not touched her. No one had. They understood that Femi was no longer inside the clubhouse with them.

The Devil whispered:

Why is she still there?

Daemon’s stomach tightened.

“I don’t know.”

Something is wrong.

Blood covered his knuckles.

A cut from the shattered whiskey glass crossed his palm. The front of his black shirt bore someone else’s blood. He looked like the Devil. Femi stared at him. Daemon’s rage disappeared.

The Devil’s did too.

Little ghost.

He crossed the room slowly.

People moved out of his path.

Do not frighten her.

“I know.”

Slow.

Daemon slowed further.

He stopped several feet from her and knelt.

“Femi.”

She did not respond. A mild panic entered him. Not the violent panic he understood.

Something colder.

Helpless.

The Devil became frightened with him.

Why won’t she look?

“Little ghost.”

Her eyes remained fixed beyond him.

Femi.

Daemon lowered his voice.

“Look at me.”

Nothing.

His heart began pounding.

Please.

“Little ghost, please.”

Her gaze shifted. Slowly. Green eyes found gray. Daemon exhaled. The Devil nearly collapsed with relief.

There.

“There you are.”

There she is.

Daemon held out one hand. Palm up. Bloodied. Open. He did not reach for her.

The Devil stared at it.

Our hand is bloody.

Daemon almost pulled it back.

She might not want it.

That thought hurt. But Femi looked at his hand. Then at him. Her hand lowered from her cheek. The mark across it had already begun swelling. The Devil snarled.

He hurt her.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

He forced himself to remain still.

Do not leave her.

Femi placed her small hand inside his. Everything stopped. The Devil receded. Not into darkness.

Into her.

She took it.

Daemon’s fingers closed gently around her hand. The Devil stared at the contrast.

Blood.

Scars.

Femi.

She took our bloody hand.

“Come with me.”

Femi nodded. Daemon stood. He kept her hand inside his while leading her across the silent clubhouse.

Keep her close.

No one spoke. Malone watched from near the bar. His gaze found the blood on Daemon’s hands. Daemon gave one short nod.

He talked.

Malone understood. Femi stayed close to Daemon as they climbed the stairs.

The Devil counted every step.

Still here.

At his room, he opened the door and stepped aside. She entered first. Daemon left the door partially open.

The Devil understood why.

So she does not feel trapped.

Yes.

He led her to the bed and waited until she sat. Then he released her hand.

Immediately—

Gone.

“She is right there.”

The Devil quieted.

Femi stared toward the floor. Daemon retrieved the first-aid kit from the dresser and found a clean towel. He crossed the hall, filled it with ice from the small freezer, and returned.

Femi had not moved.

The Devil’s unease returned.

Little ghost.

Daemon knelt before her again.

“Can I see?”

Her fingers touched her cheek.

“Please.”

Femi lowered her hand. The outline of the customer’s palm was visible across her skin. Daemon’s vision darkened.

The Devil surged.

Should have killed him.

Daemon remembered the man breathing in the parking lot.

Regretted it.

Go back.

Then Femi touched his wrist. The killing feeling vanished. The Devil exhaled.

There.

Daemon looked at her hand.

Stay.

He wrapped the ice inside the towel.

“Cold.”

She nodded.

He lifted it toward her cheek.

Then stopped.

Ask.

Daemon waited. Femi leaned into the compress herself.

The Devil softened.

She chose.

Daemon held it carefully against the swelling.

“Can you understand me?”

She nodded.

“Are you dizzy?”

A small shake.

“Headache?”

No.

“Nauseous?”

Another shake.

“Do you know where you are?”

Femi frowned at him.

The Devil perked up.

She is annoyed.

Daemon almost smiled.

“My room.”

Her expression said she knew that.

Definitely annoyed.

“I panicked.”

Femi’s eyes softened.

The Devil went quiet.

Daemon’s thumb moved against the edge of the towel.

“Candi sent him.”

Fear returned to her face.

The Devil felt it.

No.

“He confessed.”

Femi’s hands tightened in her lap.

“She paid him five hundred dollars to hurt you. Promised another five hundred after he beat you.”

Her breathing changed.

The Devil immediately regretted the words.

Too much.

Daemon lowered the ice.

“He will not come near you again.”

Never.

Femi stared at the blood on his hands.

Her fingers moved.

Did you kill him?

“No.”

Relief passed through her.

The Devil noticed.

She is glad.

Daemon frowned.

“I considered it.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Stop talking.

“He has several broken ribs.”

The disapproval remained.

Daemon.

“He hit you.”

Femi pointed toward the open first-aid kit.

Then toward his hands.

“My hands are fine.”

She looked at the blood.

“They are not all mine.”

That did not improve her expression.

The Devil whispered:

Wrong answer.

Daemon frowned.

“You’re becoming very opinionated.”

Femi stared at him.

He sighed.

“Not you.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

The Devil almost purred.

She knows.

Femi took the towel from him and held it against her own cheek. With her free hand, she reached for the first-aid kit.

“Femi.”

She pointed toward the chair.

Daemon remained kneeling. Her finger became more insistent.

The Devil whispered:

Move.

Daemon looked internally offended.

Little ghost said chair.

Despite himself, he obeyed. Daemon sat. Femi moved from the bed to stand between his knees. The Devil became completely still.

Close.

She took his right hand. Daemon stopped breathing.

What is she doing?

Femi examined the torn skin across his knuckles. Her touch remained gentle, despite what those hands had just done.

The Devil stared.

She knows.

Yes.

She saw.

Yes.

And she is touching them.

Femi wet a cloth and began cleaning away the blood.

The Devil could not understand it.

Why?

Daemon watched her. He didn’t know. She cleaned another knuckle.

We hurt someone with these.

Yes.

She knows.

Yes.

And she is gentle.

Daemon’s throat tightened. The cloth reached the cut in his palm. Daemon hissed. Femi looked up.

The Devil immediately reacted.

We frightened her.

“I’m fine.”

She continued more carefully. That nearly destroyed them both.

Softer.

Daemon watched her face. The swelling along her cheek. The concentration in her green eyes. The slight tremble that had not yet left her fingers.

“You’re taking care of me.”

Femi did not look up.

“You’re the one who was hit.”

She pointed toward his torn knuckles.

“I know.”

Her hands moved.

You were hurt too.

The Devil fell silent.

Daemon stared at her.

“By a glass.”

Femi lifted an eyebrow.

“And the man’s face.”

Her mouth moved. Almost a smile.

The Devil brightened.

There.

Then it faded.

Come back.

Femi wrapped gauze around his right hand. Daemon allowed her. Her fingers circled his palm, wound the bandage over his knuckles, and secured it gently at his wrist.

The Devil whispered:

She is fixing us.

Daemon swallowed. Femi reached for the other.

The question escaped before he could stop it.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Femi stopped.

The Devil froze.

Why did you ask that?

Daemon regretted it immediately.

He looked toward the open door.

“You saw what I did.”

Do not make her answer.

Her fingers moved beneath his.

I saw.

Daemon’s stomach tightened.

“I wanted to kill him.”

I know.

The Devil went very still.

“You should be afraid.”

No.

Femi shook her head. Daemon’s gaze returned to her.

The Devil whispered desperately:

Do not be afraid, little ghost.

Her hands rose.

I was afraid you would not stop.

Daemon became still.

So did the Devil.

I was afraid you would leave and not come back.

The words entered him slowly.

The Devil seemed unable to understand them.

Us?

“You weren’t afraid for him.”

Femi’s expression hardened.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“No.”

The Devil almost sounded pleased.

Good.

Her hands moved again.

I was afraid for you.

The smile vanished. The Devil went utterly silent. Daemon looked down at the bandage around his hand. No one had ever feared for what killing did to him. They feared what he might do to them. Femi feared what it would do to him.

Inside, the Devil whispered:

She was afraid for us.

Daemon could not answer.

Why?

Because she cared. The realization was almost unbearable. Femi wrapped his second hand. When she finished, she held both between hers. Daemon stared at the difference. His hands were large, scarred, and freshly bandaged. Hers were small and warm.

The Devil watched them.

She holds the Devil’s hands.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

And she is not afraid.

“You cannot stop me every time, little ghost.”

Femi lifted one eyebrow.

The Devil immediately betrayed him.

She can try.

Daemon sighed.

“You intend to try.”

She nodded.

Good.

Daemon frowned.

“Whose side are you on?”

Femi tilted her head.

Daemon shook his.

“Nothing.”

The Devil settled smugly. He looked at her cheek.

“Candi is coming for you.”

Femi’s fingers tightened. The Devil returned instantly.

She will not reach our little ghost.

“She won’t reach you.”

Femi shook her head.

“I’m not promising to kill her.”

Unfortunately.

Femi’s eyes narrowed. Daemon nearly smiled. Her expression remained doubtful.

“I’m promising she won’t reach you.”

That satisfied her slightly. Daemon lifted one bandaged hand toward her cheek. Stopped.

The Devil whispered:

May we?

Before Daemon could ask, Femi closed the distance. She pressed her uninjured side into his palm. Daemon’s breath caught. The Devil went silent. His thumb moved once beneath her eye.

She came to us.

Daemon stared at her. The question that had haunted him all night rose again.

“You kissed me.”

Femi froze.

The Devil panicked.

Why now?

The timing was terrible. Seven whiskeys had damaged his judgment.

“You kissed me, then ran.”

Crimson entered her face despite the swelling.

The Devil watched anxiously.

Pink.

“I thought I hurt you.”

Femi shook her head.

No.

“Touched you wrong?”

Another shake.

The Devil exhaled.

No.

“Then why?”

Her gaze lowered. Daemon waited. Femi did not answer. He recognized the closing door in her expression.

The Devil recognized it too.

Stop.

Daemon’s mouth closed.

Do not push.

“All right.”

Her eyes lifted.

“You don’t have to tell me tonight.”

The tension left her shoulders.

The Devil softened.

Good.

Daemon lowered his hand.

Femi caught it.

Both Daemon and the Devil froze.

What—

She lifted his bandaged hand. Then pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles. Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil disappeared. No whisper. No growl. Nothing. Femi placed his hand in his lap and returned the ice to her cheek.

Daemon stared at her. Femi’s tiny smile appeared behind the towel.

Inside him, the Devil finally returned.

Its voice was barely there.

She kissed our hand.

Daemon swallowed.

Yes.

The hand that hurt him.

Yes.

She kissed it.

“Yes.”

Femi’s eyes widened slightly. Daemon realized he had spoken aloud.

“You enjoy killing me.”

Her eyes widened farther.

The Devil panicked.

Wrong words.

“Not literally.”

She struck his shoulder. Daemon laughed.

The Devil immediately relaxed.

There she is.

The sound moved through the small room. Femi sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Their shoulders touched. Neither moved away.

The Devil became still beneath Daemon’s skin.

Do not move.

Daemon didn’t.

Outside, Helix slowly returned to life. The jukebox started again. Voices rose. Someone began sweeping broken glass. Inside Daemon’s room, Femi held ice against the mark Candi purchased for her cheek.

Daemon sat beside her with both hands wrapped in white. The Devil remained awake beneath his skin. Restless. Violent. Candi was still somewhere in Ravenside.

Find her.

Later.

She sent him to hurt little ghost.

“I know.”

Femi’s shoulder shifted slightly more firmly against his.

The Devil stopped.

Oh.

Daemon looked down at her. Femi remained beside him. Warm. Safe. Here.

The Devil softened.

Later.

Yes.

Candi could wait. The Devil had spent its life believing blood demanded blood. Pain demanded pain. Violence demanded something worse in return. Then Femi had taken the hands responsible for that violence and wrapped them carefully in white gauze.

She had looked at the Devil’s hands— and tended them.

Held them. Kissed them. The Devil could not understand such a thing. Perhaps it never would. But Femi’s shoulder rested against Daemon’s arm. And when the Devil whispered again, there was no rage left in its voice.

Only wonder.

She takes care of us.

Daemon closed his eyes.

For tonight, the Devil listened.

It took two hours before Femi relaxed.

Another twenty minutes passed before she fell asleep.

Daemon remained beside her through all of it.

At first, Femi sat rigidly on the edge of his mattress, holding the ice against her swollen cheek. Her shoulder pressed against his arm, but the rest of her body stayed tense. Every raised voice from downstairs made her flinch.

The Devil noticed every one.

Too loud.

Every heavy footstep in the hall drew her attention toward the open door.

Who?

Daemon glanced toward it.

No one.

Keep it open.

“I am.”

The Devil watched Femi.

She keeps looking.

Daemon knew. Femi had spent too much of her life waiting for danger to come through doors. He would not close this one on her. Daemon did not tell her to calm down. He did not promise she was safe. Promises meant little when someone had already followed her into Helix and struck her inside the only place she considered home.

The Devil bristled.

Home.

Yes.

Helix was home.

He hurt her in our home.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Candi sent him into her home.

“I know.”

Find her.

“Later.”

The Devil surged.

Now.

Daemon looked at Femi. The bruise forming across her cheek. The ice held against it. The slight tremble still moving through her fingers.

…later.

Instead, he stayed. When Femi lowered the ice, Daemon replaced it with a fresh compress. When she began rubbing her fingers together, he placed his open hand beside hers. He waited.

The Devil waited with him.

Take it.

Daemon said nothing. Femi looked at his hand.

Please.

Her fingers moved toward his. Then stopped.

The Devil became nervous.

Did we do something?

“No.”

She stopped.

“Let her choose.”

The Devil went quiet. Femi’s fingers moved again. Slowly, she placed her hand in his.

The Devil softened instantly.

There.

Daemon closed his fingers carefully.

Little ghost.

Eventually, she lay down. Not beneath the black satin sheets. On top of them, still dressed, with her boots removed and her head resting near Daemon’s thigh.

The Devil went very still.

She is in our bed.

Daemon looked down at her.

“Yes.”

Little ghost is in our bed.

“Don’t make it strange.”

Not strange.

A pause.

Important.

Daemon’s expression softened.

Yes. Important.

Femi had chosen to lie here.

With him.

After everything.

She stayed.

Daemon sat against the headboard. His bandaged hand moved slowly across her back.

Up.

Down.

Never changing rhythm.

Gentle.

Up.

Down.

Again.

His palm moved over her.

She likes that.

“How do you know?”

Femi shifted closer.

The Devil was smug.

That.

Daemon almost smiled. Femi’s breathing remained shallow for nearly an hour. Then it deepened. Her fingers loosened around the front of his shirt.

The Devil whispered:

Sleeping.

Daemon continued stroking her back.

Do not stop.

“I wasn’t going to.”

He thought of the man in the parking lot. Five hundred dollars upfront. Another five hundred after Femi had been beaten bloody. The Devil moved restlessly beneath his skin.

Should have killed him.

Daemon looked down. The red mark across Femi’s cheek had darkened into the beginning of a bruise. Her lashes rested against the swelling.

Look what he did.

Daemon’s hand paused.

The Devil rose.

Find Candi.

Even asleep, one of Femi’s hands remained closed around his shirt.

The Devil stopped.

Daemon looked at those little fingers.

She is holding us.

His palm resumed its path over her back.

Stay.

The rage remained.

Candi.

Later.

She paid for this.

Daemon looked at Femi. Later.

The Devil quieted.

Not forgiven.

Delayed.

Downstairs, Malone stood inside his office with the door closed and Red on the phone.

“The stupid cow came back, Malone.”

Red’s voice had lost its usual silk.

“Even after the message, she still blames Femi.”

Malone looked through the office window. Helix had closed early. Harlan swept broken glass near the table where Femi had been struck. Marta stood behind the bar cleaning the blood from Daemon’s shattered whiskey glass.

“You know what will happen if Daemon finds her.”

“He probably wants her dead now.”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey.”

Malone lowered himself into his chair.

“I don’t think even Femi could stop him next time.”

Upstairs, the Devil stirred. As though something inside Daemon had heard its name. Femi shifted against him. The Devil settled again.

Red became quiet.

“What happened?”

“Candi hired someone.”

“To do what?”

“Come into Helix. Grab Femi. Give her a message.”

Red exhaled.

“What message?”

“Candi was coming for her.”

“That’s all?”

“No.”

Malone looked toward the ceiling.

“He was supposed to slap her around first.”

Red’s silence changed. Became dangerous.

“How badly?”

“Five hundred upfront. Another five hundred after he beat Femi bloody.”

“What?”

“He struck her once before Daemon reached him.”

Red cursed.

“Where is the man?”

“Alive.”

“Are we certain?”

“Harlan checked the parking lot. The man was gone. So was his car.”

“Daemon allowed him to drive?”

“He may have crawled.”

Red released a slow breath.

“And Femi?”

“Upstairs.”

“With Daemon?”

“Yes.”

“Is she afraid of him?”

Malone thought of the way Femi took Daemon’s offered hand.

“No.”

“Then what is she afraid of?”

“That Candi won’t stop.”

Red said nothing. Neither did Malone. The truth remained between them. Candi had already ignored a beating, a warning, a permanent mark, and exile from every club in Wolfwater. Each consequence only made her hatred of Femi worse.

She did not want Daemon anymore. Not truly. Wanting had become an excuse.

Candi needed to destroy Femi because Femi’s existence proved something she could not tolerate—that beauty, sex, and manipulation had failed to purchase the one man she believed should belong to her.

“I put Candi on a bus myself,” Red said. “Gave her enough money to leave Ravenside and made the consequences of returning very clear.”

“She got off.”

“Apparently.”

“Someone is hiding her.”

“I’ll find out who.”

“Find her first.”

“Before Daemon?”

“Before dawn.”

Red’s voice softened by a fraction.

“For Candi’s sake?”

“No.”

Malone looked toward the ceiling again.

“For his.”

Red understood.

If Daemon killed Candi, Femi would carry the death as though she had placed the weapon in his hand herself.

“What do you want done?” Red asked.

“Get her out of Ravenside.”

“I tried that.”

“Try harder.”

“She came back once.”

“Then don’t give her the chance to choose.”

Red considered the words.

“You want her transported.”

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“Far enough that returning costs more than she has.”

“And the message?”

“No mark this time.”

Red sounded surprised.

“Malone—”

“Femi already has one on her face. I’m not building a matching collection.”

“She paid a man to beat your daughter bloody.”

The cold inside Malone sharpened.

“I know.”

“You don’t sound angry enough.”

“If I allow myself to sound as angry as I am, there won’t be enough left of Candi to put on a bus.”

Red became quiet again.

“What message?” she asked.

Malone looked through the office glass. Marta had stopped cleaning. She was listening from the bar.

“Tell Candi that every person who hides her will lose the right to work in Wolfwater. Every room she rents will be closed to her. Every man she pays will bring the money to me and tell me where she is.”

“That could work.”

“She wants to make Femi believe she doesn’t belong here.”

Malone’s voice lowered.

“Teach Candi who Wolfwater chose.”

Red made a thoughtful sound.

“I’ll call when I have her.”

“Red.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Alive.”

A smile entered her voice.

“You boys have become terribly sentimental.”

“She hurt my daughter.”

The smile disappeared.

“I know, honey.”

The line went dead.

Marta entered the office without knocking.

“Femi?”

“With Daemon.”

“Is that wise?”

“He would tear the building apart before allowing anything near her.”

“That was not my question.”

Malone looked at her.

Marta leaned against the desk.

“She kissed him.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I own cameras.”

Marta’s eyes narrowed.

“Do not spy on your daughter.”

“My cameras cover the kitchen for theft.”

“And you watched?”

“I looked away.”

“Liar.”

“I looked away eventually.”

Marta folded her arms.

“What happened?”

“She ran.”

“From him?”

“I don’t think so.”

Marta glanced toward the ceiling.

“Then from herself.”

Malone considered that.

His phone vibrated.

A message from Red appeared.

Found the room. Empty. Coffee still warm. She has help. Working on it. —R

Malone showed Marta.

Her mouth tightened.

“Daemon cannot see that.”

“He will ask.”

“Lie.”

“He’ll know.”

“Then distract him.”

“With what?”

Marta looked toward the ceiling.

“You own whiskey.”

“He’s already had enough.”

“Then use honesty. That should incapacitate him.”

Malone almost smiled.

Upstairs, Femi moved in her sleep. Daemon’s hand stopped.

The Devil woke instantly.

What?

A small crease appeared between her eyebrows.

Her fingers tightened around his shirt.

Dreaming.

“No.”

The word left him softly. Not a command. A promise to whatever followed her into sleep.

“Stay here, little ghost.”

The Devil pressed close.

Here.

Daemon’s palm resumed its slow path along her back.

With us.

Up.

Down.

Come back, little ghost.

Femi pressed closer. Her forehead rested against his ribs.

The Devil nearly sighed.

There.

Daemon’s hand continued moving.

Safe here.

He did not say it aloud. Promises meant little. But his hand could keep moving. His body could remain between her and the door. He could still be here when she woke. The Devil understood actions better anyway.

Stay until morning.

“I will.”

After morning.

Daemon looked down at her.

“Probably.”

The Devil objected.

Definitely.

Daemon’s mouth moved slightly. His gaze shifted toward the open doorway when Malone’s shadow crossed it.

The Devil changed instantly.

Who?

“Malone.”

Family.

Daemon relaxed. Malone stopped outside the room. He took in the scene. Femi curled beside Daemon. Daemon’s bloody clothes. Both large hands wrapped in clean white gauze.

The open door. Daemon had left it that way deliberately.

“Red?”

His voice remained quiet.

“Looking.”

“Has she found Candi?”

“Not yet.”

Daemon studied his face.

The Devil studied him too.

Lie.

“Liar.”

Malone sighed and entered.

“She found the room Candi was using. It was empty.”

The Devil rose.

Where?

“Where?”

“No.”

Malone.

“Malone.”

“Femi is sleeping.”

Daemon looked down. His hand continued moving across her back.

The Devil watched her breathe.

Quiet.

Daemon lowered his voice further.

“Candi paid a man to beat her bloody.”

Do not forget.

“I know.”

“She came back after Red’s warning.”

She ignored us.

“I know.”

“She will keep coming.”

Until we stop her.

“Not after tonight.”

Daemon’s gray eyes lifted.

The Devil became attentive.

What did he do?

“What did you order?”

“Nothing involving a grave.”

The Devil was displeased.

Mistake.

“That was a mistake.”

“If you kill Candi, Femi will blame herself.”

The Devil went silent. Daemon’s jaw tightened. Malone continued.

“She already asked whether you killed the man downstairs, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And she was relieved when you said no.”

“Yes.”

The Devil remembered. Femi’s shoulders loosening. Relief entering her eyes.

She does not want that for us.

Malone stepped closer.

“You want to protect her? Do not make her carry your bodies.”

The words landed. The Devil recoiled. Daemon looked at the woman sleeping against him. Femi had reached for his hand in Sunflower Park before he could kill Candi. Not to save the woman threatening her. To save him.

The Devil whispered:

She was afraid for us.

Daemon stared at her.

Yes.

Not Candi.

No.

Us.

His hand moved over Femi’s back.

“What is Red doing?” he asked.

“Finding whoever helped Candi return. Then she’ll put Candi somewhere beyond Ravenside.”

The Devil considered that.

Far?

“How far?”

“Far enough.”

Farther.

Daemon almost said it.

“And if Candi comes back?”

Malone did not answer. Daemon’s bandaged fingers curved protectively against Femi’s back.

The Devil answered instead.

Then she is ours.

“If she comes back,” Daemon said, “Femi will not stop me again.”

Femi shifted.

Her hand slid from his shirt— and settled over his heart. Daemon became still. The Devil vanished into shocked silence. The threat died unfinished between them. Malone watched his expression change. Femi’s palm rested directly over the steady beat beneath Daemon’s ribs.

The Devil whispered:

Her hand.

Daemon could barely breathe.

She found us.

Malone’s expression softened.

“There,” he murmured. “That is why Candi hates her.”

Daemon looked at him.

“She stops you without trying.”

The Devil remained focused entirely on the little hand over Daemon’s heart.

She is sleeping.

Daemon knew.

She does not even know.

“She shouldn’t have to.”

“No.”

Malone turned toward the door.

“But perhaps you should let her.”

He left the room. Daemon remained awake. Femi slept with one hand over his heart while his palm moved slowly across her back.

The Devil stared at her hand.

Small.

Daemon looked at it.

“Yes.”

Stops us.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Keeps us.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

That too.

Downstairs, Malone’s phone vibrated again.

I have her. Alive. —R

Malone read the message. Then he looked toward the ceiling.

Upstairs, the Devil knew nothing of Red’s message. It knew only Femi. Her breathing. Her warmth. Her bruised cheek. Her fingers spread over Daemon’s heart. The rage remained.

Candi had purchased it.

Tomorrow.

Daemon’s hand moved slowly over Femi’s back.

“No.”

The Devil stirred.

She hurt little ghost.

“I know.”

She keeps coming.

“I know.”

Femi shifted closer. Her hand pressed more firmly over his heart. The Devil went silent. Daemon waited.

Finally— Later.

His eyes closed.

Later.

For once, later did not mean weakness. It meant Femi would wake without blood added to the bruise already on her face. It meant she would not have to wonder whether her pain had bought someone’s death. It meant the Devil could choose something other than violence.

For her.

Stay.

Daemon remained exactly where he was.

Hold little ghost.

His palm continued its slow path across her back.

Downstairs, Wolfwater closed its doors to Candi one by one.

Upstairs, the Devil held Femi through the night.

Restless.

Awake.

Still furious.

But every time the rage began to rise, the little hand over Daemon’s heart reminded it what mattered more.

Her.

And so the Devil waited.

Not forgiven.

Not forgotten.

Delayed.

Red called Daemon shortly after ten in the morning.

“We have her.”

The Devil woke instantly.

Candi.

Daemon sat on the edge of his bed. Femi remained asleep behind him, curled beneath his black sheets with one hand resting where his body had been.

The Devil’s attention shifted.

Little ghost.

Daemon looked over his shoulder. Her midnight hair spilled across his pillow. The bruise across her cheek had darkened overnight.

The Devil growled.

Candi.

Daemon’s eyes returned to the floor.

“Yes.”

Now.

“All we’re missing is you, darling,” Red finished with a laugh.

“Where?”

“The old Soss packing plant.”

Daemon stood.

“I’ll be there.”

He ended the call.

The Devil surged forward.

Kill her.

Daemon looked back at Femi.

She paid him to beat little ghost bloody.

“I know.”

She keeps coming.

“I know.”

End it.

Daemon dressed quietly. Femi shifted beneath the sheets. He froze.

So did the Devil.

Do not wake her.

Daemon waited. Her breathing deepened again.

Sleeping.

He left a glass of water beside the bed.

The Devil watched him place it there.

She will be thirsty.

“Probably.”

Food too.

“Malone will feed her.”

The Devil considered this.

Family.

“Yes.”

Femi did not wake. Daemon stood beside the bed for another moment.

The Devil stared at the bruise.

Down.

Daemon’s jaw tightened. He knew exactly what the Devil meant.

Thumb down.

Death.

“We’ll see.”

Down.

Daemon slipped down the back stairs and left Helix without speaking to Malone. Twenty minutes later, he entered the abandoned meat-packing district of Ravenside. Red waited inside the old plant beside a woman who looked as though she bench-pressed elephants for entertainment.

The woman stood at least five feet eleven. Dark-skinned. Her shoulders were broad, her arms powerful, and her body built like the front end of a Mack truck. Gray streaked the short black hair near her temples. She watched Daemon enter. Silent. Still.

The Devil assessed her.

Strong.

“Yes.”

Dangerous.

“Probably.”

Miss White held Daemon’s gaze. No challenge. No fear.

The Devil approved.

Good.

Red smiled.

“Daemon, this is Miss White.”

The woman gave him one measured nod.

“Miss White doesn’t care for violence against people smaller than she is,” Red explained.

Everyone looked at Miss White. Most of Ravenside was smaller than she was.

The Devil considered this.

I like her.

Daemon almost smiled.

“You see, I told Miss White what Candi did to Malone’s daughter. What she paid that man to do to Malone’s daughter.”

The Devil stirred at the title.

Daughter.

Red’s smile became sharp.

“Miss White found it so offensive that she offered to handle the issue personally.”

Daemon looked the woman over. Miss White held his gaze. No challenge. Recognition. Red gestured between them.

“Miss White, the Devil.”

The thing beneath Daemon’s skin seemed amused.

Then Red’s smile widened.

“Malone’s daughter’s … boyfriend.”

Daemon turned his head toward her. The Devil went completely silent. Red appeared delighted with herself. Daemon did not correct her. Miss White nodded again. Respect passed silently between them.

The Devil finally whispered:

Boyfriend?

Daemon ignored it.

Are we?

“Quiet.”

You did not say no.

Daemon stared straight ahead.

Boyfriend.

“Stop.”

The Devil sounded suspiciously pleased.

Little ghost’s boyfriend.

Then Miss White turned toward the center of the room. The humor vanished. Candi hung beneath one of the old meat hooks. The Devil rose.

There.

The hook had not entered her body. Her wrists were bound together and secured to a chain suspended from it, forcing her arms above her head. Her feet barely touched the stained concrete floor. She looked exhausted. Furious.

The expression of disgust on her face deepened when she saw Daemon.

“You.”

The Devil became cold.

Down.

Daemon took a chair from beside the wall and placed it several feet in front of her. He sat. Red handed him a whiskey.

“Breakfast.”

Daemon accepted it. Candi twisted against the restraints.

“Let me down.”

The Devil almost laughed.

No.

Red looked toward Miss White. Miss White cracked her knuckles. The sound moved through the empty plant. Candi went silent.

The Devil settled back.

Very good.

Red stepped toward the door.

“I’ve done my part.”

“You’re leaving?” Candi demanded.

Red smiled over her shoulder.

“I’ve seen Miss White work before.”

She looked toward Daemon.

“Call when you’re finished, darling.”

The door closed behind her. Miss White advanced.

Watch.

Daemon lifted the whiskey.

He intended to.

For thirty minutes, Daemon watched. Miss White never raised her voice. She asked one question at a time.

“Did you threaten Femi?”

Candi denied it. Miss White broke one finger.

The Devil listened to the crack.

She did.

“Did you put your hands on her?”

Candi cursed. Another finger.

She did.

“Did you pay a man to beat her?”

Candi spat in Miss White’s face.

The Devil’s lip curled inside Daemon.

Wrong choice.

Miss White wiped it away. Then broke Candi’s arm. The scream echoed through the plant. The Devil did not flinch. Miss White waited until it ended.

“Did you pay a man to beat Femi?”

Candi nodded.

“Use words.”

“Yes.”

Again.

“How much?”

“A thousand.”

“Before or after?”

“Five hundred before. Five after.”

Miss White looked toward Daemon. He drank his whiskey.

The Devil whispered:

For our little ghost’s blood.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the glass. The questioning continued.

By the time Miss White stepped back, Candi had four broken ribs, a broken arm, and six broken fingers. Several teeth lay bloody on the concrete near her feet. Daemon had not moved from his chair. He watched with the same stillness he once brought to executions.

Not pleasure. Not anger. Decision.

The Devil remained restless.

Not enough.

Daemon took another drink.

She keeps breathing.

“For now.”

Down.

Daemon said nothing. Miss White leaned over Candi. She caught a handful of hair and forced her head up.

“Look.”

Candi’s swollen eyes found Daemon. Miss White spoke slowly. As though Candi’s understanding required careful assistance.

“Do you see that man?”

Candi breathed through her mouth.

“That man is thinking about his woman.”

The Devil froze.

His woman.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Miss White continued.

“The one you tried to hurt. The one who did nothing except help you.”

The Devil softened for only a heartbeat.

Little ghost.

Candi attempted to turn away. Miss White tightened her grip.

“You wanted his attention.”

Candi looked at Daemon.

“When he leaves here, he will never think of you again.”

The Devil agreed.

Already difficult.

Panic moved beneath Candi’s rage.

“What are you going to do?” she spat. “Kill me?”

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil answered.

Maybe.

“Over some stupid fucking whore who can’t even talk?”

Everything inside Daemon went cold. The Devil rose so violently it felt like claws beneath his skin.

DOWN.

Miss White slapped her. Candi’s head snapped violently to one side. Blood flew from her mouth.

“Say that again,” Miss White said, “and you will lose the ability to use your hands permanently.”

Her voice remained flat. Even.

The Devil stared at Miss White.

I really like her.

Candi panted.

“Your mute will never have you, Devil.”

The Devil went still. Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

She already does.

“I made sure of that.”

Silence. The Devil turned its full attention toward Candi.

What?

Candi laughed through broken teeth. Miss White backhanded her into the wall. The chain swung. Candi struck the concrete and cried out. When Miss White broke her leg, the laughter became screaming. Candi kicked uselessly with the uninjured one. She twisted against the restraints, trying desperately to escape the woman who had not once raised her voice. Miss White waited until the screams weakened. Daemon set down his empty glass.

The Devil no longer cared about her screams.

What did she mean?

“What did you do?”

Candi looked toward him.

“What?”

“You said you made sure Femi would never have me.”

Answer.

Candi smiled through the blood.

“She ran after you kissed her, didn’t she?”

Daemon became still. The Devil disappeared into silence. Candi saw the answer. Her smile widened.

“I knew she would.”

The Devil whispered:

No.

Daemon’s pulse slowed.

“What did you tell her?”

“That you’d forget her.”

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

“I told her once you got her into bed, you’d be done.”

For one terrible moment, Daemon was back in the kitchen. Femi in his arms. Her legs around his waist. Her lips against his. Warm. Wanting. Choosing. Then— her hands stopping. Her body stiffening. The shame. The fear. The way she ran.

The Devil understood.

Candi.

Daemon’s hands curled.

It was her.

Yes.

We did not hurt little ghost.

Daemon’s breath caught.

No.

We did not frighten her.

No.

Relief hit first. Sharp enough to hurt.

Then rage came behind it.

She put fear there.

Daemon stared at Candi.

In our first kiss.

His vision narrowed. Candi had been inside that kitchen without being there. Her voice had reached into something Femi freely gave them— and poisoned it.

She made little ghost ashamed.

“What else?” he asked.

“That she was nothing. Forgettable. A street whore you’d use until someone better came along.”

The Devil sounded almost confused.

Forgettable?

Daemon leaned forward.

The Devil stared at Candi.

How could anyone forget her?

“You believed you were better.”

“I am.”

Candi tried to straighten despite the broken leg.

“She showed up from whatever trash dump Malone found her in, and suddenly everyone loves her.”

The Devil’s rage became quieter.

More dangerous.

Because she is Femi.

“Whoopee. She cooks. She cleans. She serves cold beer. The bitch can’t talk, so she ain’t good for anything.”

Miss White lifted one hand. Daemon stopped her with a look.

The Devil objected.

Let her.

“No.”

Why?

“She’ll talk.”

The Devil settled.

Then let her dig.

“She probably never went to school,” Candi said. “Some dumb fuck sucking off the old geezer for room and board.”

Daemon’s gray eyes turned colder.

The Devil whispered:

Malone would kill her for that one.

Probably.

“She must be good at something. Are you passing her around? Is that it?”

Miss White backhanded her again. The restraints slipped from the hook. Candi fell to the floor. One side of her face had become purple with bruising. Blood ran from her mouth and nose. Her swollen blue eyes found Daemon’s. He stared back with a stillness that said he had already considered her worth and found none.

The Devil stared too.

She does not know Femi at all.

No.

Rage ran cold through Candi. She attempted to stand. Her broken leg failed.

Miss White knocked her flat again with one hand.

Daemon rose from the chair.

He approached until his boots stopped inches from Candi’s face.

“What did Femi take from you?”

Candi glared upward.

“My job.”

“You lost your job when you assaulted her.”

“My place at Helix.”

“You sold yourself in Malone’s bathrooms after he forbade it.”

“You.”

The Devil went still. Daemon’s expression did not change. Candi’s voice broke.

“She took you.”

“No.”

The Devil whispered:

Wrong.

Daemon crouched.

“You never had me.”

Never.

“You almost came home with me.”

“No.”

“You touched me.”

“Once. Then I removed my hand.”

Smelled wrong.

“You saved me.”

“Red asked me to stop a man from hurting you.”

“You did that for me.”

“I did it because he was wrong.”

Candi’s breathing became ragged.

“I could have been good for you.”

“No.”

Never wanted you.

“I’m beautiful.”

“Yes.”

The answer surprised her. The Devil was unmoved. Daemon continued.

“You are beautiful. And none of it makes you worth wanting.”

Candi stared at him.

“Femi never took me from you.”

His voice became quiet.

The Devil softened.

Little ghost never took anything.

“I chose her before I understood I was choosing.”

The Devil whispered:

We did.

Daemon remembered the first time Femi brought his whiskey. The first tiny smile. The first meal. The first time strawberry scent reached him from across Helix.

Always her.

“She’ll leave.”

“Perhaps.”

The Devil objected immediately.

No.

Daemon did not indulge it.

“She’ll never love you.”

“Perhaps.”

She cares.

Yes.

But Femi owed them nothing.

“You’ll get tired of her silence.”

“No.”

The Devil answered with him.

Never.

The certainty ended Candi’s argument. Daemon stood. He raised one hand. Thumb up.

The Devil became alert.

No.

Miss White watched. Daemon slowly turned it sideways. Not up. Not down. Between mercy and death.

The Devil stared at his thumb.

Down.

Daemon held it sideways.

Daemon.

No.

She paid for little ghost’s blood.

“I know.”

She poisoned our kiss.

“I know.”

Down.

Daemon remembered Femi standing between his knees.

Did you kill him?

Her relief when he said no.

Her small hands wrapping his damaged ones in white gauze.

I was afraid for you.

The Devil fell silent.

Daemon’s thumb remained sideways.

Little ghost.

Yes.

She would be sad.

“Yes.”

She would think it was because of her.

“Yes.”

The Devil raged against the answer.

Candi deserves down.

Daemon agreed. That was not the question. The Devil understood.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Sideways.

Miss White understood. She stepped away from Candi.

Candi looked between them.

“What does that mean?”

Daemon lowered his hand.

“It means you live.”

The Devil whispered:

Because she asked without being here.

Relief entered Candi’s face.

Then he continued.

“Not because you deserve it.”

Never because of you.

The relief vanished.

“You live because Femi would blame herself for your body.”

Candi attempted to laugh.

It came out as a wet cough.

“She won’t ever know.”

“I would.”

The Devil quieted.

Daemon looked toward the door.

“And I will not place another death between us for someone I will forget before I reach my motorcycle.”

The Devil considered that.

Already forgetting.

“You can’t leave me here.”

Daemon turned.

“Red will return.”

“She’ll kill me.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I asked.”

Candi began dragging herself toward him with one functioning leg.

“Daemon.”

He stepped beyond her reach.

The Devil recoiled from her reaching hand.

Do not touch us.

“Please.”

The word followed him. He stopped at the door. Candi lifted her head. For one desperate second, she believed he might turn around.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost said please better.

Daemon nearly laughed.

Instead, he looked toward Miss White.

“Make sure she leaves Ravenside.”

Miss White nodded.

“If she returns?”

The Devil answered immediately.

Down.

Miss White looked down at Candi.

“She won’t.”

Daemon opened the door. Behind him, Candi cried his name. He did not look back.

The Devil did not either.

Not ours.

Miss White crouched beside her.

“He has already forgotten you.”

The door closed. The Devil went quiet. Then—

Go home.

Daemon’s steps slowed.

Little ghost will wake soon.

He walked faster.

Red waited outside beside Daemon’s motorcycle.

“Well?”

“Alive.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

The Devil grumbled.

Sideways.

Daemon ignored it.

Red studied him.

“You let Femi stop you again.”

“She wasn’t there.”

“She didn’t need to be.”

Daemon looked toward the direction of Helix.

The Devil softened.

No.

“No.”

Red handed him a phone.

“Candi’s contacts. Everyone who helped hide her. Malone will have the list before noon.”

Daemon scrolled through the names.

“Mara?”

“Left Ravenside last night.”

“Good.”

Gone.

“And Candi?”

“Miss White has a doctor waiting. Once she’s stable, she’ll be transported north.”

“How far?”

“Far enough.”

The Devil surfaced.

Farther.

Daemon returned the phone.

Red smiled.

“Malone’s daughter’s boyfriend.”

The Devil immediately perked up.

There it is again.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“You liked it.”

“I did not.”

Liar.

“You didn’t correct me.”

Daemon mounted the motorcycle.

The Devil was practically pleased with itself.

Little ghost’s boyfriend.

“Stop saying that.”

Red laughed as the engine started.

“Give my love to your little woman.”

The Devil froze.

Our little woman.

Daemon’s hands tightened around the handlebars.

“No.”

The Devil paused.

Then corrected itself.

The woman we belong to.

Daemon stared straight ahead.

That was somehow worse.

Go home to her.

The engine growled beneath him. Daemon looked once toward the old packing plant. Candi was alive. Not forgiven. Not pardoned. Not spared because she deserved mercy. She lived because Femi had once put a small hand inside his and shown both Daemon and the Devil that there were things more important than punishment.

The Devil had wanted the thumb down. Daemon had wanted it down too. But when the moment came, they both remembered her. Her relief. Her hands.

Her kiss against his bandaged knuckles.

I was afraid for you.

The Devil whispered:

Sideways for little ghost.

Daemon accelerated away. For once, mercy did not feel like weakness. It felt like something Femi had taught a monster.

And the Devil was already impatient to get home and see if she was awake.

She did not ask where he had gone. She did not want to know what he had spent the morning doing. She knew only that he returned to Helix shortly before ten that night.

Daemon entered through the front doors and crossed the crowded clubhouse without removing his jacket. He did not look injured. There was no blood on his hands. But something cold followed him inside. Femi felt it from the kitchen. She remained behind the service window and watched Daemon take his usual seat in the darkest corner.

The Devil noticed her immediately.

Little ghost.

Daemon did not look toward her.

Not yet.

She is watching.

“I know.”

Look.

“No.”

The Devil grew impatient.

Look at her.

Daemon finally lifted his gaze.

Femi had already turned away.

The Devil sighed.

Too slow.

Daemon ordered a whiskey. Then another. By ten, he was six drinks in. Malone approached his table carrying a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He placed it beside Daemon’s glass but did not sit.

“Are you going to tell her?”

Daemon looked toward the kitchen.

The Devil quieted.

Femi had come out to cover the bar. She arranged clean glasses beneath the counter, never looking directly at him.

She will not look.

“No.”

Malone folded his arms.

“She may ask.”

“She won’t.”

She might.

“You don’t know that.”

“She doesn’t need to know, Malone.”

Daemon filled his glass.

“She doesn’t need to carry that.”

The Devil stirred.

Sideways.

Daemon’s fingers paused around the bottle.

Yes.

Sideways.

For her.

Malone looked toward Femi.

The bruise on her cheek remained visible beneath the bar lights.

The Devil’s rage returned instantly.

Candi.

“She already carries too much.”

“Yes.”

Daemon drank.

The Devil stared at the bruise.

We should have put it down.

“No.”

She hurt little ghost.

“Femi was relieved.”

Silence.

The Devil remembered her expression.

…sideways.

Malone left the bottle. By last call, Daemon had finished ten whiskeys. The clubhouse emptied quickly. Customers collected coats, employees finished their final tasks, and the music died. Daemon remained in his corner. Femi appeared carrying her bucket.

The Devil softened.

There.

She began cleaning. Her hands moved quickly and carefully over every table. Daemon watched. He wondered whether she did everything that way. Cooked. Cleaned. Signed. Touched him.

The Devil whispered:

Kissed us.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

Careful, as though the world might punish her for pressing too hard. They did not discuss Candi. Miss White had been right. Daemon did not think about the woman again. Not while Femi moved through the room.

Neither did the Devil.

Only little ghost.

Everyone knew Femi did laundry every Wednesday and Sunday. Clean towels appeared in every room. Sheets were washed, folded, and delivered upstairs. No one asked her to do it. She had simply decided it belonged to her routine. Daemon returned to his room after closing and found his mattress bare.

He stood over it frowning. His black satin sheets were missing. So were the black towels from the bathroom. The entire room felt exposed without them.

The Devil was offended.

Where are they?

“Laundry.”

Bed is naked.

Daemon stared at the mattress.

“Don’t say that.”

A tiny knock came from the door.

The Devil forgot the sheets instantly.

Little ghost.

Daemon knew it was Femi.

“Enter.”

She stepped inside carrying his laundry. Black towels. Black satin sheets folded against her chest.

The Devil sounded pleased.

She brought them back.

Femi crossed the room and lowered the linens near the door. She intended to leave them and escape.

The Devil noticed.

No.

“Femi.”

Her shoulders tightened. Daemon’s stomach dropped.

The Devil became nervous.

Why did she do that?

She looked toward him. Daemon crossed the room in three long strides. Femi remained near the door.

He placed one palm against the wall beside her head and leaned closer.

The Devil immediately warned:

Careful.

“You’ve been hiding, little ghost.”

His voice remained soft despite the whiskey inside him.

“Why?”

Femi slowly lifted one hand. Her fingers brushed the pale hair away from his face. Every thought vanished.

The Devil went quiet.

Oh.

The touch stole half his anger.

She shook her head.

No.

Not hiding.

“I know when you’re hiding.”

Femi looked toward the hall.

The Devil noticed.

Door.

Daemon took the linens from her hands, freeing her without stepping away. His palm returned to the wall beside her head.

The Devil grew anxious.

Too close?

Daemon almost moved. Then he watched color rise along her cheeks.

The Devil stopped.

Pink.

For one hopeful second, he thought she might kiss him again.

The Devil practically prayed.

Please.

Daemon’s heart pounded.

Little ghost.

Femi looked at his mouth.

Please.

She moved. Daemon stopped breathing. Then Femi ducked beneath his arm.

The Devil’s hope shattered.

Oh.

Daemon did not stop her.

Let her go.

She walked out.

He remained beside the door with both hands pressed against the wall and his head bowed. A sigh left him. The Devil was silent for several seconds.

Then—

Did we do wrong?

Daemon closed his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

Too close?

“Maybe.”

Wall?

“Maybe.”

Whiskey?

“Probably.”

The Devil became miserable.

We frightened little ghost.

“I don’t know.”

He had wanted her mouth. Her hands in his hair. That soft, breathless sound she made when he deepened their kiss.

The Devil remembered it too.

Want that again.

Daemon’s forehead rested against the wall.

“So do I.”

She wanted it before.

“Yes.”

Maybe not now.

The thought hurt them both. Daemon closed his eyes.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking.”

The empty hallway offered nothing.

The Devil whispered into it anyway.

Tell us, little ghost.

Nothing answered.

It happened on a Tuesday.

Three in the morning.

Daemon found Femi awake in the clubhouse. She sat curled into the corner of the old sofa with a blanket around her shoulders. The television played quietly in front of her.

The Devil noticed the blanket.

Then the hour.

Nightmare.

“Nightmare?”

Femi looked up. She nodded.

The Devil softened.

Little ghost.

Daemon glanced toward the screen. Two people stood in the rain arguing about love. The woman struck the man’s chest. He caught her hand. Dramatic music rose. Then they kissed. Daemon rolled his eyes.

The Devil watched with considerably more interest.

Why are they wet?

“Rain.”

Why are they yelling?

“I don’t know.”

Then kissing?

“Apparently.”

The Devil considered human romance deeply flawed. Daemon went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned carrying coffee for himself and warm tea for Femi. She accepted the cup without looking away from the television.

The Devil approved.

Warm.

Daemon sat in the chair beside the sofa. Onscreen, the couple kissed again. Femi lifted two fingers to her lips. She touched them thoughtfully. Daemon noticed.

The Devil went completely still.

Daemon.

“I see.”

Her lips.

“Yes.”

She is thinking.

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil became excited.

About us?

“Don’t.”

Our kiss.

“You don’t know that.”

Our kiss.

“Quiet.”

Over the next few weeks, he caught her doing it repeatedly. While washing glasses. Her fingers rose.

Again.

While standing alone near the jukebox. Two fingers touched her mouth.

Again.

After watching customers kiss near the bar.

Again.

Her expression would become distant. Thinking. Remembering. Daemon wondered whether she thought of him. Hope whispered yes.

The Devil did too.

Ask.

“No.”

Ask her.

“No.”

Why?

“Because if the answer is no, I would rather die ignorant.”

The Devil considered this.

Coward.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Do not ask.

Daemon almost smiled.

He found Femi in the parking lot one evening. She stood beside his motorcycle, staring at something on the pavement. The last daylight caught the edges of her waist-length braid. Two fingers rested against her lips. A small smile touched them. The Devil stopped Daemon before he even understood why.

There.

Daemon stared.

She is doing it again.

He approached quietly. His shadow fell across her. Femi looked up.

The Devil whispered:

Green.

Daemon placed one hand against the brick wall beside her head. He leaned closer. He had intended to ask what she was looking at. The question disappeared when her green eyes met his.

Strawberries surrounded him.

The Devil purred.

So good.

Daemon looked at her mouth.

Femi licked her lips.

The Devil nearly lost its mind.

Oh.

His heart pounded hard enough to bruise his ribs from within. He leaned closer.

Careful.

His tongue passed over his lower lip. The movement brushed her mouth. Femi shivered. Daemon froze.

The Devil panicked.

Cold.

Daemon immediately removed his leather jacket and placed it around her shoulders. She looked at him.

“Cold?”

Her hands disappeared inside the sleeves. Femi shook her head.

The Devil paused.

Not cold.

“No.”

Then why—

Daemon’s fingers slid along her jaw. Femi did not pull away.

The Devil forgot the question.

“Little ghost.”

His voice became rough.

“So beautiful.”

Beautiful.

His other hand played with the end of her braid. Femi leaned into his touch.

The Devil went still.

She came closer.

Daemon lowered his head.

“Please, little ghost.”

The word left him before pride could stop it. His breath moved across her lips.

“I need—”

The words failed.

The Devil knew them.

Her.

Daemon closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.

He did not know how to finish without frightening himself.

I need you.

Yes.

I need you to touch me.

Please.

I need to know the first kiss was not something you regret.

The Devil became quiet.

That was the real fear.

Please don’t regret us.

Femi tasted mint on his breath. Daemon remained close. Waiting. Not taking. Not closing the final distance. Begging every god who might still listen to a man like him.

Please.

The Devil whispered with him.

Just once.

Femi closed the distance. Her lips touched his. The Devil stopped existing for a heartbeat. Daemon stopped breathing.

She—

He was dying. Burning. Being consumed.

And he loved every second.

She came back.

His hand moved to the back of her head and drew her closer. Femi melted into him as though their bodies had been made to fit together. The Devil leaned down and allowed her to take him there on the sidewalk outside Helix.

Take us.

Femi’s hands entered his hair. Daemon made that sound. Low. Rough.

The Devil shuddered with him.

Again.

She pulled him closer.

She wants closer.

This was what he had wanted for weeks. Her touch felt as necessary as air. Daemon kissed her slowly at first, afraid hunger would frighten her. The Devil was equally terrified.

Gentle.

Femi answered by gripping his hair and pressing her body against his. The Devil’s voice cracked with wonder.

She wants us.

Daemon’s control strained. One arm settled around her waist. The other hand remained at the back of her head, holding without trapping.

She can leave.

Yes.

Do not trap little ghost.

Never.

Femi’s lips parted beneath his. Daemon deepened the kiss. The motorcycle, the parking lot, and the city beyond them disappeared. There was only strawberries. Mint. Her warmth beneath his jacket. Her fingers in his hair.

Us.

Femi pulled away first. Daemon’s mouth followed hers for a heartbeat.

Then he stopped.

Stop.

He did. A smile touched his lips. Silence rushed between them. Daemon opened his eyes. There it was again. Shame.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

It entered Femi’s face after every kiss. Her gaze lowered. Her shoulders folded inward.

The Devil became frantic.

What did we do?

“What is it?”

She shook her head.

Something.

“You can tell me anything.”

Femi’s hands moved.

Nothing.

Then:

Do not worry.

The Devil almost laughed. Not from humor. From disbelief.

Impossible.

Daemon frowned.

“I do worry.”

Femi looked toward the clubhouse door. Her fingers twisted inside the sleeves of his jacket.

The Devil watched them.

She wants to leave.

Daemon’s stomach tightened.

“Did I hurt you?”

No.

The Devil exhaled.

Good.

“Did you want me to stop?”

Another shake.

The Devil froze.

She wanted it.

“Then what happens?”

Her eyes darted away.

Daemon lowered his hand from her waist.

Room.

He gave it.

“I can’t fix something if I don’t understand it.”

Femi flinched. Daemon immediately regretted the words.

The Devil snapped at him.

Wrong.

“You are not something to fix.”

Her gaze returned.

“I meant whatever keeps hurting you after we kiss.”

The Devil softened.

Something hurts little ghost.

Femi touched her lips again.

Her hands rose.

I am sorry.

Daemon stared.

The Devil was appalled.

For what?

“For what?”

She ducked beneath his arm. Daemon let her go.

Let her choose.

Femi walked toward the back door.

“Femi.”

She stopped. Her back remained to him. She did not know how to say it. She did not possess the words. Not spoken. Not signed. Candi’s voice remained too loud.

He needs someone who can make all the noise he wants. Once he gets you into bed, he will forget you. You cannot give him what a real woman can.

Femi’s fingers touched her lips. She turned toward Daemon. Her hands moved slowly.

You should find someone.

Daemon became still.

The Devil did not understand.

What?

Femi forced herself to finish.

Someone who can be what you need.

Silence.

The Devil stared through Daemon’s eyes.

Someone?

Femi reentered Helix. The door closed. Daemon remained beside the wall. Stunned. For several seconds, he could not move.

The Devil was equally stunned.

Someone else?

Daemon stared at the door.

What someone else?

His chest tightened. Someone who could be what he needed. What did Femi believe that was?

A woman who could speak?

No.

A woman unafraid of his bed?

No.

Someone untouched by foster homes, alleys, scars, and men who used kindness as a price?

No.

The Devil became agitated.

Her.

Daemon stared at the closed door.

We need her.

Then understanding arrived.

Cold.

Ugly.

Familiar.

Candi.

The Devil hissed the name. Daemon’s expression changed. Even absent, she remained between them. She had convinced Femi that silence made her incomplete. That Daemon’s desire would become disappointment the moment he wanted something she could not give.

The Devil’s rage rose.

She did this.

Yes.

Again.

Yes.

She put those words inside little ghost.

Daemon’s jaw clenched. The Devil wanted blood. But beneath the rage was something worse.

Hurt.

Femi believes her.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Yes.

She thinks we need a voice.

“No.”

She thinks we need someone else.

“No.”

The Devil sounded almost offended by the concept.

There is no someone else.

Daemon’s shock slowly hardened. Not into anger at Femi. Never her. Into certainty. There was no someone else. There had not been since the first night he began watching Femi move through Helix.

Always her.

Daemon retrieved the jacket she had returned to the chair just inside the back door.

The Devil immediately urged:

Go after her.

Daemon did not follow.

Daemon.

“No.”

She is hurting.

“I know.”

Go.

“No.”

Femi had fled. Chasing would only turn his wanting into another thing she had to survive.

The Devil hated the logic.

But she thinks we want someone else.

“We’ll tell her.”

Now.

“When she isn’t running from us.”

The Devil raged. Then slowly quieted.

Let her choose.

“Yes.”

Daemon stood alone in the dark clubhouse and spoke to the staircase.

“There is no one else, little ghost.”

The Devil joined him.

No one.

Femi did not hear him. That did not make it less true. Daemon looked toward the hallway where she had disappeared. The next conversation could not begin with a kiss.

The Devil objected weakly.

Like kissing.

“So do I.”

But it could not happen in the dark, with his body pressed close and hunger making every word difficult.

Words first.

“Yes.”

The Devil sounded deeply suspicious of this plan.

We are bad at words.

Daemon almost laughed.

“Very.”

He would have to ask Femi what she believed he needed. Then he would tell her. Not a voice.

The Devil immediately answered.

Her silence is ours too.

Daemon paused.

“No.”

The Devil waited.

Daemon corrected it.

“Her silence is hers.”

The Devil considered that.

Then— We love it because it is hers.

Daemon’s chest tightened. Better. Not perfection. Not a woman shaped by someone else’s definition of whole.

Femi.

Her.

Her green eyes.

Her midnight hair.

Her tiny knocks.

Her ridiculous judgment of his black sheets.

Her cooking.

Her books.

Her silent laughter.

Her fingers brushing his hair from his face.

Her hand stopping the Devil.

Her lips against his scar.

Her quiet.

Her noise.

Whatever sounds she made.

Whatever sounds she never would.

All of her.

“Yes.”

The Devil grew fiercely certain.

Not someone who talks.

“No.”

Not someone without scars.

“No.”

Not someone easier.

“No.”

Not someone else.

Daemon looked toward the staircase.

“No one else.”

The Devil settled beneath his skin. For once, there was no possessive growl. No mine. No ours. Only a simple truth.

Her.

Daemon had frightened confessions from men who preferred death to truth. Tomorrow, he would attempt something far more terrifying. He would give Femi his own.

The Devil became nervous.

What will we say?

Daemon stared toward the stairs.

“I have no fucking idea.”

A pause.

Then the Devil offered, very softly:

Tell little ghost she is enough.

Daemon’s expression changed.

“That sounds like she has something to prove.”

The Devil thought.

Then tell her we never needed enough.

Daemon waited.

The Devil searched for words it had never needed before Femi.

Finally—

Tell her we chose her.

Daemon swallowed.

Yes.

Tell her we keep choosing her.

His eyes remained on the staircase.

“And if she doesn’t choose us?”

The Devil became quiet. That possibility frightened it more than Candi. More than violence. More than death. But Femi had taught the monster something about choice.

So when it answered, there was no rage in its voice.

Then we let little ghost go.

Daemon closed his eyes.

The words hurt.

The Devil continued.

But we tell her the truth first.

“Yes.”

No someone else.

“No.”

A pause.

Only Femi.

Daemon looked toward the stairs one last time.

“Only Femi.”

The next day, Femi avoided Daemon with impressive dedication. The Devil noticed before noon.

Little ghost is hiding.

“I know.”

When his glass emptied, Mary brought the refill.

The Devil stared at her.

Wrong woman.

Daemon took the whiskey.

When he entered the kitchen, Femi found something in the storeroom that required immediate attention.

Again.

When he crossed the clubhouse toward her, she turned toward the nearest customer and began cleaning a table that was already clean.

The Devil became offended.

That table is clean.

“Yes.”

She cleaned it ten minutes ago.

“I know.”

Go get her.

“No.”

Why?

“Because she is hiding.”

Exactly. Find her.

Daemon rubbed his jaw.

“That is called chasing.”

The Devil went silent. It had learned that word. More importantly, it had learned what Femi did when she felt cornered.

No chasing.

“No.”

By six o’clock, Daemon was irritated.

By seven, he was wounded.

The Devil was worse.

She will not come near us.

By eight, he was furious with himself for being wounded. He sat in his dark corner and watched Femi move through Helix without once approaching him. She had kissed him in the parking lot. Held his hair. Pressed herself against him as though she wanted to erase the distance between them. Then she told him to find someone else.

The Devil still did not understand that.

There is no someone else.

“I know.”

She should know.

“She doesn’t.”

Tell her.

“She runs.”

The Devil sulked. Now she acted as if he had. Daemon finished his whiskey. Mary appeared with another. He frowned at her.

The Devil frowned too.

Still wrong woman.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re frowning.”

“I always frown.”

“Usually at Femi.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

Mary placed the drink on the table.

“I meant you usually watch Femi while frowning. Tonight, you’re frowning at me.”

The Devil considered that.

She is correct.

“Leave.”

“Gladly.”

She walked away. Daemon’s attention returned to Femi.

Immediately.

There.

A man stood beside her near the bar.

The Devil stopped.

Who is that?

Daemon had never seen him before. The stranger wore a clean gray jacket and carried a clipboard beneath one arm. Probably a supplier. Perhaps someone delivering equipment. He smiled at Femi.

The Devil’s voice dropped.

Why?

She smiled back.

Silence.

Daemon’s stomach tightened. The Devil sounded wounded.

She smiled at him.

Jealousy entered Daemon like poison. The man said something. Femi tilted her head and took the pen he offered. She wrote on the edge of his clipboard. He laughed.

The Devil became suspicious.

Why is he laughing?

Daemon’s fingers tightened around his glass. The stranger leaned closer. Femi did not step away.

The Devil rose.

Too close.

Daemon sat forward.

Closer. He moved closer.

“I see him.”

Move him.

The man pointed toward the front doors, then toward Femi. An invitation. Daemon recognized it immediately.

So did the Devil.

No.

His chair moved.

Absolutely not.

Malone reached the stranger first. He placed one heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. The stranger turned. Malone smiled. It was not a friendly expression.

“Hello.”

“Uh. Hello.”

The Devil settled slightly.

Family.

“You finished your delivery?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you still here?”

The man glanced toward Femi.

“I was asking if she wanted coffee.”

The Devil surged.

No.

Malone’s smile disappeared. Femi’s eyes widened.

Daemon stood.

Coffee?

The stranger saw him rise from the corner. He looked from Daemon to Malone. Malone leaned closer.

“That is my daughter.”

The Devil softened for half a heartbeat.

Daughter.

The man swallowed.

“I didn’t know.”

“Now you do.”

“I was only asking—”

“And that blond man behind you is the Devil.”

The stranger looked over his shoulder. Daemon stood six feet away. Gray eyes fixed on him. Pale hair falling across his scar. The man’s face lost color.

The Devil approved.

Good.

“He is currently trying to determine whether inviting my daughter for coffee constitutes a threat.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I know that.”

Malone patted his shoulder.

“I’m not certain he does.”

The Devil answered immediately.

Undecided.

The stranger thrust the clipboard toward Femi.

“Everything is signed.”

She accepted it.

“Have a good evening.”

He walked quickly toward the doors.

Daemon took one step forward.

Ask where he lives.

The man began running. The front door slammed behind him.

The Devil watched.

Coward.

Femi turned toward Malone.

Her hands moved sharply.

What did you say?

“Nothing untrue.”

She pointed toward the entrance.

“He appeared late for something.”

Femi’s eyes narrowed.

Malone glanced toward Daemon.

“Speak to him. He frightened the man.”

Daemon folded his arms.

“You told him I was deciding whether coffee was a threat.”

“You were.”

“I had not decided.”

Still haven’t.

“That was why he ran.”

Femi stared at both men. Then she signed something neither needed translated.

The Devil paused.

Was that rude?

“Yes.”

Good.

She walked into the kitchen.

Malone watched her leave.

“Impressive.”

Daemon returned to his table. Malone followed and took the chair across from him.

“You look ridiculous.”

“She was smiling at him.”

The Devil joined him.

She smiled at him.

“People do that.”

“She does not smile at everyone.”

No.

“She smiled because he complimented the bread.”

Daemon frowned.

“How do you know?”

“I was standing closer.”

“He asked her out.”

“For coffee.”

“Alone.”

Alone.

“That is generally how invitations work.”

Daemon lifted his whiskey.

Malone took it from him.

“Give that back.”

“No.”

“Malone.”

“Jealousy is not a conversation.”

Daemon stared at him.

The Devil stared harder.

That is our whiskey.

Malone drank the whiskey.

The Devil was horrified.

He drank it.

“That is terrible.”

“You poured it.”

“I blame your mood.”

The Devil considered murder.

Family.

“Yes.”

Unfortunately.

Daemon leaned back.

“She told me to find someone else.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

No.

“Do you intend to?”

“No.”

Never.

“Have you told her?”

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil sighed.

Coward.

Malone nodded.

“Then perhaps she thinks you are considering the suggestion.”

“I am not.”

“She is not inside your head.”

“She is fortunate.”

“Most people are.”

The Devil seemed offended.

Little ghost would like it here.

Daemon almost choked.

“No, she would not.”

Malone looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Daemon looked toward the kitchen. Femi appeared briefly through the service window.

The Devil immediately perked up.

There she is.

She caught him watching— and immediately disappeared.

Gone.

“I don’t know how to say it.”

Malone’s eyebrows rose.

“You speak six languages.”

“Four.”

“You know four languages and cannot say, ‘I don’t want anyone else’?”

The Devil was deeply unimpressed.

I can say it.

Daemon ignored it.

“I can say it.”

“Then do.”

“She runs.”

“She runs because she is afraid.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Malone leaned forward.

“Femi believes she is sending you toward something better.”

The Devil growled.

Wrong.

“There is nothing better.”

Correct.

“Tell her.”

“What if she doesn’t believe me?”

“Then keep telling the truth until she does.”

Daemon looked toward the stairs.

“I won’t corner her.”

“Good.”

“I won’t chase her.”

“Also good.”

“I won’t let another man take her for coffee.”

The Devil agreed immediately.

Absolutely not.

Malone sighed.

“We lost him. Move forward.”

Near midnight, Femi found a folded note beside the service window.

Her name was written across it in Daemon’s heavy handwriting. She looked toward his corner. He was gone.

Femi opened the note.

There is no someone else.

She stopped breathing.

I will not chase you when you are afraid.

I will not ask you to give me what you are not ready to give.

But do not decide what I need without asking me.

When you are ready, ask.

—Daemon

Femi read it twice. Then a third time. She folded the note and placed it inside her waistcoat.

For the remainder of her shift, the words remained against her heart.

At two thirty, Daemon sat alone in his room repairing the stitching on his leather jacket.

The Devil had been unusually restless.

She found it.

“You don’t know that.”

She found it.

“You weren’t downstairs.”

She found it.

Daemon pulled another stitch tight.

A tiny knock came.

Both of them froze.

Little ghost.

Daemon looked toward the door.

His heart began pounding.

She came.

“Enter.”

Femi stepped inside. She carried his note in one hand.

The Devil sounded almost triumphant.

She found it.

Daemon ignored that.

Femi closed the door halfway, leaving the hall visible behind her.

The Devil noticed.

Open enough.

Yes.

She did not approach the bed.

Daemon stood.

Then remained where he was.

Stay.

Femi unfolded the note.

Her fingers moved.

What do you need?

Daemon’s heart struck hard.

The Devil panicked.

Everything.

Daemon’s mind emptied. He had prepared an answer. Now that she stood before him, every word disappeared.

Say something.

Femi waited.

Daemon.

He looked at her.

“Coffee in the morning.”

The Devil paused.

What?

Confusion entered her face.

“Your bread at nine.”

The Devil understood.

Its voice softened.

Yes.

Her expression softened.

“Notes asking me to repair doors.”

A tiny smile appeared.

That.

“Your arms around me on the motorcycle.”

Femi’s fingers tightened around the paper.

The Devil whispered:

Closer.

“Your hand inside mine when the Devil becomes louder than I am.”

The Devil went still.

Femi’s green eyes began to shine.

She knows me.

Daemon swallowed.

“I need you to stop believing silence makes you less than anyone who can speak.”

Femi looked down.

The Devil immediately protested.

No. Look at us.

Daemon took one slow step closer.

“You asked what I need.”

Another step. He stopped before entering her reach.

The Devil understood.

Her choice.

“You, Femi.”

Her breath caught.

The Devil whispered with him.

You.

“Not your voice.”

Never needed it.

His own became rough.

“Not your body before you choose to give it.”

Only if she chooses.

Femi’s eyes lifted.

“Not some version of you untouched by what happened.”

The Devil remembered scars. Hers. His. Everything that had tried to destroy them.

All of her.

Daemon’s pale hair slid across his scar.

“Just you.”

Femi.

A tear slipped down Femi’s cheek.

The Devil panicked.

Why is she crying?

Daemon did not reach for it.

Get it.

“No.”

She is crying.

“Wait.”

Femi closed the distance. The Devil went silent. Her hand touched his chest. His heart pounded beneath her palm.

She looked almost surprised.

“Yes,” Daemon said. “You do that.”

The Devil sounded awed.

She feels us.

Her silent laugh moved through her shoulders.

There.

Then Femi leaned forward and rested her forehead against him.

The Devil melted.

Oh, little ghost.

Daemon held his arms at his sides.

Every instinct begged him to close them around her.

The Devil begged too.

Ask.

“May I?”

She nodded.

Yes.

His arms closed around her. Not tightly. Not possessively. Enough to let her know he was there. Femi’s hands gathered the back of his shirt.

The Devil whispered:

She holds us.

She remained against him for several breaths.

Then her fingers moved between them.

I am still afraid.

Daemon felt the Devil become worried.

Of us?

“So am I.”

You?

“Constantly.”

Femi looked up.

Daemon’s crooked smile appeared.

“That does not leave this room.”

She smiled.

The Devil approved.

Secret.

Daemon brushed his thumb beneath the tear on her cheek.

“Do you still want me to find someone else?”

Femi nodded. Everything stopped. The Devil went completely silent. Daemon went still. The answer struck harder than he expected.

“What,” he said, though the word came out hollow.

Inside him—

No.

Femi’s expression tightened.

She signed again.

Yes.

The Devil recoiled.

Why?

Daemon stared at her.

“You still want me to find someone else?”

Femi nodded once more.

The Devil’s voice cracked.

But we told her.

His arms loosened around her.

Did we say it wrong?

“Why?”

Her hands moved slowly.

Because wanting you is not the same as being ready for you.

The Devil stopped.

Daemon’s face hardened.

“You think I don’t know that?”

I think you want an answer that makes this simple.

“It isn’t simple.”

No.

She touched his chest.

The Devil immediately focused on her hand.

You need someone who can give you everything.

No.

Daemon caught her wrist, gently but firmly.

“I need you.”

Her.

Femi shook her head.

You need someone who can speak to you.

“I speak to you.”

Every day.

You need someone who can stand beside you without fear.

“I am afraid too.”

Constantly.

You need someone who will not make you wait.

Daemon released her wrist.

“I can wait.”

We wait.

Femi’s eyes filled.

You should not have to.

“That is my decision.”

Ours.

Femi’s hands moved.

And this is mine.

The Devil went quiet. Daemon did too. The words left him silent.

The Devil understood before his hurt did.

Her choice.

Yes.

Even this.

Femi stepped back.

Daemon let her.

Let her.

She folded his note and placed it against his chest.

I want you to find someone else because I want you to be happy.

His jaw tightened.

“You don’t get to decide what makes me happy.”

Then stop asking me to believe that I am enough.

Daemon looked away.

The Devil recoiled from the word.

Enough?

Femi reached for his hand. He let her take it. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles.

The Devil stared at the movement.

She is not enough.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil continued before he could object.

She is Femi.

Daemon looked at her.

There is no measure.

His chest hurt.

No more. No less. Just little ghost.

Femi’s fingers moved.

I am not saying no forever.

His eyes returned to hers.

The Devil surged with hope.

Not forever.

“Then what are you saying?”

I am saying yes.

The answer confused him.

The Devil too.

Yes?

“To what?”

Yes, I still want you to find someone else.

The Devil deflated.

No.

Her fingers trembled.

And yes, I still want you.

Daemon’s breath caught.

The Devil froze.

What?

Femi stepped closer.

Both things are true.

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil struggled with the contradiction.

She wants us.

Yes.

And wants us to leave?

Not exactly.

Humans are terrible.

Daemon almost laughed despite himself. She lifted his hand and pressed it against her heart.

The Devil stopped complaining.

Her heart.

Daemon felt it.

Fast beneath his palm.

She is afraid.

Yes.

And still came here.

Yes.

I want you to be free to choose someone who is ready.

Her eyes shone.

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“What if I choose you now?”

The Devil became perfectly still.

Then you choose knowing I am afraid.

“I know.”

We know.

Knowing I may run.

“I know.”

We will not chase.

Knowing I may tell you to find someone else again.

Daemon’s thumb moved over her pulse.

“Then I will ask again.”

The Devil agreed.

Again.

Femi’s lips parted.

“You will?”

“Until you stop meaning it.”

Every time.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

Daemon brushed it away.

The Devil softened.

May touch now.

Yes.

She had stayed.

“Do you still want me to find someone else?”

Femi nodded.

Yes.

The word was silent, but he understood it.

The Devil groaned.

Little ghost.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers.

“Fine.”

Femi’s eyebrows lifted.

The Devil became alarmed.

What are you doing?

“I will look.”

The Devil exploded.

NO.

Her expression fell.

Daemon’s mouth curved faintly.

“But I will not find anyone.”

Silence.

The Devil considered that.

Oh.

Femi struck his chest.Daemon laughed.

The Devil was delighted.

Again.

She did not kiss him. Not yet. The Devil noticed. But this time, it did not beg. It did not ask Daemon to lean closer. It did not whisper please. Instead—

Let her choose.

Femi took his hand.

She chose that.

She led him into the hall.

The Devil followed happily.

At the stairs, she glanced toward the empty clubhouse below.

Daemon followed. They sat together at his corner table. Femi brought tea for herself and coffee for him. Daemon stared at the cup.

The Devil did too.

Coffee.

“No whiskey.”

She heard us.

Daemon looked toward Femi. She settled beside him. No whiskey. Coffee. Just as he had told her.

She listened.

Femi took the chair beside him. Not across from him. Beside. Their shoulders touched beneath the low light.

The Devil became very quiet.

Beside us.

Daemon looked at her.

Femi looked into her tea.

Do not ruin it.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The clubhouse was silent. Femi was not hiding. No kiss. No promise. No certainty about tomorrow. Only Femi sitting beside him because she had chosen to be there. The Devil had once believed wanting something meant taking it. Then Femi taught it that wanting could mean waiting.

That love—if this strange, terrifying thing growing inside them ever earned the name—could not be measured by what she gave.

Sometimes it was a kiss.

Sometimes a hand.

Sometimes a shoulder touching his in an empty clubhouse.

Sometimes it was simply that she did not run.

The Devil rested beneath Daemon’s skin.

She wants us.

Daemon looked at her.

“Yes.”

She is afraid.

“Yes.”

She may run.

“Yes.”

The Devil thought about that.

We wait.

Daemon’s expression softened.

“Yes.”

Femi’s shoulder shifted against his. A little closer.

The Devil immediately went still.

There.

Daemon did not move. For tonight, that was enough.

The Devil corrected him softly.

Not enough.

Daemon frowned.

Then understood. Femi was not enough. Enough implied a requirement. A threshold. Something she had to become before she deserved to be chosen. She was not enough. She was simply—

Femi.

Daemon looked at the woman beside him.

Her bruised cheek. Her tea. Her midnight hair. Her silence. Her fear. Her choice to sit beside him anyway.

His mouth curved faintly.

“Femi.”

She looked at him.

The Devil settled.

There she is.

And for tonight, there did not need to be anyone else.

I want you to be happy.

Femi’s hands repeated the words inside Daemon’s mind.

I want you to find someone else.

The Devil answered every time.

There is no one else.

She had signed them as though that made them true.

Daemon tried to force the memory away. It returned every time he saw her. Every time another waitress carried his Jack on the rocks across Helix because Femi refused to come near his table.

Wrong woman.

Every time she entered a room, saw him, and found somewhere else she needed to be.

She is leaving again.

“I see her.”

Why won’t she come near us?

Daemon had no answer. He finally decided Femi did not love him. The Devil went still. She wanted him. She had admitted that much. But wanting was not love.

She wants us.

“That isn’t the same thing.”

The Devil did not argue.

Somehow, Femi had reached inside Daemon, found the pieces he kept buried, and discovered something she could not love.

The Devil recoiled from the thought.

Us?

Daemon looked toward her.

“Yes.”

She saw us before.

“I know.”

She touched us.

“I know.”

She kissed the scar.

His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

The Devil fell silent. Daemon understood. He had only hoped she might be the one person who did not. What he could not understand was how Femi failed to see that she made him happy.

Did she not notice that he looked for her every time Helix’s doors opened?

Always.

That he knew when she entered the kitchen because garlic and bread soon followed?

And strawberries.

That her smallest smile could make hope move inside him like something newly born?

Pretty.

There was no other woman. There would never be another.

Only Femi.

Only little ghost.

Still, she sent other waitresses to his table. The first approached with both hands wrapped around the tray.

“Your drink.”

Daemon looked past her.

“Where is Femi?”

The Devil searched too.

Kitchen.

The waitress glanced toward the bar.

“She asked me to bring it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Daemon frowned.

The Devil whispered:

Send it back.

The waitress’s eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t do anything.”

Daemon stared at her.

The Devil became alarmed.

Why is this one crying?

“I don’t know.”

She abandoned the tray and fled.

The Devil watched her go.

We did not touch her.

“No.”

Humans are exhausting.

The next waitress refused before Femi finished signing.

“No.”

Femi frowned.

“I have children.”

Femi pointed toward Daemon’s corner.

“He knows where I live.”

Daemon heard that from across the room.

The Devil was offended.

We do not know where she lives.

“No.”

Femi’s expression became appalled.

“That is not reassuring.”

Mary lasted the longest.

She crossed half the clubhouse before Daemon looked directly at her.

The Devil sighed.

Again?

Mary stopped. Turned around. And carried the drink back.

“You serve him.”

Femi shook her head.

“He looks at the rest of us as if we’re a disappointing substitute.”

The Devil considered the accusation.

They are.

Femi’s hands moved.

He does not.

Mary looked toward the corner. Daemon was watching them through pale strands of hair. His gray eyes narrowed.

The Devil stared directly at Femi.

Come here.

Mary placed the glass on the bar.

“I prefer remaining alive.”

Malone eventually carried the whiskey over himself.

The Devil groaned.

Wrong again.

“You are frightening my staff.”

“They keep bringing me drinks.”

“That is their occupation.”

“I did not ask them.”

“You raised two fingers.”

“For Femi.”

For little ghost.

Malone looked toward the kitchen door through which she had disappeared.

“Yes,” he said. “That appears to be the problem.”

Daemon stared at the empty doorway.

The Devil whispered:

She does not want to come to us.

Something inside him hurt.

“No.”

For once, the Devil had nothing else to say.

Then Femi began giving away her other work. Laundry came first. Every Wednesday and Sunday, clean towels and folded sheets appeared in the upstairs rooms. No one thought about how they arrived until someone else attempted the task.

Malone entered the clubhouse carrying black satin sheets and green towels.

“Femi.”

She looked up from the register.

“Whoever you assigned to the laundry sucks.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I got Daemon’s sheets.”

Daemon lifted his head from the corner.

The Devil immediately became involved.

What?

Malone shook the satin at him.

“And green towels.”

No.

Marta appeared at the bottom of the stairs holding a sheet covered in yellow flowers.

“What is this?”

Femi looked at it.

“A crime,” Marta said. “That is what it is.”

The Devil agreed.

I like Marta.

Femi’s hands moved.

It is clean.

“It has sunflowers.”

The Devil paused.

Sunflowers. Femi beneath the willow. Golden light. Her hand inside Daemon’s.

Little ghost likes sunflowers.

They are pretty.

“Not where I sleep.”

Daemon came forward and took his black sheets from Malone.

“Those are mine.”

Ours.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil corrected itself.

The ones little ghost chose for our bed.

Better.

“I know.”

“Where are yours?”

Malone looked toward the white cotton folded over a chair. His expression became offended.

“Ordinary sheets.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I own Helix.”

Marta held out the floral sheet.

“You can have these.”

“No.”

Femi laughed silently.

The Devil stopped.

There.

For one moment, her face became the one Daemon remembered.

Warm.

Open.

Again.

Then she caught him watching. The laughter vanished.

The Devil’s joy went with it.

No.

She returned to the register.

Daemon stared at her.

Why does she stop when she sees us?

He didn’t know. Daemon carried his sheets upstairs without speaking.

The Devil remained troubled.

Why did she give them away?

“Laundry?”

She always does laundry.

Daemon looked down at the black satin in his hands.

Yes.

She did.

Dinner came next.

Femi placed a notebook of recipes in front of Marta. Marta read the first page.

“Taco meatloaf.”

Femi nodded.

“Roasted garlic potatoes.”

Another nod.

“Stew.”

Femi pointed toward the measurements. Marta closed the book.

“No.”

The Devil, watching through Daemon, became attentive.

Femi frowned.

“I am not taking back the dinner crowd.”

Her hands moved.

You can cook.

“I can assemble food.”

That is cooking.

“No. Cooking results in people asking you to do it again.”

Femi pushed the notebook closer.

Marta pushed it back.

“You feed them.”

Femi shook her head.

The Devil stirred.

Why?

Marta asked it aloud.

“Why?”

Too much work.

The Devil went still. Marta became still. Daemon did too. Femi had cooked with bandaged hands. She had baked bread with a fever. She had returned from the clinic and attempted to prepare dinner while wearing one shoe.

Work had never been too much.

Lie.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you sick?”

Femi shook her head.

“Are you hurt?”

No.

“Then what is this?”

Femi smiled.

Marta did not believe it. Neither did Daemon, who watched through the service window.

The Devil no longer cared about dinner.

Something is wrong.

Daemon stared at Femi.

“Yes.”

Ask her.

“She won’t tell me.”

Ask anyway.

Daemon did not move. The Devil watched Femi push the recipe book toward Marta again.

She is giving things away.

Daemon frowned.

The thought disturbed him. But not enough. Not yet.

No one knew Femi had decided to leave. Not even Daemon. Not even the Devil. Helix. Wolfwater. Ravenside. Candi taught her something Femi did not want to believe. Every person who stood close to her bled.

Candi lost her work and returned with greater hatred. Mara entered Helix because of her. A stranger accepted money to beat her bloody. Daemon broke the man’s ribs. Violence answered violence until Femi could no longer find where it began.

If she stayed, Daemon would eventually kill someone. Malone would destroy Helix protecting her. Marta would fight anyone who spoke cruelly. They would continue paying for the fact that Femi had survived.

Her parents were dead. Everyone in that house was supposed to die. Femi had lived. Sometimes, in the dark, survival felt less like mercy and more like a mistake that had not yet been corrected.

She should not still be here. Not in Wolfwater. Not in a place where her presence turned love into a weapon. Daemon needed more than a mute woman who froze whenever desire became too real. He needed someone who could speak to him in the dark. Someone who would not run after kissing him. Someone who did not carry nightmares into every bed she entered.

Someone ready. Femi was not. Daemon would be happier without her. She made herself believe it. If Femi left, Candi would have no reason to return. No one else would be hurt.

That mattered more than what leaving would do to her.

Femi prepared Helix for her absence.

She labeled the linen shelves.

BLACK SATIN — DAEMON

WHITE COTTON — MALONE

DARK BLUE — MARTA

GREEN TOWELS — GUEST ROOMS

She completed the recipe book and tested the bread measurements four times because she had always judged flour by touch. She wrote down every regular’s order. Every employee’s schedule. Every supplier Malone forgot to call until the last moment.

She placed Daemon’s drink at the top of the bar list.

JACK DANIEL’S. ICE. NO WATER.

Her hand remained over the words. Then she closed the book. At night, Femi counted the cash hidden beneath the false bottom of her dresser. Enough for a bus ticket. Enough for food. Perhaps enough for a rented room if she found work quickly.

Her battered canvas bag waited beneath the bed. The same one she carried into Helix. Femi packed two shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Socks. Underclothes. Her photograph of Iris.

The note Daemon wrote.

There is no someone else.

She nearly left it behind. Instead, she folded it and placed it inside the smallest pocket. Femi wrote three letters. One for Marta. One for Malone. The last for Daemon. That one took the entire night.

You told me not to decide what you need.

I am sorry.

But blood follows me, and every person I love stands inside it.

Her tears spotted the paper.

I want you to be happy.

The words looked cruel.

Femi continued.

You made me feel seen without making me feel owned.

You made silence feel like something other than emptiness.

Her fingers trembled around the pen. She stared at the blank space beneath the words. The truth rose inside her, fierce and terrified.

I love you.

She could not write it. She could barely let herself think it. Femi pressed her palm over her mouth as though the words might escape through it.

Then she wrote:

That is why I have to leave.

Femi folded the letter and wrote his name across the envelope. Then she hid all three beneath her mattress beside a bus ticket for Sunday morning. Five forty. Before Helix woke. Before Malone could stop her. Before Daemon could ask her to stay.

On Saturday night, Daemon watched Femi from his corner.

The Devil had been uneasy all evening.

Something is wrong.

“You’ve said that all week.”

Because something is wrong.

Femi moved through the crowd carrying a tray. Another waitress brought his drink. The Devil did not complain this time. It barely noticed her.

Its attention remained on Femi.

Look at her.

Daemon already was. There was something different tonight. He couldn’t name it. Femi lingered a little longer when Marta spoke to her. She touched Malone’s arm when she passed behind him. She stopped near the service window and looked across Helix as though memorizing it.

The Devil became restless.

Why is she looking like that?

“Like what?”

Like…

It did not have the word. Neither did Daemon. Their eyes met across the clubhouse. Femi smiled. Small. Soft.

The Devil went utterly still.

There.

Daemon’s heart twisted.

Femi held his gaze.

She smiled at us.

Yes.

For the first time in days.

Smile back.

Daemon couldn’t. Not quickly enough. Because he had already decided what the smile meant. Kindness. Affection. Wanting. But not love. Femi’s final smile before leaving him.

Daemon looked away.

The Devil recoiled.

Why did you do that?

“She does not love me.”

Silence.

The Devil did not answer.

Daemon stared into his whiskey.

“She told me to find someone else.”

I know.

“She keeps avoiding me.”

I know.

“She gave away everything she used to do.”

The Devil became still. Daemon’s fingers stopped around his glass. Everything. The laundry. The recipes. His drinks. The regulars. Schedules. Small pieces of herself passed from hand to hand.

The Devil whispered:

She is giving things away.

Daemon frowned. Something cold moved through him. Behind the bar, Femi pressed one hand against the ache inside her chest.

I like you, she thought.

That was why she had to go.

Daemon could not hear her. Neither could the Devil. But the Devil watched her. Watched the way her hand remained over her heart.Watched her eyes move slowly across Helix. Malone. Marta. The kitchen. The stairs. Daemon.

Its unease became something sharper.

Daemon.

He lifted the whiskey.

“What?”

Look at little ghost.

“I did.”

No. Look.

Something in its voice made him raise his head.

Femi had turned away.

Her midnight hair moved down her back as she disappeared through the kitchen door. Daemon stared after her.

Something is wrong.

He said nothing.

The Devil pressed harder.

Laundry.

Daemon frowned.

Food.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

Drinks.

The room suddenly felt colder.

She gave them away.

Daemon’s heartbeat changed. He looked toward the kitchen.

“Why?”

The Devil had no answer.

But for the first time, its fear became stronger than its hurt.

Find out.

Daemon started to rise. Then Femi reappeared carrying another tray. Working. Normal. There. He hesitated.

The Devil did not.

Go to her.

“She doesn’t want me near her.”

Do not chase.

Daemon stopped.

The Devil searched desperately for the distinction Femi had taught it.

Ask.

Daemon looked at her.

Do not corner. Do not take. Ask.

But Femi turned toward a customer. Daemon remained standing beside his table. The moment slipped away.

The Devil hated it.

Tomorrow.

Daemon slowly sat.

“Yes.”

Tomorrow we ask.

Behind the bar, Femi touched the pocket where Daemon’s note rested against her.

Tomorrow.

The Devil settled uneasily beneath his skin.

Little ghost.

Daemon watched her disappear into the kitchen again. Neither of them knew that tomorrow morning, Femi intended to be gone. Neither knew that beneath her mattress waited three letters and a bus ticket. Neither knew that the woman Daemon had decided did not love him had spent an entire night trying not to write the words—

I love you.

The Devil knew only that Femi had begun giving away the pieces of Helix she had quietly made hers. And for the first time, the monster understood the shape of the fear crawling beneath Daemon’s ribs. Not rejection. Not jealousy. Not someone else. Loss.

The Devil whispered into the dark corner.

Do not let little ghost disappear.

Daemon stared toward the kitchen. He did not yet understand. But something inside him did.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would ask.

When the Devil Brought Quiet

To Be Continued

What the Devil Claimed

Prologue+

Chapter 1: The First Knock+

Chapter 2: Marta +

Chapter 3: Daemon+

Chapter 4: Smile+

Chapter 5: Step Away+

Chapter 6: Attention+

Chapter 7: Never Good+

Chapter 8: The Surprise+

Chapter 9: First Aid+

Chapter 10: Guarded Door+

Chapter 11: She Came Closer+

Chapter 12: Safety as a person+

Chapter 13: Cornerstore+

Chapter 14: Apple Pie+

Chapter 15: Eastgate+

Chapter 16: Candi+

Chapter 17: The Lie+

Chapter 18: The Trap+

Chapter 19: Nine O’Clock+

Chapter 20: Family+

Chapter 21: Worth Listening To+

Chapter 22: Mara+

Chapter 23: Sunflower Park+

Chapter 24: The Hand that Stopped the Devil+

Chapter 25: Someone Else Was Watching+

Chapter 26: A Gift from the Devil+

Chapter 27: The First Kiss+

Chapter 28: The Devil Stood+

Chapter 29: Delayed+

Chapter 30: Sideways Thumb+

Chapter 31:Someone Else +

Chapter 32: What Do you Need?+

Chapter 33:The Things She Gave Away+

To Be Continued

What the Devil Claimed