The rain had finally stopped.

Water gleamed across the blacktop, turning the empty highway into a ribbon of reflected moonlight. At that hour, the only things moving toward the Ravenside city limits were delivery trucks, a lone motorcycle, and the unmarked van following behind it.

Inside the van sat eight terrified people.

A senator.

His wife.

Their three adult children.

Two members of his household staff.

And an elderly woman who had spent thirty-seven years believing her son’s position would keep their family safe.

Six armed men sat opposite them.

No one spoke.

The senator had already pleaded until his voice broke. He had offered money, names, votes, favors—anything he thought might purchase mercy.

None of it mattered.

He had spoken publicly about things no one outside the Organization was supposed to know.

Leto had sent word before midnight.

The senator’s entire family was to be made an example.

Not killed.

Erased.

A mile before the Ravenside city limits, the motorcycle slowed and turned off the highway.

The van followed.

Wet gravel cracked beneath its tires as both vehicles disappeared beneath the trees.

They drove deep into the woods.

Far enough that passing headlights could not find them.

Far enough that no one would hear the gunshots.

Far enough that whatever happened beneath those trees would belong only to the dead and the men burying them.

Far enough.

Daemon said nothing.

The Devil had been quiet most of the ride. It usually was before work. Not sleeping. Never sleeping. Waiting.

Watching through Daemon’s eyes.

Feeling the vibration of the motorcycle beneath them. Measuring the van behind them by the wash of its headlights across the trees. Listening to the engine. Counting every turn they had taken since leaving the highway.

The Devil liked knowing where it was.

Where the exits were.

Where danger might come from.

Where bodies could disappear.

It had learned those things before it had learned almost anything else.

Doors.

Windows.

Weapons.

Hands.

Distance.

Survival.

The world had taught it simple lessons.

A raised hand meant pain. A locked door meant captivity. A needle meant suffering. A command meant obedience until obedience became dangerous. And a threat left alive remained a threat. The Devil understood threats.

It understood killing them even better.

The motorcycle stopped beside a clearing. The van pulled in behind it. Six men climbed out. The rear doors opened. Shovels were removed first.

Then the passengers.

The senator stumbled as his shoes sank into the mud. His wife clutched their youngest child against her side while one of the armed men pulled the elderly woman from the van.

Someone began praying. Someone else began to sob. The Devil listened. Crying meant nothing. It had heard crying before. Begging meant nothing. It had heard begging too. Sometimes from strangers. Sometimes from men beneath Daemon’s hands.

Once, long ago, from Daemon himself.

Begging had never stopped pain. The Devil had learned that early. So it had stopped begging. The man on the motorcycle dismounted. He removed his helmet and placed it on the seat. Long blond hair fell around his shoulders.

Daemon walked into the moonlight with a shotgun resting against one shoulder. Mud darkened his boots, but he moved without hurry.

He did not need to raise his voice. Every man in the clearing knew who had arrived. The senator stared at him.

Recognition came first.

Then terror.

The Devil stirred.

There.

Daemon’s gaze remained on the senator.

He knows us.

“No,” the senator whispered.

The Devil became very still.

Yes.

Daemon racked the shotgun. The sound silenced the clearing. The Devil liked that sound. Not because it was loud. Because of what happened afterward. People stopped talking. People stopped pleading. People listened.

The sound meant the decision had already been made.

Now they understand.

“Move,” Daemon ordered. “Or die here.”

They moved.

Of course they did.

The Devil had learned something else about people.

Hope made them obedient.

Tell a person to walk toward death, and they might fight.

Let them believe there was still some small possibility of survival, and they would often walk there themselves.

The six armed men guided the family deeper into the woods. Wet branches dragged across expensive clothing. Roots caught trembling feet.

The senator’s wife stumbled twice. One of the household staff whispered a prayer beneath his breath. The elderly woman struggled to keep pace. No one tried to run. They knew the Devil was walking behind them.

They did not know how literally.

Daemon followed several paces back, shotgun held loosely at his side. His eyes moved constantly. Trees. Hands. Distance. Six armed men. Eight condemned. One narrow trail behind them. Two possible breaks through the brush to the east.

A shallow ravine west.

The Devil counted everything with him.

Six armed.

Daemon knew.

Eight condemned.

He knew that too.

Fourteen hearts.

Daemon stepped over a fallen branch.

Fifteen with ours.

The Devil always counted Daemon.

Daemon mattered. Not because the Devil loved him. It did not know love. Daemon was survival. Daemon was the body. Daemon was breath. Daemon was blood.

Daemon was the thing the Devil had been born inside, and anything that threatened that body became something the Devil understood perfectly.

The man on the left is nervous.

Daemon had already noticed.

One of Leto’s men kept adjusting his grip on his rifle.

His breathing changed.

Daemon watched him without turning his head.

He keeps looking at the children.

The man looked again.

The Devil sharpened.

He may interfere.

Daemon stepped over another root.

If he interferes, break his throat.

There was no anger in the thought. No excitement. No hatred. Only instruction. Threat. Response. End threat.

Daemon glanced at the man once.

The man immediately looked away.

The Devil settled.

Good.

They continued.

The grave waited beneath an old oak tree.

It was wide enough for eight bodies and deep enough that animals would not easily uncover them. The rain had collected at the bottom, leaving the earth black and shining.

The Devil examined it.

Depth.

Width.

Water.

Loose soil.

Enough.

Good grave.

The family stopped.

For the first time, one of the senator’s sons fought.

He twisted away from the man holding him and made it three steps.

The Devil moved before Daemon thought.

Left.

Daemon turned.

Knee.

The shotgun stock slammed into the back of the man’s leg.

Something cracked.

He dropped screaming.

Daemon caught him by the collar before he hit the mud and dragged him backward.

The son clawed at Daemon’s wrist.

The Devil noticed every finger.

Break them.

Daemon didn’t.

Not necessary.

He touched us.

Still unnecessary.

The Devil pressed harder against the inside of him.

Break them.

Daemon threw the man beside the grave instead. The son curled around his injured leg, gasping.

The Devil watched him.

He will not run again.

That was enough.

The six armed men stared.

Daemon looked at them.

“Put them on their knees.”

They obeyed immediately.

The family was forced to kneel along the grave’s edge.

Eight bodies.

Eight names.

Eight instructions.

The Devil counted them again.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

The senator turned his head.

“Please.”

Daemon stood behind him.

“You knew the rules.”

“They’re children.”

The Devil looked at them through Daemon’s eyes.

Adults.

Mother.

Grandmother.

Staff.

Son.

Daughter.

Family.

Words.

Meaningless classifications. Leto had given eight names. There were eight people. 

That was all.

Eight.

“You knew that when you spoke.”

“I’ll take it back. I’ll tell them I lied.”

Daemon studied him without expression. The senator was sweating despite the cold. Pulse jumping in his neck. Shoulders shaking. Eyes moving toward the trees. Calculating. Hoping. Still searching.

The Devil followed his gaze.

East.

Too dense.

West.

Ravine.

Behind.

Six armed men.

Ahead.

Grave.

No route.

No survival.

He still thinks there is a way out.

Daemon almost found that amusing. The Devil did not. There was a problem. There was a solution. The senator was the problem. The shotgun was the solution. Nothing about that required humor.

“They already believe you.”

The senator’s wife began to scream.

Daemon raised the shotgun.

The Devil came forward. Not wildly. Not hungrily. Cold. Focused. Certain.

First.

Daemon fired.

The senator’s head snapped forward.

The Devil watched the body fall.

Again.

Daemon fired a second time.

The body folded beside the grave.

Dead.

His wife screamed louder.

The Devil did not flinch.

Screaming had never frightened it.

Second.

Daemon fired.

She dropped beside her husband.

Someone tried to stand.

The Devil saw the movement before Daemon fully registered it.

Third. Left.

Another blast.

The body spun and collapsed.

Someone begged.

Fourth.

Daemon fired.

Someone called for God.

Five.

Again.

Someone tried crawling backward through the mud.

Six.

Again.

The Devil counted every fall. Every breath that stopped. Every threat that ceased to exist. There was no pleasure in it. Pleasure required wanting something beyond survival.

The Devil wanted nothing. It needed nothing. It had no dreams. No tenderness. No imagined tomorrow. It knew only what was in front of it. And what was in front of it had been marked for death.

The elderly woman had stopped praying. She looked up at Daemon instead. There was nothing in her face now except disbelief. Perhaps she expected something human to appear in his. Regret. Hesitation. Shame. Mercy.

The Devil watched her search for it.

What is she looking for?

Daemon knew. The Devil did not. It had seen mercy before. Usually immediately before someone suffered for showing it. Mercy was hesitation. Hesitation got people hurt. Hesitation got people killed.

The Devil had survived because it did not hesitate.

There is nothing for her.

Daemon lifted the shotgun.

Seven.

She fell.

The final person screamed.

A young man. One of the senator’s sons. He was crying so hard he could barely breathe. His hands were pressed together.

“Please. Please, I didn’t do anything. I swear to God, I didn’t do anything. Please.”

The Devil stared through Daemon’s eyes. It understood the words individually. Together, they meant nothing. The order had not said kill the guilty. The order had said eight. The Devil counted the bodies.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Then the living man.

One remains.

The young man saw something in Daemon’s face.

Whatever hope had survived until then finally disappeared.

“No.”

The Devil knew that word. It had heard it in laboratories. In rooms without windows. Under bright lights. Against restraints. From Daemon. From others. No had never mattered there either.

Eight.

The final shots echoed through the trees. Then silence. The young man collapsed beside his family. Daemon lowered the weapon. Smoke curled from the barrel.

The Devil listened. No begging. No prayers. No screaming. Only rainwater dripping from the trees.

Count.

Daemon did.

Eight bodies.

Again.

Eight.

Again.

Eight.

The Devil settled.

Complete.

“Put them in.”

The men obeyed. They dragged the bodies into the hole one at a time. The senator landed facedown in the rainwater. His wife fell beside him. The children were placed between them as though death might still recognize the shape of a family.

The Devil did not.

Bodies were bodies. Warm now. Cold later. Then dirt. Daemon watched until the final one disappeared.

One of the armed men turned away and vomited behind a tree.

The Devil noticed.

Weak.

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

His rifle trembled.

Very weak.

Daemon ignored him.

“Cover them.”

The shovels broke into wet earth. No one complained. No one looked directly at him. The Devil watched them anyway.

One man favored his right shoulder. Another kept looking toward Daemon. The nervous one had stopped looking at the grave entirely.

One shovel could become a weapon. Two rifles leaned against the van. One pistol sat loose in a shoulder holster.

The Devil catalogued everything. It never stopped. Safety was temporary. Danger was patient.

The Devil had learned that too.

While the graves were being filled, Daemon returned to his motorcycle and removed a phone from his jacket.

It contained a single number.

He called it.

The man on the other end answered immediately.

Daemon looked toward the clearing, where eight people were vanishing beneath the earth.

“It’s done.”

He ended the call before Leto could respond.

The Devil approved.

There was nothing else to say. An order had been given. The order had been completed. Words after completion were unnecessary.

Behind him, six men continued shoveling.

Daemon leaned against his motorcycle and watched them work.

Dirt struck dirt.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The Devil settled deeper inside him. Satisfied. Not happy. It did not understand happiness. Happiness was not necessary for survival. Neither was affection. Neither was kindness. Neither was love.

The Devil did not know those things. It knew hunger. Pain. Blood.Confinement. Obedience. Punishment. Escape.

It knew the moment before a man attacked. It knew the sound bone made when it broke. It knew how long someone could survive after a blade entered certain places. It knew where to shoot. Where to cut. Where to strike. It knew how to make someone stop moving. It knew how to keep Daemon alive.

That was enough. That was everything. Someone pointed. Someone died. Someone ran. Daemon followed. Someone attacked. The Devil answered. Someone hurt Daemon. The Devil hurt them worse.

Simple.

Clean.

Certain.

There was no why.

There was only what next.

The Devil had no concept of a hand reaching for Daemon without intending to hurt him. No understanding of a touch that asked for nothing. No reason to imagine someone might someday look at the scars covering his body and remain. It did not know that silence could mean anything except danger.

It did not know a quiet person could become the loudest thing inside it.

It did not know tenderness could make it more vicious than hatred ever had.

It did not know that one day it would learn to recognize the sound of a woman’s footsteps across a crowded room.

That it would know the scent of bread before she appeared.

That it would discover jealousy.

Fear.

Want.

Devotion.

That it would someday understand the word mine and mean something entirely different from possession.

It knew none of that.

Not yet.

Tonight, the Devil knew bodies.

By morning, there would be no van, no weapons, and no trace of the family who had traveled inside it. The senator’s home would be cleaned. His accounts would go untouched.

His name would remain on government records while the city slowly realized that he and everyone he loved had simply ceased to exist.

The Organization would call it a disappearance. The city would call it a mystery.

Leto would call it necessary.

The six men standing in that forest would call it something else.

The Devil’s work.

Daemon put his helmet back on.

Behind him, the final shovelful of dirt struck the grave.

The Devil listened.

Then counted one last time.

Eight.

No remorse. It did not understand remorse. No ghosts. The dead could not hurt them. No names worth remembering. Names belonged to the living.

Only the next order. The next threat. The next body. That was existence. That was survival. That was all the Devil had ever known.

But the men standing beneath those dripping trees knew something Daemon had stopped thinking about long ago.

Leto had given him eight names.

The Devil had looked at eight living people.

And understood only one thing.

Kill them.

Before dawn, Daemon had buried every one.

---

Sherri stared at the photograph in disbelief.

For several seconds, she forgot to breathe.

She remembered that night.

She had sat inside the limousine across the bay, watching flames consume the building from the inside out. The fire had climbed through shattered windows, painting the black water orange. Then the explosion came—violent enough to shake the glass beside her.

The building had folded in on itself.

Steel screamed.

Concrete collapsed.

Smoke swallowed everything.

Sherri had remained there until there was nothing left to watch.

No one could have survived it.

Only one body had been recovered, burned so badly that identification had been nearly impossible. Leto had assured her it belonged to Daemon.

She had believed him.

She had needed to.

Yet here Daemon stood, captured in grainy color beneath the lights outside a bar she did not recognize.

Alive.

Older.

Broader through the shoulders.

His long blond hair still fell around his face, but now a scar marked his left cheek—a pale, brutal line the photograph could not hide.

“He has a scar now,” she murmured.

Her fingertip traced it through the glossy paper.

She had always thought he would look good with a scar.

Something dangerous made visible.

Something beautiful properly ruined.

Her Demon.

A slow smile threatened her mouth before her gaze shifted to the woman held in his arms.

The smile vanished.

The woman was small enough to disappear against Daemon’s chest. Midnight hair spilled over one of his arms, and her face was turned toward him as though nothing beyond his embrace existed.

More troubling was the way Daemon held her.

Not carelessly.

Not possessively.

Protectively.

One arm supported her beneath the knees while the other locked around her back. His head was lowered toward hers, his attention fixed so completely on the woman that the rest of the world might have been burning around them.

Sherri knew that look.

Or she thought she did.

“Who is this?”

The man standing beside the limousine glanced at the photograph.

“Unconfirmed.”

Sherri lifted her eyes.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It’s all we have.” He adjusted the cuff of his coat. “Leto wants you to find out whether this is real.”

Whether Daemon was alive—or whether the woman mattered?

Sherri suspected Leto meant both.

The man turned away.

“Find out?” Sherri snapped. “As though he couldn’t tell me himself?”

The driver opened the rear door of the limousine.

“Orders, ma’am.”

Of course they were.

Everything was an order now. Even when Leto dressed it as a request, the blade beneath the silk remained the same.

Sherri stepped into the limousine and settled against the leather seat. The man reached for the door.

“And if it is true?” she asked.

He paused.

“If Daemon survived, what does Leto want me to do?”

The man’s expression did not change.

“He says you already know.”

The door closed before she could answer.

Sherri sat alone in the dim interior as the limousine pulled away from the curb.

She looked at the photograph again.

At the scar.

At the woman.

At the tenderness in the arms of a man who had never been gentle unless gentleness cost him something.

Twelve years ago, Sherri had delivered Daemon to Leto because she had believed the Devil was too dangerous to love.

Now he was alive.

And someone else had taught him how to hold her as though she were precious.

Sherri’s fingers tightened around the photograph, bending one corner.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The woman in Daemon’s arms offered no answer.

She did not need to.

Whatever she was to him, Leto had noticed her.

And now—

So had Sherri.

He was there again.

Strapped to the metal table.

Leather restraints cut into his wrists and ankles while another band held his chest against the cold steel. He strained until his muscles tore, but the buckles did not give.

Get up.

A switch snapped.

Electricity ripped through him.

Daemon’s back arched from the table as the current seized every muscle in his body. His scream tore through the warehouse, striking the concrete walls and returning to him distorted.

Get up.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The air filled with the stench of scorched skin.

Smoke curled from his chest.

Men stood around the table with clipboards, observing him through clear protective masks. Their voices drifted above his screams—calm, clinical, distant.

“Increase the voltage.”

“Heart rate remains elevated.”

“Subject is still conscious.”

Subject.

Not Daemon. Not a man. Something to be measured. Something to be broken. The Devil hated that word. It had hated that word before it understood what hatred was.

Kill them.

Daemon pulled against the restraints.

Leather cut deeper.

Break your hand.

He pulled harder.

Break it. Get out. Kill them.

Another current tore through him. His scream drowned everything beneath white pain. For several seconds there was nothing. No table. No room. No body. Only agony.

Then—

Still here.

The Devil.

Always.

Again.

A needle entered his arm.

Cold spread through his veins, dragging him beneath the agony only to return him to it later.

Days passed. Or weeks. He could no longer tell. There were no windows. No clocks. Only the lights burning overhead and the masked faces that appeared whenever he opened his eyes.

They pumped drugs into his blood.

Cut him.

Burned him.

Stopped his heart to see whether it would begin again.

Every time it did, the Devil was waiting.

Again.

Heart stopped.

Darkness.

Then—

Again.

Breath.

Pain.

Light.

Again.

The Devil learned resurrection before it learned mercy. Sometimes Daemon heard Leto’s voice beyond the room. Sometimes he heard Sherri crying. Perhaps neither of them had been there. Perhaps the drugs had learned how to speak.

The Devil did not care. Leto was a threat. Sherri was irrelevant. The restraints mattered. The door mattered.

The men standing between Daemon and that door mattered.

Everything else was noise.

Get free.

Then—

Alarms.

Red lights flashed across the walls.

Heat swallowed the room.

Daemon opened his eyes to find one restraint hanging loose from his wrist.

The Devil went completely still.

Now.

Daemon ripped the others free, taking skin with them, and rolled from the table.

Men rushed through the smoke.

Left.

Daemon turned.

A throat collapsed beneath his hand.

Behind you.

A face struck the edge of the table. Blood sprayed across the floor. His own mixed with it. Someone shouted for containment.

The Devil surged.

Kill.

Daemon caught another man and drove him into the wall.

Bone cracked.

Again.

He struck him again.

Again.

The man dropped.

Next.

Another came through the smoke. Daemon broke his arm. Took the weapon.

Fired.

Next.

A body fell.

Next.

Footsteps behind him.

Turn.

Strike.

Blood.

Next.

The Devil knew this.

This was easy.

Pain.

Threat.

Kill.

Survive.

There was nothing complicated about survival. No uncertainty. No tenderness. No waiting for someone to choose you. No terror that one morning a bedroom across the hall might be empty.

Only—

Kill.

Move.

Live.

Then a sound large enough to tear the world apart. The walls buckled. Fire rushed toward him.

For the first time, the Devil knew something stronger than murder.

MOVE.

And—

Daemon woke with a violent breath.

His hand struck the empty space beside him before he realized there was no one to fight.

UP.

Darkness surrounded him.

Daemon was already halfway upright.

Door.

His eyes found it.

Closed.

Window.

Dark.

Hallway.

Silent.

His breathing came hard.

The Devil searched with him.

Walls.

Door.

Window.

Floor.

No restraints.

No masks.

No needles.

No blood.

No one.

Not the warehouse.

His bedroom.

His house.

His sheets twisted around his legs, damp with sweat. His heart battered his ribs while the phantom scent of burned flesh clung to the back of his throat.

Daemon sat on the edge of the bed and pressed both hands against his face.

The bedside clock glowed red in the darkness.

3:39 a.m.

He stared at the numbers until his breathing slowed.

Twelve years.

The warehouse had been gone for twelve years.

It still knew where to find him.

Dead.

Daemon lowered his hands.

The Devil was awake now.

Fully.

Watching.

They are dead.

“I know.”

The table is gone.

“I know.”

The building burned.

Daemon looked toward the darkness beyond the bedroom door.

“I know.”

The Devil went quiet. It had never understood why knowing was not enough. Dead things were finished. Threats removed. Buildings burned. Doors escaped. That was how the world was supposed to work.

But sometimes Daemon carried dead things with him.

The Devil did not understand ghosts.

It could not kill what no longer had a body.

That irritated it.

Daemon rose and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the shower as hot as it would go, then stepped beneath the spray. Water struck his shoulders and ran down his back.

For half a second—

Heat.

Smoke.

Fire.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon braced one hand against the tile.

Water.

His breathing came faster.

Water.

Daemon closed his eyes.

Tile.

His fingers flexed against it.

House.

Water ran over his face.

Safe.

The word felt wrong. Safety was temporary. The Devil had never trusted it. It searched for something else. Something real. Something it understood.

Then—

Home.

Daemon opened his eyes.

That word reached him.

Home.

The Devil had learned it recently. Not its definition. Its meaning. Strawberries in the refrigerator. Books left open on tables. Bare feet padding through the hallway. Long midnight hair abandoned across the back of his sofa.

Small hands moving rapidly when Femi became excited. The smell of bread appearing before she did. Her shoes beside his door. A second mug in the sink. Her coat hanging beside his.

A bedroom across the hall that had once been empty.

Femi.

The Devil softened instantly.

Not much.

No one else would have noticed.

Daemon did.

Little ghost.

His heartbeat slowed.

There.

That was what the Devil had been searching for.

Not house.

Not safe.

Not even home.

Her.

Daemon stood beneath the water.

Two years. Femi had lived in this house with him for two years now. He had kept his promise. She had the room across from his. Her own key. Her own things.

Her books had slowly invaded rooms that had once contained nothing.

Her strawberries occupied an entire shelf of his refrigerator because apparently buying one container at a time was unreasonable.

There were blankets on his sofa now.

Plants in windows he had never bothered opening.

A ridiculous ceramic bowl sat beside the front door because Femi had decided keys required a home of their own.

The Devil liked the bowl.

Daemon hated the bowl.

The Devil knew he was lying.

Most importantly, Femi had the freedom to stay for as long as she wanted.

Or leave whenever she chose.

The Devil turned vicious.

No.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

He had never told her how much he hated that part.

The Devil had considerably fewer reservations.

She stays.

“She chooses.”

She stays.

“She chooses.”

The Devil prowled.

Two years had taught it many things. Choice was one of them. It did not like choice. Choice meant uncertainty. Choice meant Femi could walk through the front door because she wanted to. Choice also meant she could walk through it and never return.

The Devil preferred locked doors.

Locked doors were understandable.

Daemon knew better.

“She chooses.”

Silence.

Then—

She chose us.

Daemon stilled.

The Devil had learned that too.

Not was given. Not was taken. Not was kept. Chose. Femi had chosen to stay.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Every morning she woke beneath his roof was another choice. Every evening she came home was another.

The Devil guarded those choices with an almost religious ferocity.

She chooses to stay.

Daemon almost smiled.

“That’s the idea.”

The Devil settled.

Pleased.

Then another thought came.

Quiet.

Dark.

Unwanted.

What if one day she didn’t?

Daemon’s smile disappeared.

He could see it too easily. Opening his bedroom door. Looking across the hallway. Her door open. Bed made. Books gone. Closet empty. No shoes downstairs. No strawberries in the refrigerator. No small figure sitting at the kitchen table. Nothing.

His chest tightened.

The Devil reacted instantly.

No.

Daemon shut off the shower.

No.

He reached for a towel.

Find her.

“She hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Find her.

Daemon dried his hair.

“She’s across the hall.”

The Devil did not care.

The image had already been created. Empty room. Gone. The Devil could kill a threat. It could break a man. Destroy a building. Hunt someone across countries. But it could not kill gone.

It hated things it could not kill.

Find her.

“She might not need finding.”

Find her anyway.

Daemon wrapped the towel around his waist.

“You’re insane.”

The Devil did not bother answering. They both knew. Daemon left the bathroom. He intended to return to bed. He made it three steps. Stopped. Looked at his bedroom door.

The Devil waited.

Daemon sighed.

“She’s asleep.”

Yes.

“So leave her alone.”

Look.

“No.”

Look.

Daemon stared at the door.

The Devil stared with him.

Little ghost.

“You know she’s there.”

Look.

Daemon lasted another five seconds. Then he opened the door. The hallway was dark. Quiet. Femi’s bedroom door stood across from his. Closed. Daemon remained where he was.

The Devil listened.

Nothing.

Open it.

“No.”

Open.

“Absolutely not.”

She could be dead.

Daemon stared at the door.

“That escalated quickly.”

The Devil was unmoved.

Quiet.

“She doesn’t speak.”

Too quiet.

Daemon almost laughed. Instead, he crossed the hallway.

The Devil became unbearable with every step.

Open.

Daemon placed his hand on the knob.

Stopped.

This was ridiculous.

He was a grown man standing half-naked outside a woman’s bedroom at nearly four in the morning because the homicidal thing living inside his skull had decided her being asleep was suspicious.

Open.

Daemon turned the knob carefully. The door moved inward. Moonlight spilled through the curtains. Femi was asleep. One arm tucked beneath her pillow. Midnight hair covered half her face and spilled across the sheets. Her blanket had twisted around her legs.

A book lay facedown beside her.

Alive.

Safe.

Here.

The Devil went silent.

Daemon stood in the doorway.

Femi breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The Devil counted.

It had once counted bodies.

Eight.

Dead.

Complete.

Now it counted something else.

One.

Femi breathed again.

Two.

Daemon leaned against the doorframe.

“You’re not counting her breaths all night.”

Three.

“Stop.”

Four.

Daemon closed his eyes.

The Devil was pleased with itself.

Five.

“You are deeply disturbed.”

Six.

Daemon looked at Femi again. A strand of hair moved against her cheek with her next breath. Something inside his chest loosened. The warehouse receded. The table disappeared. The smell of burning flesh finally left his throat.

The Devil settled somewhere deep inside him.

Warm.

Quiet.

Watching the little ghost sleep.

It had once believed survival meant killing whatever threatened Daemon. Femi had complicated that definition. Now survival meant something else too. She breathed.

Therefore the world remained where it belonged.

Seven.

Daemon stayed in the doorway.

Just a little longer.

The Devil knew he would.

Eight.

And for once, eight did not mean bodies.

---

Femi wrapped both hands around her mug.

Daemon watched steam curl between them.

He should go back upstairs.

The nightmare had passed. His breathing was normal. His hands had stopped shaking. There was no reason for either of them to be sitting at the kitchen table before four in the morning drinking coffee neither of them needed.

He remained where he was.

So did she.

The Devil approved.

Stay.

Daemon took another drink. Femi looked toward the rain-streaked window. For several minutes, nothing happened. That was what Daemon liked most about being with her. Nothing was allowed to happen. Silence did not need filling. Questions did not need answering.

He did not have to explain why sometimes he woke expecting restraints around his wrists.

He did not have to explain why certain smells made his hands curl into fists.

He did not have to explain why he checked exits when entering restaurants or why he disliked anyone standing behind him.

Femi knew.

Not everything.

He would make certain she never knew everything.

But enough.

The Devil shifted.

She could know.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the mug.

No.

There were rooms inside him Femi did not need to enter.

The Devil disagreed.

It had become strangely possessive of what she was permitted to know.

Ours.

That was exactly the problem. Daemon glanced at her. Femi was staring into her coffee. Small. Quiet. Barefoot beneath his kitchen table. Her midnight hair fell over one shoulder, nearly touching her thigh. The oversized shirt she wore slipped slightly along one collarbone.

Nothing about her belonged anywhere near the things in his head.

She stays anyway.

His jaw tightened.

The Devil had learned how to win arguments.

Mostly by repeating the same thing until Daemon became irritated enough to stop responding.

Femi suddenly looked at him.

Daemon lifted his mug.

“What?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Caught.

“Shut up.”

Femi blinked.

Then one eyebrow rose.

Daemon realized he had said it aloud.

“Not you.”

Her mouth twitched.

The Devil was delighted.

She knows.

Of course she knew.

Femi had known about the Devil for a long time. Not everything. Not what it had once been. Not all the things it had whispered while Daemon stood over bodies.

But she knew there was something inside him that spoke. Something that watched. Something that had survived when perhaps Daemon should not have.

Femi lifted one hand.

Is it talking now?

Daemon looked into his coffee.

“Yes.”

About me?

The Devil surged forward immediately.

Yes.

Daemon ignored it.

Femi waited.

“Unfortunately.”

Her eyes narrowed.

Tell her.

“No.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

Daemon sighed.

“It likes you.”

The Devil recoiled with offense.

Likes?

Daemon almost smiled.

Apparently that word was insufficient.

Femi’s expression softened.

She signed, I like it too.

Everything inside Daemon stopped.

The Devil—

stilled.

Not the stillness before violence. Not the cold pause when it noticed danger. Something else. Something so complete that for one strange second Daemon could not feel it at all.

Then—

Again.

Daemon stared at Femi.

“What?”

She tilted her head.

“You said you like it.”

Femi nodded.

The Devil pressed closer.

Again.

Daemon swallowed.

“It wants you to say it again.”

Her eyes brightened.

There was amusement there now.

She lifted both hands deliberately.

I like the Devil.

Silence.

Daemon waited. Nothing. He almost became concerned. Then warmth spread through his chest. Slow. Deep.

Unfamiliar.

The Devil had no idea what to do with itself.

Daemon nearly laughed.

She likes us.

Apparently.

She said it.

“I was here.”

Femi smiled.

The Devil practically preened.

Again.

“No.”

Femi looked between Daemon’s eyes as though she could somehow see the argument happening behind them.

What did it say?

“Nothing important.”

Liar.

Femi stared.

Daemon stared back.

She waited.

He lasted perhaps four seconds.

“It wants you to say it again.”

Her smile widened.

The Devil became unbearable.

Femi signed slowly.

I.

Yes.

Like.

Yes.

The Devil.

The reaction inside him was immediate. Warmth. Possession. Pleasure. Something almost embarrassingly close to pride.

Daemon rubbed one hand over his face.

“You’ve created a problem.”

Femi’s shoulders moved with silent laughter.

The Devil loved that too.

It loved many things now.

It simply refused to call any of them love.

Love was too small a word for something it had spent most of its existence without.

It understood Femi in other terms.

Safe.

Home.

Here.

Stay.

Ours.

Little ghost.

Those words made sense. Love did not. Not yet. Femi lifted her mug again. The room returned to quiet. But the Devil remained awake. Warm. Listening.

Rain whispered against the windows. The clock ticked. Femi breathed beside him. Nothing threatened them. Nothing needed killing. For the creature the Devil had once been, there should have been nothing left to do.

Instead, it listened to her breathe.

And was content.

Daemon looked sideways at her.

Femi’s eyes had begun to droop.

“You’re tired.”

She shook her head.

“You’re falling asleep sitting up.”

Another shake. Her eyes closed for nearly three seconds. Daemon waited. They opened. He raised an eyebrow.

Femi frowned at him.

Little liar.

Daemon smiled into his coffee.

“Apparently I’m not the only liar in the house.”

She kicked his ankle beneath the table.

The Devil reacted before thought. Not defensively. Not anymore.

Pleasure moved through it.

Again.

Daemon stared at nothing.

“You have terrible taste in entertainment.”

Femi kicked him again. The Devil practically purred. Daemon looked at her. She was smiling now. Small. Sleepy. Beautiful. His gaze lingered too long.

Femi’s smile faded. Not completely. Something quieter replaced it. Her green eyes remained on his. The kitchen changed. Or perhaps Daemon did.

The ticking clock became too loud. The rain too distant. The space between their chairs suddenly seemed much smaller than it had seconds before. The Devil noticed. Of course it noticed. It noticed everything about her.

The slight change in her breathing.

The way her fingers tightened around the mug.

The tiny movement of her eyes toward his mouth.

Closer.

Daemon remained still. Femi looked away first.

The Devil was offended.

Why?

Daemon knew why. Because this was Femi. Because she trusted him. Because she lived beneath his roof. Because she had been hurt enough by men who confused wanting something with having the right to take it.

Daemon would never become another one.

Even if waiting killed him.

It will not.

“You don’t know that.”

Femi looked back at him.

Damn it.

He had spoken aloud again.

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Nothing.”

She stared.

“Drink your coffee.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil was amused.

Coward.

Daemon nearly choked. Femi leaned toward him immediately. Concern replaced suspicion. Daemon held up one hand.

“I’m fine.”

She continued watching him.

He glared internally.

The Devil was entirely unapologetic.

Coward.

Daemon set his mug down harder than necessary. Femi looked at the cup. Then at him. Then, slowly, her mouth curved.

She knew.

Not what had been said.

But enough.

“You’re enjoying this.”

She nodded.

So am I.

Of course it was.

Daemon leaned back in his chair.

“Both of you are irritating.”

Femi reached over. Her fingers touched his wrist. Everything stopped again. Such a small touch. Barely anything. But the Devil had once understood hands only as weapons. Hands restrained. Hands injected. Hands struck. Hands dragged. Hands hurt. Femi’s hands had taught it something else. Hands could offer strawberries. Turn pages. Make words without sound. Touch scars without disgust.

Reach for Daemon and expect nothing in return.

Her thumb moved once against his wrist. The Devil went silent. Daemon looked down. Her fingers rested over the place where leather restraints had once cut deepest. Femi knew the scars. She knew what they meant.

Her thumb passed gently over one. No fear. No pity. Just touch. Daemon’s throat tightened.

Femi looked at him.

Still there?

He knew what she meant. The warehouse. The table. The nightmare. Daemon considered lying.

The Devil answered first.

No.

Daemon looked around the kitchen. Coffee. Rain. Darkness. Femi. Home.

“No.”

Her fingers remained around his wrist. The Devil settled deeper. Satisfied. The old Devil had needed dead threats before it could rest. This one needed something far more dangerous. Femi beside them. Femi breathing. Femi choosing to stay. The realization should have frightened it.

Instead—

Ours.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly. Not ownership. He understood that now. The Devil was beginning to.

Ours did not mean she could not leave.

It meant that if she stayed, they would guard the choice. It meant her books could consume every room in the house. Her strawberries could take over the refrigerator. Her ridiculous bowl could remain beside the door.

It meant she could kick him beneath the table at four in the morning and the Devil would consider it affection.

It meant the house had stopped being merely walls Daemon slept behind.

Because she was inside them.

Femi released his wrist.

The Devil immediately objected.

Put it back.

Daemon nearly groaned.

Femi reached for her coffee.

No.

He ignored it.

Hand.

“Enough.”

Femi froze with the mug halfway to her mouth.

Daemon sighed.

“Still not you.”

Silent laughter shook her shoulders. The Devil sulked. Daemon looked at her. Really looked. Her sleepy eyes. Messy hair. Bare feet tucked beneath her chair. The oversized shirt. The smile she was trying unsuccessfully to hide behind her mug.

Something inside him became painfully full. The Devil recognized the sensation. It had been encountering it more frequently lately. It still did not have a name for it.

So it used the closest one it knew.

Home.

Daemon’s smile faded into something softer.

“Yes.”

Femi lowered her mug. Her expression changed. She had heard him. She didn’t know what he was answering.

Perhaps that was better.

The Devil disagreed.

Tell her.

Daemon ignored it.

Tell her.

No.

Coward.

“Go to hell.”

Femi stared at him.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Still not you.”

Her silent laughter filled the kitchen.

And somewhere inside him, something once born beneath pain and electricity listened to the sound of a woman who could not speak laughing without a voice—

and discovered there were things in this world worth surviving for.

Not because Leto ordered it. Not because someone needed killing. Not because pain demanded an answer. Because morning was coming. Because Femi was here. Because tomorrow she might be here again.

The Devil had spent most of its existence asking only one question.

What do we kill?

Sitting beside Femi in the darkness, it had begun asking another.

What do we keep alive?

The answer sat barefoot beside him, drinking coffee.

There were nights when Femi slept in her own room.

There were nights when she slept in his.

And there were nights when Daemon went to bed alone only to wake sometime after midnight to the quiet turn of his doorknob.

The Devil always heard her first.

Little ghost.

Daemon would open his eyes. Femi would be standing in the doorway. Sometimes carrying her pillow. Sometimes wearing one of his shirts. Sometimes saying nothing with her hands because there was nothing that needed saying.

She had simply chosen.

His room.

His bed.

Him.

Us.

That distinction mattered to the Devil.

Choice had once been something it hated. Choice meant uncertainty. Choice meant someone could leave.

Femi had taught it the other side of the word. She could leave. And didn’t. She could sleep across the hall. And sometimes crossed it instead.

She could remain in her own bed until morning. And sometimes came looking for Daemon in the dark. No command. No obligation. No locked door. No restraint.

Choice.

She came to us.

Every time.

Daemon would lift the blanket.

Femi would climb beneath it.

Sometimes that was all.

She would curl against him, tuck her face beneath his chin, and fall asleep with one hand resting over his heart.

Other nights, she kissed him. And those nights became something else. Slow. Quiet. Almost reverent.

Daemon had known sex long before Femi. The Devil had too. It had understood bodies. Hunger. Release. Possession.

It had understood the physical mechanics of wanting someone.

Femi taught them something entirely different. With her, there was no taking. There was asking. Waiting. Watching. Her hands against his face. His forehead resting against hers. Her mouth finding scars other people had left behind.

Daemon touching her as though every inch of her had been entrusted to him rather than surrendered.

The Devil became almost unbearable during those moments.

Not violent.

Not hungry in the old way.

Awed.

Careful.

Daemon always was.

More.

Femi would pull him closer.

She wants us.

“Yes.”

She chose this.

“Yes.”

That mattered more than anything.

They made love as though it were something sacred neither of them had been taught how to worship. There was no performance in it. No conquest.

Sometimes they laughed.

Sometimes Femi buried her face against his neck because she became shy beneath the intensity of his attention.

Sometimes Daemon simply stopped and looked at her. Green eyes. Midnight hair. Small hands holding him. Here. With him. By choice. The Devil would become so quiet he could barely feel it.

Then—

Ours.

Not take.

Not keep.

Not possess.

Ours because she had chosen to become part of the word.

And afterward, they slept. That was perhaps the strangest miracle of all. Daemon slept. Not the shallow unconsciousness he had known most of his life. Not the restless half-sleep in which every creak became a footstep and every movement beyond the door brought the Devil instantly awake. Sleep. Deep. Dreamless. Safe.

Femi sprawled across him as though Daemon were another mattress she had personally claimed. Her leg tangled between his. Her head against his chest. One arm thrown over his stomach. Sometimes half her hair ended up across his face.

The Devil adored it.

Daemon occasionally woke long enough to move it.

Leave it.

“I can’t breathe.”

She put it there.

“It’s hair.”

Hers.

Apparently that made suffocation acceptable. Daemon would move it anyway. The Devil would sulk. Then Femi would shift in her sleep and curl closer.

Instant forgiveness.

There.

Daemon would put his arm around her. And disappear again. No warehouse. No table. No electricity. No fire. No masked faces. No Leto. No Organization. No Silent Order. Nothing. Just darkness. Warmth. Her breathing. Sleep.

Then morning.

The Devil usually woke first. Not because of danger. That was new too. For most of its existence, the Devil woke because something had changed. A floorboard. A door. A voice. A hand approaching Daemon while he slept.

Threat.

Up.

Now it woke to something else. Warmth against Daemon’s side. A small body wrapped around theirs. Femi. The Devil would surface slowly.

Listen.

Feel.

Then the hum would begin. Daemon had no better word for it. Contentment. Deep and low inside his chest. Almost a vibration.

Little ghost.

Daemon would open his eyes.

There she was.

Every morning somehow different. Every morning exactly the same. Hair everywhere. One cheek pressed against his chest. Her hand curled near his ribs. Sometimes a bare knee thrown over his thigh. Sometimes her entire body practically lying on top of him despite having most of a king-sized bed available.

Daemon never understood how someone so small could occupy so much territory.

The Devil considered the question irrelevant.

Here.

That was what mattered. Here. Still here. She had gone to sleep beside them. She had awakened beside them. Another night had passed.

And Femi had stayed.

She chose us again.

Daemon would look down at her.

“Yes.”

The Devil’s contentment would deepen. It had once counted bodies to determine whether danger had ended. Now it counted mornings.

One more.

One more.

One more.

Femi breathed against Daemon’s chest.

The Devil listened.

Once, survival had sounded like a heartbeat restarting after men deliberately stopped it. Now survival sounded like this. Her breathing. Soft. Even. Unafraid. That realization had taken the Devil years. Because everything that created it had taught the opposite.

Daemon’s father had taught it survival through drunken rages. Watch the hands. Watch the bottle. Watch the shoulders. Know when the blow is coming.

Hit first.

The Organization taught it survival beneath restraints. Break the hand. Dislocate the thumb. Ignore the pain. Get free.

Kill them.

The Silent Order refined what the others had begun. A weapon survived by being more dangerous than whatever held it. Strike first. Strike harder. Never hesitate. Never trust. Never need. Never love.

Survive.

So the Devil had.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It survived everything.

But no one had ever taught it what survival was supposed to be for.

Then came Femi. Femi, who touched Daemon without hurting him. Femi, who kissed scars without asking what violence had made them. Femi, who slept with her throat exposed against the chest of a man half the city feared. Femi, who could wake during the night, cross the hallway, open his door, and climb into bed beside him without the Devil once mistaking her approach for danger.

Femi, who had somehow taught the creature born from violence that footsteps in the dark could mean comfort was coming.

The Devil had learned survival from pain. Femi taught it survival through tenderness. Her tenderness.

At first, it had not trusted it. Tenderness had looked too much like vulnerability. Vulnerability invited pain. Pain demanded violence. That was the old equation. Femi ruined it.

She touched him. Nothing bad happened. She held him. Nothing followed. She kissed him. There was no price. She stayed. There was no command.

She loved Daemon and demanded neither obedience nor blood in exchange.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until repetition became evidence. Until evidence became certainty. Until the Devil learned.

Safe.

Not because the doors were locked. Not because every enemy was dead. Not because Daemon had a weapon within reach. Because Femi was sleeping against him.

That was the lesson no laboratory had managed to beat out of him because no one had ever put it there. Tenderness could be survived.

More than that— tenderness could be survival.

The Devil had spent years keeping Daemon alive by teaching him how to hurt. Femi kept him alive by teaching him how to rest. And perhaps that was why the Devil loved her with such frightening intensity.

Even before it understood that what it felt was love. She had not destroyed the creature his suffering created. She had done something far more impossible.

She had given it another reason to exist.

Not merely—

Kill for him.

But—

Stay with her.

Protect her.

Wake beside her.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

The Devil had never cared about tomorrow before Femi. Survival had always meant reaching the next breath. Now it wanted mornings. Thousands of them. Her hair across Daemon’s face. Her leg tangled around his. Her hand over his heart. Her warmth in their bed.

Her choice.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The Devil had learned how to survive pain long before it met her.

Wrapped around Femi in the quiet hours before dawn, it was finally learning how to survive being loved.

---

The sun shone brightly over the three-story brick house just beyond the Ravenside city limits.

Inside, Femi raced through the front room with Daemon close behind her.

Her waist-length black hair streamed behind her. Her bare feet struck the hardwood in quick, light steps, and her laughter followed her through the house.

It still wasn’t a voice.

Not yet.

But it was sound.

Bright, breathless, gloriously alive.

The Devil adored it.

Faster.

Daemon smiled.

“She’ll trip.”

She will not.

Femi glanced over her shoulder, green eyes gleaming with mischief, and nearly collided with the table beside the staircase.

Daemon’s heart stopped.

The Devil surged.

Careful—

Femi caught herself at the last moment, giggled again, and vanished around the corner.

Daemon exhaled.

The Devil was offended.

Move the table.

“It’s been there for years.”

Move it.

Daemon would consider it.

He already knew where she was going.

They had performed this particular ritual almost every morning for the past year. Femi would wait until breakfast was finished, lean across the table, and steal a kiss from him.

Then she would smile as though she had committed some grand and terrible crime before running from the room.

The Devil had never understood why Daemon allowed the head start.

It had complained the first time.

Catch her.

“I will.”

Now.

“She likes the chase.”

That had silenced it.

The next morning, Femi stole another kiss.

Ran.

Looked over her shoulder.

Smiled.

The Devil understood.

Now it participated enthusiastically. Daemon always gave her a few seconds. Just enough time to believe she might escape.

She never did.

Now.

Daemon crossed the front hall.

Left.

“I know.”

She is coming.

“I know.”

Catch her.

Daemon stopped exactly where he knew she would appear. A moment later, Femi came flying around the corner.

She saw him too late.

Daemon caught her around the waist and lifted her from the floor.

A startled sound escaped her as she threw her arms around his shoulders. Her laughter warmed the side of his neck.

The Devil practically melted.

Again.

“Caught you.”

She shook her head fiercely, refusing to concede anything.

“No?”

Another shake.

Liar.

Daemon carried her backward until her shoulders rested against the wall. He planted one hand beside her head while the other remained securely around her waist.

The Devil immediately checked the distance.

Head.

Wall.

Daemon’s palm.

Enough space.

Good.

Once, it had helped him calculate how hard a body could strike concrete before bone broke. Now it made certain Femi never bumped her head when Daemon caught her.

It refused to acknowledge the absurdity.

“Do you enjoy making me chase you for a kiss?”

Femi gave him the same answer she always did.

A brilliant smile.

The Devil went silent.

It always did.

For all its violence, all its instincts, all the things it understood about blood and fear and death, it still had no defense against that smile.

Beautiful.

Then she caught the front of Daemon’s shirt and pulled him closer.

The Devil recovered immediately.

Yes.

Daemon lowered his head to accept his kisses.

She gave them freely now.

Soft, lingering offerings pressed against his mouth.

Again.

His cheek.

Again.

The scar she had never once treated as something ugly.

The Devil went utterly still.

That one was different.

Always.

Her lips touched the pale line.

The Devil quieted beneath her affection like some enormous creature lowering its head beneath a familiar hand.

There.

Daemon stood perfectly still and let her give him every one.

Once, people had run from Daemon because they knew what followed when the Devil gave chase.

The Devil remembered those pursuits.

Footsteps pounding through alleys.

Panicked breathing.

Locked doors kicked inward.

Men looking over their shoulders and realizing the Devil was still behind them.

Running had once meant fear.

Running had meant prey.

Running had meant someone was going to die.

Now—

Femi slipped from his arms, made it two steps, and glanced over her shoulder with laughter in her eyes.

Catch her.

Daemon caught her again.

She laughed against him.

Now he chased a woman through sunlit rooms because she knew he would always catch her gently.

The Devil had decided this was considerably better.

This was his life.

The thought still struck Daemon with the force of something impossible.

This house.

Femi’s laughter.

Her shoes abandoned beside the stairs.

Trip hazard.

“Leave them alone.”

Her books resting crookedly on the coffee table.

She is reading three at once.

“I know.”

Why?

“I stopped asking.”

The half-finished cup of tea she would inevitably forget until it went cold.

Again.

“I’ll warm it.”

Her body warm and trusting between him and the wall.

Ours.

Daemon’s hand tightened slightly around her waist.

Not ownership.

The Devil understood the distinction now.

Ours because she had chosen them.

Ours because every morning she woke beneath their roof and stayed.

Ours because she ran knowing they would follow.

Ours because when Daemon caught her, she laughed.

This was his life.

Ours, the Devil corrected softly.

Daemon did not argue.

Soon, if she allowed it, it would become more.

The Devil immediately focused on the slight weight inside his jacket pocket.

Ask her.

Daemon’s smile disappeared.

“No.”

Femi blinked at him.

Daemon kissed her forehead.

“Not you.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

The Devil was delighted.

Ask.

Daemon felt the small black box through the lining of his jacket.

It had rested there for two years.

Two years.

The Devil considered this unacceptable.

Coward.

“Shut up.”

Femi’s eyes narrowed.

Daemon sighed.

“Still not you.”

Her expression said she did not believe him.

The Devil laughed.

Daemon had carried the ring through summer heat, winter rain, long rides, bar fights, and nights when Femi fell asleep against his chest.

The Devil knew exactly where it was at all times.

Left inside pocket.

Black box.

Silver ring.

Promise waiting.

Daemon had purchased it long before he found the courage to ask the question attached to it.

Today.

“No.”

Today.

“I said soon.”

You said soon last winter.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

The Devil had become insufferable about this.

Ask her.

Daemon had faced armed men without hesitation. He had walked into rooms knowing everyone inside intended to kill him.

Yet the thought of kneeling before Femi made something dangerously close to fear settle beneath his ribs.

The Devil recognized it.

It hated fear.

Usually its answer was simple.

Attack it.

Destroy it.

Remove whatever caused it.

But this fear had no throat to crush.

No weapon to take.

No body to bury.

It came from the possibility of Femi looking at Daemon after he opened that box and choosing differently than he hoped.

The Devil had no solution for that.

Neither did Daemon.

Not because he doubted his love.

He had never been more certain of anything.

He feared asking her to bind her future to a man whose past had been built from blood and graves.

The Devil stirred.

She knows.

Daemon said nothing.

She knows what we are.

Not everything.

Enough.

Femi touched the crease between his brows.

Every thought stopped.

Daemon looked at her.

Her silent question was clear.

The Devil softened beneath her fingers.

Tell her.

Daemon caught her hand and kissed her fingertips.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The Devil sighed.

She knows you are lying.

“I know.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

Daemon kissed her before she could interrogate him further.

The Devil approved of this strategy.

Her suspicion lasted several seconds before she softened against him.

Daemon smiled against her mouth.

Effective.

That afternoon, the sun began sinking behind them as they rode toward Wolfwater.

Femi sat close on the motorcycle, her arms wrapped securely around Daemon’s waist.

Her cheek rested against his back.

Every so often, he felt the curve of her smile through his jacket.

The Devil remained aware of everything.

Traffic.

Mirrors.

Intersections.

Vehicles lingering too close.

The weight of Femi against Daemon’s back.

Especially that.

Happy.

Daemon knew.

He covered one of her hands with his.

Her fingers immediately shifted beneath his, fitting against his palm.

The Devil settled.

The city rose around them one district at a time.

Prosperous neighborhoods and glass towers gradually surrendered to aging warehouses, abandoned buildings, and streets the rest of Ravenside preferred to forget.

By the time they entered Wolfwater, neon signs had begun flickering awake above bars, pawnshops, and late-night eateries.

The Devil remembered this place differently.

Blood in gutters.

Orders.

Names.

Bodies.

Men lowering their eyes when Daemon passed.

Wolfwater had once been hunting ground.

Now—

Home too.

Daemon looked ahead.

Helix appeared.

The old brick building waited beneath its familiar red sign, motorcycles already lining the curb. Music and conversation spilled into the street whenever the door opened.

Daemon parked near the entrance.

Femi climbed off first and removed her helmet.

Her black hair tumbled loose around her.

A strand caught beneath the collar of her jacket.

Beautiful Hair.

“I see it.”

Daemon reached out and freed it.

Femi looked up at him.

Then rose onto her toes and kissed him.

The Devil went warm.

Again.

Before Daemon could draw her closer, she slipped from his reach and hurried toward the entrance.

She ran.

Daemon watched her go.

“Yes.”

Catch her.

“Later.”

The Devil was dissatisfied.

Some rituals followed them everywhere.

Malone was standing in the doorway with his arms folded.

“You two ever planning to come inside?”

Femi slipped past him.

Daemon removed his gloves.

“We’re inside every day.”

“And somehow, you still manage to loiter on my doorstep like a pair of teenagers.”

Femi turned back long enough to stick her tongue out at Malone.

The Devil was delighted.

Malone stared after her.

“That woman has become disrespectful.”

“You encouraged her.”

“I fed her. There’s a difference.”

He encouraged her.

“I know.”

Malone looked at Daemon.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A faint smile touched Daemon’s mouth as he entered Helix.

The place had not changed much since the day Femi first stepped out from behind its kitchen doors and placed a glass of Jack on the rocks before him.

The Devil remembered.

Small.

Quiet.

Watching everything.

Trying desperately not to be noticed.

Little ghost.

The floor still carried old scars from boots, chairs, and more than one body hitting the wood.

Some of those scars belonged to Daemon.

The Devil knew which ones.

The lights remained low.

The liquor remained strong.

The regulars still knew better than to sit at the corner table.

His table.

Ours.

Daemon sat.

Femi tied an apron around her waist and went to work.

The Devil watched.

So did Daemon.

She moved through the barroom with the same quiet efficiency she always had, remembering orders before customers gave them and replacing empty glasses before anyone asked.

But she no longer kept her head bowed.

The Devil noticed that first.

Look.

Daemon was already looking.

Femi smiled at the regulars.

She nudged one man’s hand away when he tried stealing food from another customer’s plate.

She laughed soundlessly when someone objected to the amount of foam on his beer.

She occupied space now.

Not apologetically.

Not like someone expecting to be told to leave.

She belonged.

When one of the older bikers called her Iris, she no longer froze.

The Devil stirred.

Once, that name could stop her breathing.

Daemon watched carefully.

Femi touched the biker’s shoulder and gently corrected him with a shake of her head.

Femi.

The Devil softened.

Yes.

Not Iris.

Not Eira.

Not Vale’s girl.

Not the mute waitress.

Not the little girl who survived five stab wounds.

Femi.

She knew who she was now.

The Devil had never been prouder of anything.

Daemon settled into his corner and placed his back against the wall.

Malone brought him a Jack on the rocks without being asked.

“You going to stare at her all night?”

“Yes.”

The Devil approved.

Malone grunted.

“At least you’re honest.”

Daemon lifted the glass but did not drink.

Across the room, Femi looked toward him as though she had felt his attention.

The Devil went still.

Their eyes met above the crowd.

Her smile changed.

Softer.

Private.

Only for him.

Ours.

Daemon touched the outside of his jacket.

The black box waited beneath his fingers.

The Devil immediately awakened.

Now.

“No.”

Malone glanced toward him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Daemon took a drink.

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

Malone stared at him for several seconds.

Then nodded slowly.

“Right.”

He walked away.

The Devil did not care.

Ask her.

“Soon.”

Today.

Daemon looked across the room.

Femi had turned away again.

She was laughing at something Cutter had done, shoulders shaking while she tried to continue pouring a drink.

The Devil watched her.

What are you waiting for?

Daemon’s thumb rubbed across the edge of the box through his jacket.

“For me to deserve her.”

The Devil became silent.

Daemon rarely admitted that thought.

Even to himself.

For several seconds, there was only music.

Glasses.

Laughter.

Femi.

Then the Devil spoke.

Quietly.

She decides that.

Daemon stopped breathing.

Across the room, Femi looked toward him again.

As though she had felt something.

Perhaps she had.

The Devil repeated itself.

Not you.

Daemon stared at her.

Green eyes.

Midnight hair.

That private smile.

The woman who knew what he had done.

The woman who had seen the scars.

The woman who had met the thing inside him and touched it without fear.

The woman who had been given every opportunity to leave.

And stayed.

She chooses.

The Devil had learned that lesson painfully.

Possession was easy.

Daemon had spent most of his life taking things from people.

Weapons.

Information.

Lives.

Choice was harder.

Choice required an open hand.

Choice meant accepting that the person you loved could walk away.

Choice meant loving them enough not to close your fist.

Femi had taught the Devil that.

Now the Devil turned the lesson back on Daemon.

Ask.

Daemon felt the ring against his chest.

Soon.

He would ask her soon.

The Devil sighed with theatrical irritation.

Coward.

Daemon almost smiled.

Until then, he watched Femi move through Helix.

She crossed beneath the dim lights, carrying drinks and smiles from table to table.

The room seemed to rearrange itself around her.

Daemon had once been the thing everyone watched when he entered Helix.

Now he barely noticed who watched him.

He watched her.

The Devil did too.

Not because she needed constant protection anymore.

Not because danger waited behind every face.

Simply because it liked looking at her.

That realization might have horrified the creature it had once been.

Now it accepted the indignity without complaint.

Femi glanced toward him one more time.

Her smile appeared.

Daemon felt himself smile back.

The Devil settled inside him, warm and impossibly content.

Once, it had guided Daemon through darkness by counting exits, threats, weapons, and bodies.

Now there was only one thing in the room it needed to find.

There.

Femi.

Daemon touched the ring hidden over his heart.

For most of his life, the Devil had been his compass.

Now they both followed the same North Star.

Daemon and the Devil remembered the first time they showed Femi their home. They had bought it but never really lived in it. That distinction had not mattered when Daemon signed the papers.

A house was a building. Walls. Doors. Windows. A roof. The Devil understood those things in terms of defense.

Entrances.

Exits.

Sight lines.

Places someone could hide.

It had walked through the property with Daemon the first time and catalogued every weakness before the realtor finished describing the kitchen.

Three entrances. Four if someone broke through the basement. Too many windows along the east side. Trees close enough to conceal movement. The balcony could be reached from the porch roof.

The Devil had disliked that. Then Daemon had seen the kitchen. And thought of Femi. Everything changed.

Little ghost could cook here.

Daemon had ignored it.

Then the bookshelves.

Her books.

The garden.

Her flowers.

The upstairs windows overlooking the trees.

She would like this.

By the time Daemon left, the Devil had stopped evaluating the house as something that needed defending and begun evaluating it as somewhere Femi might smile.

That had been considerably more dangerous. One minute they were sitting in Helix. Music. People. Loud.

Then the next memory took them.

They rode for thirty minutes.

Helix disappeared behind them, followed by the crowded streets and familiar lights of the city. Buildings became smaller. Traffic thinned. The air cooled as they traveled beyond the town limits.

Femi held Daemon tightly, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

The Devil had been pleased for the entire ride.

Almost unbearably so.

She is coming.

Daemon kept his eyes on the road.

“Yes.”

To the house.

He knew.

Our house.

Technically.

Her house.

“Maybe.”

The Devil immediately objected.

She will like it.

Daemon wished he possessed the same confidence. Femi did not ask where they were going. She rarely did anymore. Daemon had spent nearly a year teaching her that uncertainty did not always conceal danger.

Sometimes it carried books. Blue dresses. Apple pie. Perhaps tonight it carried something else.

The Devil knew what it wanted that something else to be.

Home.

Daemon tightened his hands around the handlebars.

Don’t start.

She could stay there.

He knew.

With us.

That was the problem.

The Devil did not consider it a problem.

Every day.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

Every night.

“Enough.”

Femi’s arms tightened around his waist. Daemon wondered whether she had heard him.

The Devil became delighted.

She hugged us.

“She was already holding on.”

More.

Daemon ignored it.

The motorcycle slowed near the edge of town and turned onto a quiet, tree-lined road. A wrought-iron fence appeared beneath the glow of the headlight.

The Devil immediately sharpened.

There.

Beyond it stood the house. Daemon stopped beside the gate and shut off the engine.

Silence settled around them.

Femi removed her helmet.

The house rose two stories above the lawn, constructed from dark red brick with tall windows and a broad wraparound porch. White columns supported the roof. Ivy climbed one side of the building, and enormous oak trees sheltered the property.

No lights shone inside. The place appeared abandoned. But not ruined. Femi climbed from the motorcycle and looked at Daemon.

He avoided her gaze. That was unusual.

The Devil was disgusted.

Why are you frightened?

“I’m not.”

Liar.

Daemon removed his helmet and hung it from the handlebar.

Without explanation, he walked toward the porch. His heart was beating too fast.

The Devil noticed.

Of course it did.

She will like it.

Daemon didn’t answer.

She will.

After several steps, he turned and gestured for Femi to follow. She remained beside the motorcycle. Daemon waited.

The Devil did not.

Come.

Femi studied the house.

Come, little ghost.

She took a step.

Something inside Daemon loosened.

The Devil surged with satisfaction.

Yes.

Another step.

Come see.

Femi approached. The wooden steps creaked beneath their weight. Daemon crossed the porch, reached inside his jacket, and removed a set of keys. Femi stopped.

The Devil practically pressed against his ribs.

Show her.

Daemon unlocked the front door. Then he stepped aside.

She stared at him.

“Go on.”

Femi entered.

The Devil followed her through Daemon’s eyes. Eager. Watching everything. Not for danger this time. For her. The house smelled of dust, old wood, and rooms sealed for too long. Moonlight spilled through the large windows, illuminating furniture covered in white sheets.

The entrance hall was beautiful.

A polished staircase curved toward the second floor. Dark wooden trim framed every doorway. An old chandelier hung overhead, its crystals dulled by years of dust but still catching fragments of light.

Femi moved farther inside.

The Devil watched her face.

Does she like it?

Daemon didn’t know.

Look.

“I am looking.”

Closer.

No.

Femi entered the living room. The stone fireplace was large enough for her to stand inside. Built-in bookshelves covered two walls from floor to ceiling. She stopped. The Devil went still. Empty shelves. Hundreds of them.

Waiting.

Femi touched the wood.

The Devil nearly vibrated.

Books.

Daemon’s mouth twitched.

Yes.

All of them.

“If she wants.”

She wants.

“You don’t know that.”

The Devil considered this ridiculous. Femi loved books. There were empty shelves. The matter was obvious.

Fill them.

Daemon watched Femi run her fingers along the wood.

Every shelf.

Something dangerously close to excitement moved through him. The Devil had never cared about books before Femi. Books were objects. Paper. Weight. Potential fire. Now the sight of empty shelves produced an entirely different thought.

Femi standing on a ladder. Femi complaining silently because Daemon had put something too high. Femi curled beside the fireplace reading. Books left facedown on tables. Books stacked beside chairs. Books invading rooms.

Her books everywhere.

Daemon swallowed.

“Yes.”

Femi continued into the dining room.

Tall windows overlooked the side lawn, and a wide archway led into an enormous kitchen. The kitchen stole her breath.

Daemon saw it.

The Devil saw it too.

There.

Her eyes widened.

She likes it.

It needed cleaning.

Cabinets needed refinishing, and dust covered the long central counter. But there was space everywhere. Space to bake bread. Space to prepare meals. Space for three people to sit without anyone being pushed against the wall.

Femi walked slowly toward the center counter.

The Devil was almost unbearable now.

Bread.

Daemon leaned against the doorway.

She could make bread here.

“Yes.”

Stew.

“Yes.”

Those little cakes.

Daemon frowned.

“You don’t even eat.”

The Devil ignored this irrelevant technicality.

Strawberries.

Daemon almost laughed.

Femi looked toward the window above the sink.

It overlooked the rear garden. She stood there for several seconds. Daemon knew that look. She was imagining something.

The Devil wanted desperately to know what.

What does she see?

“I don’t know.”

Ask.

“No.”

Ask her.

“Let her look.”

The Devil quieted reluctantly. Femi imagined herbs growing there. Apple trees. Flowers for the kitchen table. Then she caught herself. Why was she imagining anything?

Femi turned.

Daemon was no longer behind her.

A flicker of unease passed through her until she found him exactly where she had left him, standing beside the front door.

He had not followed. He was allowing her to explore the house alone. To decide what she thought of it without his presence shaping the answer.

The Devil hated this strategy.

Go to her.

“No.”

She is alone.

“She is thirty feet away.”

Too far.

Daemon ignored it. Femi returned to him. With every step she took, the Devil became more attentive.

She came back.

Daemon looked uncomfortable. Not frightened. Daemon did not fear houses, darkness, armed men, or death. But something about her expression clearly terrified him.

The Devil did not understand why.

It had killed men without increasing Daemon’s pulse this much.

Ask her.

Daemon waited.

Ask if she likes it.

He continued waiting.

Ask.

Femi raised her hands.

What is this?

Daemon watched her fingers.

“I bought it today.”

She stared at him.

He winced slightly.

“That sounded better in my head.”

The Devil disagreed.

Tell her it is hers.

Not yet.

Femi looked around the entrance hall, then back at him.

You bought this house today?

“Yes.”

Why?

Daemon rubbed the back of his neck.

“I saw it several weeks ago.”

That was not an answer.

Femi waited.

So did the Devil.

Tell her.

Daemon remained silent.

Tell her.

“I thought of you.”

The Devil surged.

Yes.

Daemon stopped. The silence stretched. He looked toward the staircase as though it might offer assistance.

It did not.

The Devil did.

Books. Kitchen. Garden. Her. Tell her.

“I saw the kitchen,” he continued. “And the bookshelves. The garden needs work, but there’s enough space for whatever you want to grow.”

Femi’s hands slowly lowered.

The Devil watched every movement.

She understands.

Daemon wasn’t certain.

“I thought you might like it.”

Might?

One side of Daemon’s mouth moved.

“I hoped.”

She likes it.

Femi glanced around again. The house was enormous. Too large for one man. Too full of empty rooms. The Devil had thought the same thing. But where Femi saw empty rooms, it had begun seeing possibilities.

One for Malone when the old bastard inevitably refused to leave. One for Marta. One for guests. One for whatever Femi wanted. A room filled with books. A room filled with plants. A room with nothing in it at all if that pleased her. It didn’t care.

The Devil had spent most of its existence thinking about how to escape rooms. Now it wanted to fill them with her. Femi looked at the keys in Daemon’s hand.

Understanding came carefully. Her heart began to beat faster.

The Devil noticed.

She knows.

Femi raised her hands.

Are you asking me to move in with you?

Daemon stared at her fingers.

The Devil exploded inside him.

YES.

“Yes.”

The word came too quickly.

The Devil did not care.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Daemon cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he repeated, more quietly.

Femi looked toward the open door.

The Devil’s excitement vanished.

Instantly.

No.

Daemon saw it too. The motorcycle waited outside. Beyond it, the road led back to Helix and the room Malone had given her. Her first home after the streets. Leaving it felt impossible. Staying forever felt equally impossible.

The Devil recoiled from the thought.

She can keep both.

Daemon seemed to read the fear in her face.

“You don’t have to answer tonight.”

She can keep Helix.

“And you don’t have to leave Helix completely. Keep your room. Work there. Sleep there whenever you want.”

The Devil reluctantly accepted this.

If keeping Helix made Femi feel safe, Helix remained.

Simple.

Daemon lifted the keys but did not offer them yet.

“This house has six bedrooms.”

Femi’s eyebrows rose.

“I didn’t buy it for the bedrooms.”

She pointed toward him and then herself.

Daemon understood.

“We can have separate rooms.”

The Devil immediately objected.

Why?

Daemon nearly sighed.

Because she may want one.

She can have one.

Thank you.

Next to ours.

Daemon ignored that.

“We can have separate rooms.”

He said it without hesitation.

“As long as you need.”

Femi studied his face.

For how long?

Daemon frowned.

She signed again, more slowly.

How long do you want me here?

His expression changed.

The Devil answered immediately.

Always.

Daemon’s chest tightened.

Always.

He couldn’t say that.

Not yet.

The Devil did not understand why.

Tell her.

Femi waited.

Tell her always.

“As long as you like.”

The Devil went silent.

Then—

That too.

Because it was learning. Slowly. Painfully.  Femi could stay forever. But forever only mattered if she chose it. Femi remained still.

Men had offered her temporary shelter before. A night. A week. A room until she could become useful. Even Malone had initially said she could stay until she recovered. Then he quietly stopped mentioning an end.

Daemon looked down at the keys.

“I’m not a good man, Femi.”

The Devil stirred.

No.

Femi frowned.

He continued before she could interrupt.

“I’ve killed people. Some because they deserved it. Others because I was ordered to and didn’t care enough to question why.”

The Devil remembered.

Bodies.

Graves.

Blood.

Orders.

Simple things.

His scar appeared deeper beneath the moonlight.

“I’ve spent most of my life becoming someone men fear. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Daemon gestured toward the house.

“The dinner. A home.”

The Devil looked through his eyes at the empty rooms.

It didn’t know how either.

But it wanted to.

That was new.

We can learn.

Daemon went still.

The Devil repeated it.

We can learn.

Femi watched him struggle for words.

“I don’t know if I’ll be good at making you happy.”

Learn.

She stepped closer. The Devil immediately quieted.

Daemon looked at her.

“But we are yours,” he said. “For as long as you want us.”

The Devil surged against the words.

Not resisting them.

Claiming them.

Yes.

Daemon raised his eyes to hers.

“That part I know how to do.”

Hers.

Femi’s throat tightened. Daemon held out the keys. She stared at them.

The Devil waited.

Take them.

Femi didn’t move.

Take them, little ghost.

A house had once been the most dangerous place in her world. Walls had trapped her inside with men carrying guns and knives. A locked door had prevented escape. For years afterward, she avoided calling any place home because homes could become graves.

Helix changed that. Malone changed it. Daemon had changed it most of all. Home was not the walls. It was the person who slept between her and the door.

Femi did not take the keys.

Not yet.

The Devil’s excitement faltered.

Why?

She raised her hands.

What about Malone?

The Devil relaxed.

That.

They could solve that.

“He knows.”

Her eyes widened.

“He helped choose the house.”

Femi’s suspicion returned.

“The flowers in the kitchen were an apology.”

She tilted her head.

“For keeping this from you.”

Femi folded her arms.

“I told him flowers wouldn’t save him.”

They would not.

“He also demanded his own room.”

Of course he had.

“I told him he could sleep on the porch.”

The Devil approved.

Porch.

Femi stared.

Daemon sighed.

“Fine. He has a room.”

Her smile emerged.

The Devil forgot Malone existed.

There.

Daemon’s expression softened.

Again.

Femi was still smiling.

She smiled here.

Something inside him warmed. The Devil attached significance to this immediately. Femi had smiled inside the house. Therefore the house was good.

Simple.

“You don’t have to choose between us. Helix will always be home. Malone will always be there.”

Daemon looked around the empty house.

“This can be something else.”

What?

Daemon considered the question.

The Devil did not.

It had known the answer from the moment Femi wrapped her arms around him on the motorcycle.

Ours.

“Ours.”

The word settled inside her.

Not his.

Not hers.

Ours.

The Devil became utterly still. It had said the word. Daemon had said the word. Now it waited for Femi. Femi looked at the keys again. Then she placed her hand over his and closed his fingers around them.

The Devil recoiled.

No.

Daemon frowned.

“You don’t want them?”

Take them.

Femi stepped closer until barely any distance remained between them. The Devil watched.

She touched one hand to his chest.

Then pointed toward the house.

You.

She touched her own heart.

Me.

The Devil stopped.

Finally, she pointed toward the floor between them.

Ours.

For one impossible second, neither Daemon nor the Devil understood.

Then—

OURS.

Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil erupted. Not with violence. Not hunger. Not the murderous rush Daemon had known for years. Something brighter. Hotter.

Almost wild.

OURS.

Femi nodded.

Yes.

SHE SAID OURS.

The keys slipped from Daemon’s hand and struck the wooden floor.

Neither of them looked down.

SHE SAID OURS.

Daemon touched her cheek.

“Are you certain?”

The Devil was appalled.

She said yes.

Femi leaned into his palm.

Then she nodded again.

YES.

Daemon’s eyes closed briefly.

The Devil was everywhere.

She stays.

When his eyes opened, something vulnerable lived within them.

She chose us.

He bent toward her slowly.

Femi knew what he was asking.

Never assumed.

Femi lifted onto her toes. The Devil went silent. She closed the distance. Her lips met his. Everything stopped. Daemon. The house. The Devil. Everything. The kiss was soft.

Barely more than a breath. Femi’s fingertips touched the scar along his cheek. Her palm rested over his heart. The Devil had known knives there. Electricity. Needles. Fists. Pain.

Nothing had prepared it for this.

Again.

Femi began to pull away.

The Devil panicked.

No.

Daemon’s hand moved toward the back of her neck. He stopped before touching her. Femi understood. Permission. She took his hand. Placed it there.

The Devil nearly lost its mind.

She put us back.

Daemon kissed her.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Nothing in the way he touched her demanded more than she chose to give.

One arm circled her waist, drawing her closer only after she leaned into him.

Closer.

She came.

More.

Her fingers tightened.

She wants us.

Daemon’s heart pounded. Femi had been kissed before. On the street, kisses had been another currency. Something taken or demanded before food, shelter, or safety was given.

This was different. Daemon asked without words. Waited without impatience. Trembled when she chose him.

The Devil understood only one thing.

She chose us.

Again. 

Not ordered. Not trapped. Not bought. Not taken. Chose. When the kiss ended, Femi remained against his chest. The Devil hummed with something it had no name for.

Daemon rested his forehead against hers.

The Devil corrected him.

Ours.

Femi looked around.

Then she signed:

Too much.

“Probably.”

No.

Terrible surprise.

“I thought you were getting better with those.”

She shook her head.

Daemon almost smiled.

The Devil was too pleased to care about the insult.

She stays.

“Do you want to see the rest?”

Femi nodded.

Yes.

Daemon retrieved the keys and placed them in her palm. This time, she closed her fingers around them.

The Devil watched.

Those keys had meant almost nothing when Daemon received them. Metal. Locks. Access. Now they were in Femi’s hand.

Everything changed.

Hers.

Daemon offered his hand.

Femi took it.

Ours.

Together, they climbed the stairs.

The Devil followed every step with ridiculous anticipation.

Show her the balcony.

Daemon intended to.

The bedroom with the big window.

If she wanted it.

She will like the window.

“You don’t know that.”

Femi glanced at him.

Daemon pretended he had said nothing.

The Devil continued.

Show her everything.

They wandered through the darkened rooms of the house that would become theirs. The Devil imagined her in every one. Femi walking barefoot down the hallway. Femi asleep behind one of those doors. Femi leaning over the upstairs railing. Femi’s clothes in a closet. Femi’s books on shelves. Femi’s scent in rooms that currently smelled only of dust.

Here.

Another room.

Here too.

The hallway.

Here.

The staircase.

Here.

The kitchen below.

Everywhere.

Daemon’s chest tightened. The Devil wanted her everywhere. Not imprisoned. Not contained. Present. It wanted evidence of her. Books left open. Shoes abandoned near doors. Bread cooling on counters. Flowers growing beneath windows. Strawberries in the refrigerator.

It wanted to walk into a room and know Femi had been there. It wanted to return from somewhere violent and find her fingerprints all over something peaceful.

They chose nothing that night. Not bedrooms. Not furniture. Not colors for the walls. There would be time for those decisions later.

The Devil loved that word.

Later.

Later meant she would return. Later meant another day. Another night. Another decision. Later meant future. The Devil had spent most of its existence without one.

Now it wanted an entire house full of it.

For now, they stood on the upper balcony beneath a summer sky while Daemon held her from behind, his arms resting loosely around her waist.

Femi leaned back against his chest. The Devil settled around them. Below waited the garden. Behind them waited empty rooms.

Beyond the trees waited Ravenside. Helix. Enemies. Blood.

Everything Daemon had always known.

But here—

Femi rested her hands over his arms.

The Devil hummed.

Ours.

Daemon lowered his face toward her hair.

Yes.

She will put flowers there.

His gaze moved toward the garden.

Probably.

And books.

Everywhere, apparently.

Bread.

Yes.

A pause.

Then, with almost childlike certainty—

Strawberries.

Daemon smiled against Femi’s hair.

“Yes.”

The Devil settled deeper. It had once looked at houses and counted exits. Now it looked at this one and counted all the places Femi might be. Kitchen. Library. Garden.Balcony. Bedroom. Beside them.

The Devil had spent its entire existence learning how to escape places.

For the first time, it had found one it wanted to stay inside.

Not because of the walls. Not because of the locks. Because Femi had looked at Daemon. Looked at herself. Looked at the empty house waiting around them.

And given the Devil a word it had never known it wanted.

Ours.

The rain had been falling since midnight.

Not hard.

Wolfwater rain rarely needed violence to make itself miserable. It came thin and steady, tapping against the windows of Helix, running silver down the glass, turning the streets outside into long ribbons of black.

The bar had emptied almost an hour ago.

Femi sat on a stool near the service window with a book open in front of her.

She had not turned the page in twenty minutes.

Malone knew because he had been watching.

He dried the same whiskey glass twice before finally setting it beneath the counter.

“You planning on reading that page until morning?”

Femi looked up.

Her green eyes narrowed.

Maybe.

Malone snorted.

“Liar.”

She closed the book.

That was when Malone knew something was coming.

Femi folded her hands over the cover.

Then she looked toward Daemon’s table.

Empty.

Daemon had left two hours earlier.

He had been quiet tonight.

Quieter than usual.

Four whiskeys.

No conversation.

No crooked smiles when Femi approached.

No fingers catching her wrist for half a second longer than necessary.

Nothing.

Just those gray eyes watching the room from beneath his hair.

Then he had gotten up and left.

Femi lifted her hands.

Who is Leto?

Malone stopped.

The rag in his hand became very still.

Femi watched him.

Malone looked toward the front door as if Daemon might suddenly come walking back through it.

He didn’t.

“Where’d you hear that name?”

Femi stared at him.

Malone sighed.

“Right. Stupid question.”

She waited.

Malone reached beneath the counter, took out a bottle of Jack, poured two fingers into a glass, and stared at it.

He didn’t drink.

Femi tapped the bar.

Who is Leto?

“A bastard.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

Malone took the whiskey.

“That’s the short version.”

She waited.

Malone hated when she did that.

Femi could wait a confession out of a corpse.

He dragged the stool opposite her away from the wall and sat.

“Leto knew Daemon before I did.”

Femi’s expression changed.

Malone noticed.

“He knew him young.”

How young?

“Eighteen.”

Femi became very still.

Malone rolled the glass between his palms.

“Daemon was in Neo Vegas then. He’d already had one hell of a life by eighteen. More than most men get in eighty years.”

He glanced toward the empty corner.

“Leto found him there.”

Found?

“Yeah.”

Malone took a drink.

“That’s the word I’d use.”

Femi leaned closer.

“From what Daemon told me later, Leto didn’t come at him like some gangster recruiting muscle. He was smarter than that.”

Malone shook his head.

“Leto took him to restaurants. Museums. Libraries. Daemon mentioned once that he liked reading, and suddenly Leto was putting books in front of him. Maps. History. Places outside Neo Vegas.”

Femi blinked.

That sounded strangely familiar.

Malone saw the thought cross her face.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

Femi lowered her eyes. Daemon had brought her books. Shelves for those books. Flowers. A house. He remembered what she liked. He listened when she spoke without sound.

Malone leaned forward.

“But understand something, sweetheart. Daemon does those things because he loves you. Leto did them because he was studying him.”

Femi looked up.

The distinction landed.

“Leto figured out what Daemon had never had.”

What?

“Somebody who stayed.”

The rain whispered against the windows.

“Somebody who chose him.”

Femi’s fingers slowly curled around the edge of her book.

“Caemon taught Daemon how to shave when he was a boy. Leto taught him how to drive. That ought to tell you something about how young Daemon still was in some ways.”

Femi looked toward the empty table again.

“When Leto left Neo Vegas, Daemon went with him.”

Why?

“Because Leto asked.”

Malone’s mouth twisted bitterly.

“That was enough back then.”

He finished the whiskey.

“They came here. Ravenside.”

Femi knew the rest.

Or thought she did.

“Leto was ambitious. Daemon was…”

Malone laughed once without humor.

“Daemon.”

His expression darkened.

“They rose fast.”

Malone stood and walked behind the bar, more because sitting had become uncomfortable than because he needed anything.

“Daemon could walk into a room and make twenty dangerous men reconsider their life choices. Leto couldn’t. Leto didn’t need to. He had Daemon.”

Malone placed the glass into the sink.

“Leto figured out where to point him.”

Femi swallowed.

“Rivals disappeared. Witnesses disappeared. Problems disappeared. Bodies got buried where nobody would ever find them.”

Malone looked at her.

“Daemon did terrible things, Femi.”

She didn’t look away.

“I won’t lie to you about that just because he loves you.”

Her expression remained steady.

“I’ve seen what that man can do.”

Malone paused.

“So have you.”

She nodded.

“The difference is Leto learned how to make Daemon believe doing those things was the same as being loved.”

Femi’s brow furrowed.

Malone came back around the bar.

“Every time Daemon obeyed, Leto praised him. Told him he was extraordinary. Told him nobody else could do what he did. Every time Daemon questioned something, Leto made him feel weak for questioning it.”

Malone tapped two fingers against the bar.

“That’s how you build a cage without bars.”

Femi stared at him.

“Daemon thought he had a brother.”

Did Leto?

Malone’s face hardened.

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

“Leto had a weapon.”

Femi’s jaw tightened.

“And he made damn sure everyone was afraid of the weapon instead of looking for the hand holding it.”

The Devil.

Malone saw the sign.

His eyes dropped to her fingers.

“Yeah.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“The Devil.”

Femi waited.

Malone breathed through his nose.

“You’ve heard Daemon call it that.”

She nodded.

“You’ve probably seen it.”

Another nod.

Malone looked uncomfortable now.

Not afraid.

Uncomfortable.

Like a man trying to describe something he did not entirely understand.

“I don’t know what the Devil is.”

Femi watched him carefully.

“I’ve known Daemon a long time. Long enough to know there are things inside that man’s head I don’t have names for.”

Malone rubbed his jaw.

“But I know this much.”

He pointed toward Daemon’s empty table.

“Leto didn’t put the Devil inside him.”

Femi’s eyes sharpened.

“No.”

Malone shook his head.

“It was already there.”

The rain seemed louder.

“Maybe it came from what happened to him when he was a kid. Maybe it was how he survived. Maybe Daemon’s mind made something strong enough to carry what a boy couldn’t.”

Malone shrugged slightly.

“I don’t know.”

Then his expression hardened.

“But Leto fed it.”

Femi didn’t move.

“He rewarded violence. Gave it purpose. Gave it enemies. Gave Daemon permission to stop asking whether something was right and only ask whether Leto wanted it done.”

Malone’s voice dropped.

“He didn’t create the Devil.”

A pause.

“He taught it where to hunt.”

Femi looked down at her hands.

For several seconds, neither moved.

Then:

Sherri?

Malone’s expression became ugly.

“Sherri Dream.”

Femi knew that name too.

She had seen what happened to Daemon whenever it surfaced.

The stillness.

The terrible, empty stillness.

“They were together.”

Femi’s eyes lifted.

“Daemon and Sherri.”

Was he in love with her?

Malone considered lying.

Femi’s stare warned him not to.

“I think he thought he was.”

Her fingers tightened.

“Maybe part of him was. In whatever way Daemon understood love back then.”

Malone sighed.

“They were bad together.”

How?

“Feral.”

Femi waited.

“Sex. Fighting. Drinking. Violence. Leaving. Coming back. Hurting each other. Wanting each other again.”

Malone shook his head.

“Sherri liked being seen with the Devil. People moved when Daemon walked into a room. Doors opened. Men were afraid to look at her wrong.”

His mouth twisted.

“She liked belonging to the legend.”

But?

“She didn’t like belonging to the man.”

Femi went motionless.

Malone immediately understood that she had heard the distinction.

“Leto figured that out too.”

He leaned back.

“He wanted Sherri.”

Femi’s face hardened.

“So he showed her what Daemon really was.”

What does that mean?

“Bodies.”

Malone didn’t soften it.

“Jobs. Names. Things Daemon had done for the Organization.”

Femi swallowed.

“Leto gave her the truth without giving her the reason.”

Malone’s voice went cold.

“He showed her the butcher and conveniently forgot to mention who’d been handing the butcher the knife.”

Femi looked away.

“Then Leto showed her another life.”

Malone counted it off on his fingers.

“Limos. Clothes. Money. Hotels. Parties. No blood on the floor unless somebody else cleaned it first.”

Femi slowly looked back.

“She chose Leto.”

Daemon knew?

“Not at first.”

Femi closed her eyes.

Malone watched her.

“When he found out…”

He stopped.

What?

“Something changed.”

Malone looked toward the rain.

“Daemon didn’t kill either of them.”

Femi opened her eyes.

“He could have.”

Malone smiled bitterly.

“That’s probably what hurt Leto’s pride most.”

Why?

“Because Daemon walked away.”

The words sat between them.

“He didn’t walk far. He was still in the Organization. Still doing jobs. Still killing.”

Malone rubbed his palms together.

“But he wasn’t Leto’s boy anymore.”

Femi’s eyes narrowed.

“And that became a problem.”

Why?

“Because Daemon knew everything.”

Malone’s voice dropped.

“He knew where bodies were buried. Which cops were bought. Which judges looked the other way. Which politicians had Organization money keeping their campaigns alive.”

He paused.

“And Daemon knew who Leto really was.”

Femi understood immediately.

“Leto had spent years making sure the Devil was the face people feared.”

Malone pointed at her.

“Daemon could destroy that.”

They tried to kill him.

It wasn’t a question.

Malone nodded.

“More than once.”

Her hands froze.

“Prison first.”

Malone gave a humorless laugh.

“Didn’t work.”

Why?

“He kept escaping.”

Despite herself, Femi blinked.

Malone almost smiled.

“Yeah.”

Again?

“Again.”

Again?

“More than I’m willing to admit.”

A tiny smile touched Femi’s mouth.

It disappeared quickly.

“Then they started giving information to enemies. Places Daemon would be. Routes he’d take.”

Malone shook his head.

“Gun battles.”

He survived.

“Every damn one.”

Femi looked toward the empty table.

Something warm and frightened moved behind her eyes.

“That’s when Leto decided bullets weren’t enough.”

Malone’s face changed.

Femi saw it.

The humor vanished completely.

“What I’m about to tell you…”

He stopped.

Femi waited.

“I’ve never told anybody.”

Her hands lowered.

“Daemon told me pieces. Iris got other pieces from him when he was sick. The rest we figured out from what was done to his body.”

Femi’s breathing slowed.

Malone looked directly at her.

“The Organization was experimenting on people.”

Her eyes widened.

“Human endurance.”

He said the words with disgust.

“How much pain a body could survive. How much trauma. Shock. Blood loss. Surgery. Drugs. Heat. Cold.”

Femi went pale.

“They wanted operatives who wouldn’t break.”

Her hands trembled.

Daemon.

Malone nodded.

“Leto volunteered him.”

Femi stopped breathing.

For several seconds, she simply stared.

Then her hands moved.

No.

“Femi—”

NO.

The second sign was violent.

Malone let her have it.

Her chair scraped backward.

Why would he—

“Because Daemon had become dangerous.”

To Leto?

“To everybody.”

Malone didn’t protect him from that truth either.

“But especially Leto.”

Femi stood.

“He couldn’t control him anymore.”

Malone’s voice became quieter.

“The weapon had started thinking like a man.”

Femi’s eyes filled with fury.

“And Leto couldn’t tolerate the difference.”

She turned away.

Her hands were shaking too badly to sign.

Malone waited.

After several seconds, she faced him again.

Sherri.

Malone closed his eyes briefly.

“Yeah.”

Femi’s face changed.

“She helped.”

Her hands dropped.

“Leto couldn’t get Daemon into that place by force.”

Malone’s voice roughened.

“So they used somebody he’d once trusted.”

Femi stared at him.

“Sherri got him into a limousine.”

Malone swallowed.

“Organization men were waiting.”

Femi covered her mouth.

“They restrained him.”

Her eyes closed.

“Delivered him.”

Stop.

Malone stopped. The rain continued. Femi stood with one hand over her mouth. Her shoulders rose and fell. Malone waited. A minute passed.

Then she lowered her hand.

Tell me.

“You don’t need—”

Tell me.

Malone looked at her. She was crying now. Silently. Of course. But her hands were steady.

Tell me what they did to him.

Malone looked away.

“They shocked him.”

Femi’s jaw clenched.

“Cut him.”

Her eyes closed.

“Operated on him.”

Malone’s voice became rough.

“Broke him. Put him back together. Broke him again.”

Femi pressed both palms against the bar.

“They kept pushing because he kept surviving.”

Malone stared at the floor.

“Apparently that fascinated them.”

A tear struck the wood beneath Femi’s hand.

“Eventually his body stopped responding.”

Malone paused.

“They thought he was dying.”

Femi looked up.

“Maybe already dead.”

No.

“They left him.”

Her face crumpled.

“And Sherri…”

Malone struggled with that part.

“Sherri set the warehouse on fire.”

Femi stared.

“She told people later she watched it burn.”

Malone’s mouth tightened.

“Watched until there was nothing left but flame and ash.”

Femi shook her head slowly.

“They found a body afterward.”

Daemon?

“No.”

Malone’s answer came softly.

“But they thought it was.”

Femi’s hands flew upward.

How?

“Daemon got loose.”

Something changed in Malone’s face. Not amusement. Not pride exactly. Something darker.

“He killed a guard.”

Femi’s lips parted.

“There was an explosion. One of the barrels went up.”

Malone gestured toward the river beyond the walls of Helix.

“The blast threw him through a window.”

Femi already knew. She knew before Malone said it.

“He went into the Ravenside River.”

Her hands fell. Malone stared at her.

“The current carried him into Wolfwater.”

Femi’s eyes filled again.

“Under the bridge.”

She stopped moving. Malone’s voice became distant.

“I was with Iris that night.”

Femi’s breath caught.

Mama?

Malone nodded.

“We’d been arguing.”

A faint, sad smile.

“Your mother and I were damn good at that.”

Femi almost smiled.

Almost.

“We were walking near the bridge when Iris heard something.”

Malone looked down.

“I told her it was probably an animal.”

His expression softened.

“She told me I was an idiot.”

That did make Femi smile. A broken little thing. Malone smiled too.

“Sounds like her, doesn’t it?”

Femi nodded.

“She went down the embankment.”

His smile disappeared.

“And there he was.”

Femi’s fingers curled.

“Half in the water.”

Malone stared beyond her.

“Burned.”

His throat moved.

“Cut open.”

Femi’s eyes closed.

“Blood everywhere.”

Malone took a breath.

“I thought he was dead.”

But Mama didn’t.

“No.”

Malone smiled faintly.

“Iris knelt right in that mud wearing a coat she’d paid too damn much money for and put her fingers against his throat.”

He looked at Femi.

“She said, ‘He’s alive.’”

Femi wiped her cheek.

“I told her barely.”

Malone laughed quietly.

“She looked at me and said, ‘Malone, alive isn’t something you measure.’”

Femi’s face folded.

A silent laugh escaped through her tears.

“Yeah.”

Malone rubbed his eyes.

“That was your mother.”

What did you do?

“Brought him here.”

Femi looked around Helix.

“Not upstairs. Different building then. Back room.”

Malone pointed toward what was now the kitchen.

“Right around there.”

Femi stared.

“Iris stitched what she could.”

Malone shook his head.

“I still don’t know how she did it.”

Doctor?

“Couldn’t risk one.”

Why?

“We didn’t know who’d done it.”

Malone’s eyes hardened.

“And anybody capable of doing that to a man wasn’t going to stop because somebody hung a medical license on the wall.”

Femi nodded.

“For days, Daemon burned with fever.”

Malone’s voice lowered.

“He fought us.”

Femi looked surprised.

“Especially me.”

A faint grin.

“Bastard nearly broke my nose while half dead.”

That sounds like him.

Malone barked a laugh.

“Exactly like him.”

Femi wiped another tear.

“What scared me wasn’t the fighting.”

Her smile disappeared.

“It was the talking.”

What did he say?

“Most of it didn’t make sense.”

Malone frowned at the memory.

“Names. Places. Orders.”

He looked at Femi.

“Sometimes he’d beg.”

Her face went still.

“Daemon.”

Malone nodded.

“Begging people who weren’t there to stop.”

Femi looked down.

“Other times he’d threaten them.”

Malone’s voice became quieter.

“And sometimes…”

He hesitated.

Femi waited.

“Sometimes his voice changed.”

Her eyes lifted immediately.

The Devil.

Malone nodded.

“That’s the first time I heard it.”

Femi stopped breathing.

“It wasn’t some demon crawling out of him.”

Malone shook his head.

“Nothing like that.”

He searched for the words.

“It was Daemon.”

A pause.

“And it wasn’t.”

Femi’s eyes never left him.

“His voice would get lower. Calm.”

Malone shivered despite himself.

“Too calm.”

Femi knew that voice. She had heard it whisper to her. Praise her. Threaten men. Call her little ghost.

“It would tell him to breathe.”

Femi’s lips parted. Malone looked toward the empty corner.

“Tell him he wasn’t dying.”

His voice roughened.

“Tell him to get up.”

Femi’s eyes filled.

“Sometimes Daemon would be unconscious and still answer it.”

What did he say?

Malone swallowed.

“No.”

Femi stared.

“Over and over.”

Malone’s voice dropped to almost nothing.

“No. I’m tired.”

A tear slipped down Femi’s cheek.

“And that other voice…”

Malone stopped.

What?

Malone looked at her.

“It would say, ‘I know.’”

Femi covered her mouth.

“Then it would tell him to live anyway.”

Silence filled Helix.

Not empty silence.

The kind that had weight.

The kind Femi understood better than anyone.

“That’s why I don’t laugh when Daemon talks about the Devil.”

Malone rubbed his jaw.

“I don’t know what it is.”

His gaze hardened.

“But whatever it is…”

He looked toward the door Daemon had walked through two hours ago.

“It kept that son of a bitch alive.”

Femi lowered herself slowly onto the stool. Malone watched her.

“And maybe that’s why Daemon listens to it.”

Femi’s hands moved.

Because it stayed.

Malone froze. The words struck him harder than he expected. He looked down at the bar.

“Yeah.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“Maybe.”

Femi stared at Daemon’s empty table. Leto had given him purpose. Sherri had given him desire. The Organization had given him blood.

And when all of them had abandoned him— the Devil had remained.

Her fingers moved again.

Does Leto think he still owns him?

Malone’s face became cold.

“Yes.”

Why?

“Because men like Leto mistake knowing where the scars came from for owning the man wearing them.”

Femi looked toward the door.

“He thinks because he helped shape Daemon, he can still control him.”

Malone leaned forward.

“He’s wrong.”

Femi looked at him.

“Daemon isn’t eighteen anymore.”

Malone’s eyes dropped to her hands.

“And he has something now Leto never intended him to have.”

What?

Malone smiled. Not broadly. Not kindly. A Wolfwater smile.

“Something worth disobeying for.”

Femi became very still. Malone stood. He picked up her forgotten book and slid it toward her.

“You.”

Femi looked down.

“And that scares the hell out of men like Leto.”

Her fingers rested on the cover.

Because he loves me?

“No.”

Femi looked up.

Malone’s expression had gone completely serious.

“Because you taught him there was a difference between being useful and being wanted.”

Femi’s eyes burned. Malone walked behind the bar. He picked up his rag.

Then stopped.

“One more thing.”

Femi waited.

“Don’t pity him.”

Her expression hardened immediately.

“I mean it.”

Malone pointed the rag at her.

“Daemon would hate that more than anything.”

I don’t pity him.

“Good.”

Femi looked toward the door again.

I’m angry.

Malone’s mouth slowly curved.

“That’s different.”

Very angry.

“Even better.”

Femi rose from the stool and tucked her book beneath her arm.

Where is Leto?

Malone’s smile vanished.

“No.”

Femi stared at him.

“Absolutely not.”

Where does he live?

“Femi.”

She lifted both hands.

I only want to talk to him.

Malone stared at her. Then barked out a laugh so loud it filled the empty bar.

Femi frowned.

“What?”

I do.

“That is exactly the kind of sentence Daemon says right before somebody needs reconstructive surgery.”

Femi glared at him.

“No.”

She crossed her arms.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Her stare intensified.

“Christ.”

Malone turned away.

“You two really are becoming a problem.”

Femi picked up her coat.

“Where are you going?”

Home.

Malone narrowed his eyes. Home?

Yes.

“To Daemon?”

Femi nodded.

Malone studied her suspiciously.

She walked toward the door.

“Femi.”

She stopped.

Malone stood behind the bar, suddenly serious again.

“Whatever Leto made him…”

Femi waited.

“Whatever Sherri did to him…”

Malone looked toward the empty corner.

“Whatever that Organization carved into him…”

His eyes returned to hers.

“That’s his history.”

Femi’s hand tightened around the door handle.

“It isn’t his destiny.”

Her expression softened.

Malone nodded toward the rain.

“Go home, baby girl.”

Femi opened the door. Cold air swept into Helix. She stepped outside. Then stopped. Her hands rose one final time where Malone could see them through the glass.

Thank you for finding him.

Malone didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Femi disappeared into the rain. Malone remained behind the bar, staring at the closed door.

After a while, he poured himself another whiskey. His eyes wandered toward Daemon’s corner. Empty now. But Malone could still see him as he had been all those years ago. Broken. Burned. Barely breathing.

Iris kneeling in the mud beside him. Malone insisting the stranger was as good as dead. And Iris Vale glaring up at him with rain running down her face. Alive isn’t something you measure. Malone lifted his glass toward the empty table.

“No,” he murmured.

Then he thought of Daemon now.

A house outside the city. Bookshelves. Black orchids. A little woman who smelled like strawberries. A life the Organization had never intended him to survive long enough to have.

Malone smiled.

“You measure it by what the bastard does with it.”

He drank.

Outside, the rain continued falling over Wolfwater. But beneath the bridge, there was nothing waiting to be found.

The Devil had already gone home.

The restraints were too tight. Daemon pulled again. Leather cut deeper into his wrists. Metal rattled beneath him. Cold.

Everything was cold. Except his skin.

His skin was burning.

“Hold him.”

Someone laughed.

Daemon jerked against the table. The restraints bit into his ankles. His shoulders. His chest. A hand caught his jaw and forced his head sideways.

White light exploded above him.

Too bright.

Too fucking bright.

“Get your hands off me.”

His voice didn’t sound right.

Too weak.

Another hand pressed against his chest.

“Increase it.”

“No.”

A machine whined.

“No.”

The current hit.

His body bowed from the table. Every muscle locked. His teeth slammed together. White swallowed everything. Then black. Then white again.

Somebody was talking.

Daemon couldn’t understand the words.

He smelled antiseptic. Blood. Burned flesh. His flesh.

“Again.”

“No.”

The machine screamed.

Daemon screamed with it. The restraints held. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t kill.

Couldn’t—

Get up.

Daemon’s eyes opened. The room tilted. Blood ran warm beneath his back. Someone stood over him wearing a mask. A blade flashed beneath the lights.

“Fuck you.”

The man laughed.

“Still awake?”

Daemon pulled against the restraints.

Get up.

Can’t.

Yes.

Can’t fucking move.

Then bite.

Daemon snapped at the hand near his face. Someone cursed. A fist struck his temple. Darkness flashed.

“Sedate him.”

“Dose isn’t working.”

“Then give him more.”

A needle entered his arm.

Daemon twisted.

“No.”

The room softened.

No.

No.

No.

He couldn’t sleep.

If he slept, they would—

“Where’s Leto?”

Nobody answered. Daemon fought the drug.

“Where the fuck is Leto?”

A man looked down at him. Almost amused.

“You still don’t understand.”

Daemon pulled again.

“Where is he?”

The man leaned closer.

“He put you here.”

Something inside Daemon went silent.

No.

The man smiled behind his mask.

“Your friend volunteered you.”

No.

Liar.

No.

He’s lying.

Leto wouldn’t—

“He signed off himself.”

No.

“He said you’d survive longer than the others.”

Daemon stared at him. Something tore inside his chest that had nothing to do with the incisions. No. Leto was his brother. Leto— A door opened. He heard heels. Daemon turned his head. Blonde hair. Red mouth. Sherri.

For one impossible second, relief struck him so hard he almost laughed.

“Sherri.”

She stopped. Her face changed when she saw him.

“Sherri.”

His voice cracked. She didn’t come closer. Daemon pulled weakly against the restraints.

“Get me out.”

She stared at him.

“Sherri.”

Nothing.

“Baby.”

Her eyes moved over the blood. The restraints. The wounds. Then away. Daemon stopped struggling.

“Sherri.”

She stepped backward.

No.

“Sherri.”

Another step.

“Don’t.”

She turned.

“Don’t you fucking leave me here.”

The door closed. Daemon stared at it. Silence. Then laughter somewhere behind him. The devil began screaming.

Kill them.

Daemon pulled against the restraints.

Kill every fucking one of them.

“I can’t move.”

MOVE.

The current hit again.

—

Daemon twisted violently beneath the sheets.

“Fuck—”

His hand struck the mattress. His legs tangled in the blankets. Sweat soaked his hair. His shirt clung to his chest.

“Get off me.”

Femi woke instantly. Darkness filled the bedroom. She couldn’t see him clearly. Only movement beside her. Violent. Jerking. The mattress shook beneath his weight.

“Don’t—”

Daemon’s voice was ragged.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

Femi pushed herself upright. Moonlight barely penetrated the gauzy curtains. Daemon’s face appeared and disappeared in shadows. His hair was plastered against his forehead. His breathing came too quickly. She reached toward him.

Daemon jerked away.

“No.”

Femi froze. His eyes were closed. Dreaming. She moved closer. Her hand touched his shoulder. Daemon swung. Femi barely avoided his arm. He rolled violently onto his back.

“Leto!”

His voice tore through the bedroom.

Femi’s heart stopped.

“Leto!”

She touched his chest. Daemon grabbed her wrist. Hard. Femi winced. He pulled. Suddenly she was beneath him. The mattress struck her back. His hand closed around her throat. Femi’s eyes widened. Daemon was above her. But he wasn’t there.His face was twisted with terror. Not anger.

Terror. His fingers tightened. Femi couldn’t breathe. She grabbed his wrist instinctively. Daemon’s grip tightened again. Darkness covered everything. The bedroom disappeared. The house disappeared. Femi disappeared.

There was only a shape beneath him. A threat. Hands.Restraints. Masks. Needles. Pain.

Kill it.

Daemon’s fingers tightened.

Before it hurts us.

Femi’s lungs burned. Her nails pressed into his wrist. She could have fought. Could have kicked. Could have scratched.

Instead, she stared into those steel-gray eyes.

They were open now. Wild. Empty. There was no recognition in them. No Daemon. No crooked smile. No man who sat in a dark corner drinking Jack and watching her cross Helix. No man who bought books because she liked to read. No man who called her beautiful as if the word had surprised him.

There was only pain.

And something behind it.

Watching. Femi saw the Devil. And the Devil saw her. It did not know her. Darkness had swallowed her face. Her scent. Her body. Everything familiar. All it saw was someone beneath Daemon. Someone touching him. Someone who could hurt him. A threat.

Kill it.

Femi’s vision blurred. Her lungs screamed. She forced air through her crushed throat. One sound. One word.

“Day-mon.”

The Devil froze. Daemon’s eyes snapped wider. The sound moved through the darkness. Not a scream. Not begging.His name. Wrongly shaped. Soft. Broken from years of silence.

“Day-mon.”

Something hesitated. Femi lifted one trembling hand. Her fingertips touched his scarred cheek. Softly. The way she always touched him. No fear in it. No violence. Just Femi. Her thumb brushed the scar.

Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil listened. Strawberries. Warm skin. Small fingers against his face. Home.

“Day-mon.”

Little ghost.

Daemon surfaced. Violently. The bedroom slammed back into existence. The bed. The curtains. The darkness. Femi. His hand. Around her throat.

Daemon went completely still.

No.

His fingers opened instantly.

No.

He stared at his hand. Then at Femi. Her eyes were wet. Her lips parted as she dragged air into her lungs. A faint red impression already marked her throat.

Daemon’s face emptied.

“No.”

He recoiled.

Femi reached for him.

“No.”

Daemon moved backward so quickly he nearly fell from the bed.

“No. No, no, no.”

Femi sat up. He stared at her throat. His hand began shaking.

“I—”

Femi reached toward him. Daemon jerked away.

“Don’t.”

She stopped. His breathing became ragged.

“I hurt you.”

Femi moved toward him.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

She ignored him. Daemon backed farther away.

“Femi.”

She caught his wrist.

“Let go.”

She pulled. He could have resisted. He could have stopped her with almost no effort. He didn’t.

“I could’ve—”

Femi covered his mouth with her hand. Daemon froze. Her green eyes met his. Quiet. Steady. Wet with tears but not afraid.

Daemon tried to speak beneath her palm. Femi shook her head.

No.

He stopped. Her other hand caught the back of his neck. Then she pulled him toward her. Daemon resisted for half a second. Not because he didn’t want her. Because he did. Too much. Femi pulled again.

His forehead touched her chest. Then his cheek. Her arms closed around him.

Daemon stopped breathing. Femi held him. That was all. She held him. One hand rested against the back of his head. The other moved slowly along his spine.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Then she began to rock. Daemon’s eyes closed. His body remained rigid. Femi rocked him anyway. Slowly. Patiently. The same rhythm over and over. Her lips touched the top of his head. Daemon broke. Not loudly. Nothing dramatic. His shoulders simply collapsed. His forehead pressed harder against her chest. His hands curled into the sheets beside her thighs because he refused to touch her. He didn’t deserve to.

Femi kissed his hair again.

She’s going to leave.

The Devil’s voice was small.

Daemon closed his eyes.

I know.

She’s going to leave now.

I know.

Femi’s fingers moved through his damp hair.

We hurt her.

Daemon swallowed.

I know.

We hurt our little ghost.

His chest tightened.

I know.

For once, the Devil had nothing violent to offer. No command. No threat. No name to kill. Only grief.

Make it right.

How?

Silence.

Make it right.

I don’t know how.

Femi continued rocking him. Daemon listened to her heartbeat beneath his ear. Steady. Alive. He had almost—

His stomach twisted. He pulled away. Femi let him this time. Daemon couldn’t look at her.

“I’m sorry.”

Her fingers touched his chin.

He turned his face away.

“I’m sorry.”

Femi reached for him again. Daemon stood. He stumbled slightly when his feet touched the floor.

“Don’t.”

She stopped. Daemon stared at his hands. They were still shaking. He could feel her throat beneath them. Feel the fragile structures under his palms. Feel how easily—

He walked into the bathroom. The door closed. He didn’t lock it. He stood over the sink. Turned on the light. And stared at himself.

Long blond hair soaked with sweat. Gray eyes bloodshot. Scar down his cheek.

Monster.

Don’t.

Daemon gripped the sink.

“I put my hands around her throat.”

We didn’t know.

“I put my fucking hands around her throat.”

We were there.

Daemon stared at his reflection.

“We weren’t there.”

The Devil went quiet.

“We were here.”

Silence.

“With her.”

His jaw clenched.

“And we hurt her.”

The bathroom door opened. Daemon looked up.

Femi stood there.

He looked immediately at her throat.

Red.

His stomach turned again.

“Femi—”

She walked past him. Turned on the shower. Daemon stared. Steam slowly filled the room. Femi tested the water with her hand. Then looked at him. He didn’t move. 

She pointed toward the shower.

Daemon almost laughed.

It came out broken.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Femi waited.

He shook his head.

“I can shower myself.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“I’m not helpless.”

Another lift.

Despite everything, something almost moved in his chest.

Almost.

Femi stepped toward him. Her hands reached for the hem of his soaked shirt. Daemon caught her wrists. Both of them froze. His eyes dropped to his hands around her. He released her immediately. Femi watched him.

Then calmly took the bottom of his shirt and pulled it upward. Daemon raised his arms. She removed it. His skin was slick with sweat. Old scars crossed his chest. His stomach. His ribs. Evidence of knives. Bullets. Fire. Experiments. Survival.

Femi touched none of them. She simply helped him undress. Daemon stepped beneath the water. Hot water struck his shoulders. He closed his eyes. Femi remained outside the shower. He expected her to leave.

She didn’t.

A minute later, her hand appeared with a washcloth.

Daemon stared at it. Then at her. She waited. He took it. His throat tightened.

“Thank you.”

Femi nodded. That was all.

When he finished, she handed him a towel.

Then clean clothes.

No accusation.

No fear.

No reassurance.

Somehow that was worse.

Because Daemon knew what people did when they were preparing to leave. They became careful. They avoided fights. They made everything quiet. Sherri had been quiet too. Before the limousine.

She’s leaving.

Daemon pulled on his shirt.

Femi walked from the bathroom.

She’s waiting for morning.

Daemon followed. Femi changed the sheets. Of course she did. She stripped the sweat-soaked bedding without ceremony and replaced it. Daemon stood uselessly in the doorway. Watching. She fluffed his pillow. Smoothed the blanket.

Then walked downstairs. Daemon followed again.

Neither spoke.

The kitchen lights came on. Femi filled the coffee maker. Daemon sat at the table. His hands rested between his knees.

The Devil watched her.

So did he.

Femi measured the grounds. Added water. Turned the machine on. Coffee began dripping into the pot. Normal. Everything she did was normal.

That terrified him. 

She opened the refrigerator. Eggs. Butter. Bacon. She placed everything on the counter. Daemon stared at her back.

Ask her.

No.

Ask if she’s leaving.

No.

Ask.

And hear her say yes?

The Devil went silent. Daemon rubbed his palms against his jeans.

Femi took a mug from the cabinet. His mug. She poured the coffee. Added nothing. Black.  The way he drank it. She placed it in front of him. Daemon looked at the cup. Then at her.

“Femi.”

She looked at him. He had a thousand things to say.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t know you.

I thought you were them.

I would never hurt you.

Except he had.

Please don’t leave.

That one lodged behind his teeth.

He couldn’t say it.

Because if she wanted to leave, he had no right to ask her not to.

Femi waited.

Daemon lowered his eyes.

“Thank you.”

She nodded. Then returned to the stove. Daemon lifted the coffee. His hands were steady now. That seemed obscene. He drank.

Femi cracked eggs into a bowl. Whisked them. The fork tapped softly against ceramic.

Daemon watched her.

She’s leaving.

I know.

Butter hissed in the skillet.

We should pack her things.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

No.

Make it easier.

No.

She shouldn’t have to ask.

Stop.

The Devil retreated. Femi laid bacon in another pan. The kitchen filled with the smell of coffee and breakfast. 

Morning had not arrived yet.

Beyond the windows, the world remained black.

Daemon stared at the darkness.

He hated sunrise suddenly. Every minute brought it closer.

When the sun comes up.

Stop.

She’ll go.

Daemon drank again.

The coffee tasted like nothing.

Femi moved around the kitchen. Barefoot. Quiet. Beautiful. There was a bruise beginning beneath her jaw. Daemon looked away.

His stomach twisted.

We did that.

He closed his eyes.

Yes.

I didn’t know her.

I know.

I didn’t know.

Daemon’s throat tightened.

For the first time, the Devil sounded afraid.

Not angry.

Not hungry.

Afraid.

Daemon looked at Femi again.

She flipped the bacon.

I know her now.

Daemon swallowed.

So do I.

Little ghost.

Yes.

Our little ghost.

Daemon stared into his coffee.

Not ours.

The Devil recoiled.

Daemon forced himself to continue.

Not if she doesn’t want to be.

Silence.

Then, very quietly:

I want her to be.

Daemon’s eyes burned.

So do I.

Femi placed a plate in front of him. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Daemon stared at it. She pointed. 

Eat.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

“Not hungry.”

Femi stared. Daemon sighed. He picked up the fork. She returned to the stove. He ate because she told him to. One bite. Then another.

Femi made her own plate. She sat across from him.

Neither spoke.

The clock above the kitchen doorway ticked.

4:17.

Daemon looked at it.

Three hours until proper daylight.

Maybe less before she decided it was late enough to call Malone. Or Marta. Or anyone. He wondered whether she would ask him to drive her back to Helix.

He would. Of course he would. He would carry her bags to her room. Put them wherever she wanted. He wouldn’t argue. He wouldn’t make her feel guilty. He wouldn’t ask her to reconsider.

No.

Daemon closed his eyes.

We don’t get to choose.

No.

We hurt her.

It was an accident.

Doesn’t matter.

The Devil became angry.

It matters.

Not to her throat.

Silence.

Femi reached across the table. Daemon froze. She took his empty coffee mug. Nothing more. His chest hurt.

She stood. Refilled it. Placed it back before him. Her fingers brushed his. Daemon looked at her. Femi had already turned away.

She carried the dishes to the sink. Water ran. Daemon watched her wash them. The Devil watched too.

Together they memorized her. The way her midnight hair fell down her back. The way she pushed it over one shoulder when she worked. The small sway of her body when she reached for the towel. The quiet efficiency of her hands.

The bare feet against the kitchen floor. Strawberries beneath coffee and bacon. Home. They memorized everything as if grief required an inventory.

Neither man nor Devil understood why she was still taking care of them. Perhaps this was goodbye.

Perhaps Femi simply loved too gently to leave someone bleeding before she walked away. That sounded like her. It made everything worse. She finished the dishes. Wiped the counter. Put away the butter.

Folded the towel over the oven handle. Then she came to him.

Daemon looked up.

Femi touched his hair. Just once. Her fingers moved it away from his face. Daemon’s throat closed. She leaned down. Pressed her lips to his forehead. And walked away.

Daemon didn’t call after her. The Devil didn’t either.

They listened to her footsteps move upstairs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then silence.

Daemon stared at the kitchen doorway.

She’s packing.

His hand tightened around the mug.

Probably.

Neither moved.

Neither followed.

Neither begged.

Daemon sat at the table with coffee growing cold between his hands while the Devil curled somewhere deep inside him and grieved.

For once, they were completely alike. Two frightened things inside the same body. Waiting for the woman they loved to leave.

Daemon’s phone rang. The sound ripped through the silent kitchen.

He flinched.

The screen lit beside his hand.

MALONE.

Daemon stared at the name.

Upstairs, the floor creaked softly beneath Femi’s feet.

The phone continued ringing.

Daemon did not answer.

Not yet.

The phone kept ringing.

Daemon stared at it.

MALONE.

Upstairs, something moved.

A drawer.

Maybe.

Or a closet door.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug.

She’s packing.

He closed his eyes.

The phone rang again.

“Fuck.”

Daemon picked it up.

“What?”

There was a pause.

“Well, good morning to you too.”

Malone. Normal. Annoyingly normal. Daemon rubbed one hand over his face.

“What do you want?”

“I called to see if you wanted me to come get Femi later.”

Daemon’s eyes lifted immediately toward the stairs. Silence above. His chest tightened.

“For what?”

Malone snorted.

“Work, Daemon.”

Daemon said nothing.

“She does still work here, you know.”

“I know.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Daemon stared at the staircase. A floorboard creaked. His heart stopped.

There.

The Devil stirred.

She’s moving things.

Daemon barely heard Malone say his name.

“Daemon.”

“What?”

“I asked if she’s working tonight.”

Daemon looked toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know.”

Another pause.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Did she say she wasn’t?”

Daemon swallowed.

“No.”

“Then why wouldn’t she?”

Daemon didn’t answer.

Malone exhaled through his nose.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound half dead.”

Daemon stared down at his coffee.

It had gone cold.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

Malone clearly didn’t believe him. Daemon didn’t care. Upstairs came another soft sound. The faint drag of something across the floor.

His stomach tightened.

Suitcase.

Stop.

Bag.

Stop.

She’s getting her things.

Daemon gripped the edge of the table.

Malone kept talking.

“Anyway, I can swing by around six-thirty if she wants to come in. Place’ll probably get busy by eight.”

Daemon barely heard him.

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

“Come get her.”

Malone went quiet for a second.

“You sure you’re awake?”

“I said come get her.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

Daemon rubbed his thumb along the rim of the mug. Malone’s tone shifted slightly. Not suspicious. Just more attentive.

“You all right?”

Daemon looked at the stairs again.

No.

“Yeah.”

“You sound distracted.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

That part was true.

Malone accepted it.

Or chose not to push.

“Fair enough.”

Daemon leaned back in the chair. Upstairs went quiet again. Too quiet.

The Devil hated it.

Go look.

No.

Go upstairs.

No.

What if she’s gone?

She’s upstairs.

What if she’s texting someone?

Stop.

Daemon pressed two fingers against his temple.

Malone said something else.

Daemon missed it completely.

“What?”

“I said I’ve got something else you need to know.”

That got his attention.

Barely.

“What?”

“Sherri’s asking around.”

Daemon’s expression changed.

His eyes sharpened.

The Devil rose immediately.

Her.

Daemon sat straighter.

“Where?”

“Wolfwater mostly. A couple places near Northcrest too.”

“Asking what?”

“About you.”

Daemon’s face went cold.

“And Femi.”

Everything inside him stilled.

“What about Femi?”

“Nothing specific from what I heard. Just questions.”

Daemon’s jaw hardened.

“What questions?”

“Where you’re staying. Whether you’re still at Helix every night. Whether Femi still works here.”

The Devil snarled low inside him.

Kill her.

Daemon’s thumb pressed harder against the mug.

“Who talked?”

“Nobody.”

Daemon said nothing.

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

Malone laughed once.

“Right.”

Daemon looked toward the stairs. Still no movement. Malone continued.

“She started with people who used to run around the old Organization circles.”

Daemon’s mouth tightened.

“Names?”

“Couple old runners. Two guys who used to work doors for Leto. One retired bookkeeper who apparently thought disappearing into Riverward meant nobody remembered his face.”

“Did anyone give her anything?”

“No.”

Malone’s voice hardened.

“And they won’t.”

Daemon’s shoulders eased by almost nothing.

“She still asking?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

Daemon looked away. He could guess. Sherri never asked questions without wanting something. Attention. Money. Protection. Leverage.

Sometimes all four.

“She’s circling old connections,” Malone said. “Trying to figure out who still remembers who. Who still talks.”

Daemon gave a low sigh. The information should have mattered more. Usually it would have. Normally, Sherri asking about Femi would have had him standing already.

Making calls. Finding names. Mapping movements. Instead, his eyes kept drifting to the staircase.

Malone noticed the silence.

“You listening to me?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d I just say?”

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Sherri’s asking old contacts about me and Femi. Nobody’s talking.”

Malone grunted.

“Fine. You were listening.”

“Barely.”

“That part I figured out.”

Daemon looked toward the stairs again. A soft thump came from above. His pulse jumped.

Bag on the bed.

Stop.

She’s leaving.

Daemon’s fingers curled.

“Daemon?”

“What?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Daemon looked down at his hands. For a second he could see them again around Femi’s throat. His stomach twisted.

“I’m fine.”

Malone was quiet. Daemon waited for him to push. He didn’t.

Instead Malone sighed.

“All right.”

That was why Daemon trusted him. Malone knew when to leave a door closed.

“I’m just telling you because Sherri asking questions means something.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t usually move unless she thinks there’s something in it for her.”

“I know.”

“And if she starts asking the wrong people—”

“I know, Malone.”

“All right.”

Daemon breathed out slowly. The Devil had gone quiet again. Not because Sherri no longer mattered. Because upstairs mattered more. Everything upstairs mattered more. Malone continued talking.

“Red’s checking whether she’s been seen near any of Leto’s old properties.”

Daemon grunted.

“Cutter heard she asked about the Helix schedule too.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened.

“Femi’s schedule?”

“Not directly. Just who works what nights.”

“That’s directly enough.”

“Yeah.”

For the first time since answering the phone, Daemon’s voice gained some of its old edge.

“If she comes near Helix—”

“She won’t get near Femi.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my bar.”

“And I know Sherri.”

Malone went quiet. That ended the argument.

Daemon leaned forward.

“Don’t let Femi leave alone.”

“I don’t.”

“Not the back alley either.”

“Daemon.”

“No alley. No market runs alone. No walking home.”

“Got it.”

Daemon rubbed at his forehead again.

The Devil shifted.

Tell him not to come.

Daemon froze.

Why?

If Malone comes…

Daemon already knew.

She can leave with him.

His chest tightened. He hated the thought. Hated himself more for hating it. If Femi wanted to leave, Malone was exactly who she should leave with. Safe. Trusted.

Someone Daemon would never stop. He swallowed.

Malone was speaking again.

“Six-thirty still good?”

Daemon stared at the stairs.

Nothing moved.

His mouth went dry.

Say no.

He couldn’t.

Tell him she’s staying home.

He couldn’t do that either. Femi wasn’t his prisoner. She had never been. And after this morning, he would rather cut off his own hands than make her feel trapped in this house.

Daemon forced his voice steady.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Come get her.”

Malone paused.

“Six-thirty.”

Daemon looked at the clock. Hours away.

Not enough.

Too many.

“I said yes.”

“All right.”

Another silence.

Then Malone asked, quieter this time, “You want me to bring anything?”

Daemon frowned.

“What?”

“Food. Coffee. Whiskey. A personality.”

Despite himself, something almost broke through the heaviness in his chest.

Almost.

“Fuck off.”

“There he is.”

Daemon shook his head.

Malone chuckled.

“Get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“And tell Femi I’ll be there at six-thirty.”

Daemon looked upstairs.

His throat tightened.

“I will.”

“Later.”

The line disconnected.

Daemon kept the phone pressed against his ear for another second. Then lowered it. The kitchen went silent again. He placed the phone beside his cold coffee.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Daemon looked toward the stairs. The Devil said nothing. Neither did he.

At six-thirty, Malone would come.

And if Femi walked down those stairs carrying a bag—

Daemon would let her go. He didn’t know if he could survive it. But he would let her go.

The phone screen went dark beneath his hand.

Upstairs, another soft sound moved through the house.

Daemon sat alone at the kitchen table and listened.

Daemon stayed at the kitchen table until the coffee went cold. Then colder. Then untouched.

He knew because he lifted the mug twice and never drank from it.

Upstairs, Femi moved around the house. Quiet footsteps. A drawer opening. The soft scrape of something across the bedroom floor.

A closet door.

Silence.

Every sound became evidence.

She’s packing.

Daemon stared at the staircase. He did not move. The Devil had stopped demanding that he go upstairs. That was worse. Usually the thing inside him had an answer. Kill something. Break something. Find something. Move.

This morning it had nothing.

Only the same quiet certainty Daemon had.

She’ll leave.

Daemon looked at his hands. They rested palms-down against his thighs. Large. Scarred. Steady now. He hated that they were steady.

Hours ago, those hands had been wrapped around her throat. He could still feel it. The small circumference beneath his palms. Her pulse. The fragile movement of her swallowing against pressure she should never have felt from him.

Daemon closed his eyes.

“Fuck.”

The word barely escaped. No answer came from upstairs. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted one. Maybe Femi was texting someone. Malone. Marta. Maybe arranging somewhere else to stay. Maybe she would ask for her room back at Helix. Daemon would make sure it was ready. He would move whatever had been stored there.

Replace anything that had been removed.

He would—

Stop.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

You started this.

The Devil said nothing.

You fucking started this.

Nothing.

Daemon stood abruptly.

The chair scraped across the floor.

For one vicious second, anger surged through him. Not at Femi. Never Femi. At himself. At the Devil. At the warehouse. At Leto. At Sherri. At every hand that had ever taught his body that waking beneath someone meant violence. Daemon dragged both hands through his hair.

The Devil finally whispered.

We didn’t know her.

“We should have.”

It was dark.

“We should have.”

We were there again.

“No.”

Daemon turned toward the empty kitchen.

“We were here.”

That silenced it.

He hated himself for the silence that followed. Because somewhere deep inside, beneath all that rage and instinct, the Devil was grieving too. Daemon knew it. He could feel it. A wounded thing sitting very still inside his bones. Daemon walked to the sink and dumped the coffee. He rinsed the mug. Put it away. Normal movements. Femi movements.

He wiped the counter even though it was already clean.

Then wiped it again.

When footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs, Daemon froze. He did not turn immediately. Couldn’t. His hand remained wrapped around the dishcloth.

Here.

The Devil stirred.

This is it.

Daemon slowly looked toward the staircase. Femi came down. No suitcase. No bag. No coat. She wore one of his old black shirts. Bare legs. Bare feet. Her midnight hair fell loose around her shoulders. She carried a pile of laundry. Daemon stared at it. Sheets. Towels. Clothes. Laundry.

Nothing more.

Femi walked past him. She opened the laundry-room door. Loaded the machine. Measured detergent. Daemon watched every movement.

She glanced toward him once. His eyes dropped immediately to her throat. The bruise was more visible now. Faint. But there. His stomach tightened. Femi followed his gaze. She touched the mark absently.

Daemon looked away.

“I can take you back.”

Silence.

He hated how abrupt it sounded. Femi shut the washer. Turned toward him.

Where?, she signed.

Daemon swallowed.

“Helix.”

Her brow furrowed.

“If you want.”

Femi stared at him.

Daemon forced himself to continue.

“Your room’s still there.”

Nothing moved in her face.

“I can take you whenever you want.”

Femi slowly lowered her hands. Daemon could not read that expression. That frightened him too.

“If you don’t want to ride with me, I’ll call Malone.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“No problem.”

Femi crossed her arms.

Daemon stopped talking.

The Devil murmured miserably.

Idiot.

Shut up.

Femi walked toward him. Daemon tensed. Not because he feared her. Because he feared what she might say with those hands. She stopped directly in front of him.

Why would I go back to Helix?

Daemon’s throat tightened.

He had prepared himself for almost every answer except that.

“You…”

He looked toward the washer. Then at her throat. Femi understood. Her expression softened. Daemon hated that too. Pity. He couldn’t survive pity from her.

“Don’t.”

Femi frowned.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Like what?

“You know.”

She clearly did not.

Daemon turned away.

“Forget it.”

Femi touched his back. His entire body went rigid. Her palm rested between his shoulder blades. Warm. Small. Daemon stared at the sink.

“You don’t have to make this easier.”

Her hand remained there.

“I know what I did.”

Femi’s fingers moved against his shirt.

Daemon could feel the signs faintly against his back before she stepped around him so he could see them.

You were asleep.

“I was awake when my hand was around your throat.”

Her jaw tightened.

You were not here.

Daemon laughed once.

Harsh.

“I was standing right fucking over you.”

Your eyes were open.

“Exactly.”

You did not see me.

Daemon went still. Femi’s hands lowered. The sentence hit somewhere he had not armored. He looked away.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

No.

Her answer surprised him. Daemon looked back. Femi held his gaze.

It makes it true.

Silence.

Daemon’s mouth opened.

Closed. 

He didn’t know what to do with truth when it did not excuse him and did not condemn him either. Femi walked away. Just like that. She opened the refrigerator. Took out orange juice. Poured herself a glass.

Daemon stared. That was the end of it. Apparently. No forgiveness speech. No promises. No tears. No demand that he explain.

Femi drank half the juice, put the glass in the sink, and went back upstairs.

Daemon watched her disappear.

The Devil whispered:

She didn’t leave.

“Not yet.”

The answer came bitterly.

The Devil retreated again.

—

By noon, Femi had reorganized two bookshelves.

Daemon noticed because she had moved one of his military histories between two novels where it absolutely did not belong.

He stood in front of the shelf staring at it.

Femi sat cross-legged on the rug with a stack of books around her.

“You did that on purpose.”

She looked innocent.

Daemon pointed.

“That.”

Her eyes followed his finger.

She shrugged.

“History does not go between romance novels.”

Another shrug.

“Femi.”

She picked up another book. Daemon stared at her.

The Devil stirred faintly.

She’s teasing us.

Daemon refused to respond. Femi looked down at the page. A smile touched the corner of her mouth. Daemon saw it. Something painful twisted inside his chest. He missed that smile already. Even while looking directly at it.

He turned away. The afternoon dragged. Femi read. Daemon pretended to repair a loose cabinet hinge. It was not loose. He removed it anyway. Reattached it. Checked it. Removed it again.

At three, Femi entered the kitchen and found him with the screwdriver.

She stared at the cabinet.

Then at him.

“What?”

Her eyebrow rose.

“It’s crooked.”

She looked at the perfectly straight cabinet.

Daemon frowned.

“It was.”

Femi walked away.

The Devil muttered:

She’s laughing at us.

Daemon could see her shoulders shaking.

“Shut up.”

Femi looked over her shoulder.

Daemon realized he had spoken aloud.

“Not you.”

Her smile widened.

It nearly killed him.

—

At five, Femi showered.

Daemon heard the pipes turn on upstairs. He stood in the living room looking out at the yard. The day had gone gray. Clouds hung low over the distant city. The porch swing moved faintly in the wind. He imagined Femi there. Pregnant. Her hand over the curve of her stomach. His house. His porch. His family.

Another future someone wanted to contaminate. His jaw tightened. Then another image replaced it. His hands around her throat. Daemon walked away from the window.

By six, Femi came downstairs dressed for Helix. Black jeans. Soft dark-green blouse. Boots. Her hair braided loosely down her back.

Daemon looked at her throat. She had covered the bruise with makeup. That hurt worse. His gaze stayed there too long. Femi touched his chin.

Look at me.

Daemon reluctantly lifted his eyes. She stared at him. He did. For several seconds. Then Femi smiled. Small. Soft. The way she always did.

Daemon’s heart broke a little more.

Goodbye.

He hated the Devil for saying it.

He hated himself because he believed it.

“You ready?”

Femi nodded.

“I’ll take you.”

She shook her head.

Daemon’s stomach dropped.

Malone.

She nodded. Of course. Daemon looked away.

“Right.”

Femi watched him.

“Forgot.”

He had not forgotten.

He remembered every second since Malone’s call.

Six-thirty.

Malone would come. Femi would get into the truck. Maybe she would come back. Maybe she wouldn’t. Daemon had no right to ask.

The knock at the front door came at exactly six-thirty. Daemon’s whole body tightened. Femi walked toward it. He watched. Her hand touched the knob.

The Devil screamed silently inside him.

Say something.

Daemon didn’t.

Tell her.

No.

Tell her not to go.

No.

Femi opened the door. Malone stood outside wearing his leather jacket. He looked past her.

“Damn. You look terrible.”

Daemon gave him a flat stare.

“Good to see you too.”

“I was talking to Femi.”

Femi smiled. Daemon almost laughed. Almost. Malone glanced between them.

“Ready?”

Femi nodded. She stepped onto the porch.

Then stopped. Daemon stood inside the doorway. This was it. He knew it. She would look back. Maybe sign something.

Thank you.

Goodbye.

Send someone for my things.

Instead Femi turned around, walked back inside, grabbed Daemon by the front of his shirt, pulled him down and kissed his cheek.

Daemon froze.

She released him.

Then walked outside again. Malone looked at Daemon. Daemon looked at Malone. Malone’s eyebrows slowly rose.

Daemon said nothing. Femi climbed into the truck. Malone pointed toward her.

“You coming tonight?”

Daemon looked toward the passenger window.

Femi was fastening her seat belt.

“Maybe.”

“That’s useful.”

Malone headed toward the driver’s side. Daemon watched until the truck disappeared down the road.

The Devil whispered:

She kissed us.

Daemon closed the door.

“She says goodbye like that.”

The Devil went silent. Daemon leaned his forehead against the wood.

Neither of them believed him.

—

Helix was already filling when Femi arrived.

Friday nights started early in Wolfwater.

By seven-thirty, every booth along the west wall was occupied.

Bikers crowded the bar.

Music rattled the glasses. Malone moved between taps and bottles with practiced irritation. Femi slipped easily into the rhythm. Orders. Plates. Beer. Whiskey. A smile here. A nod there.

Her silence belonged to Helix. Nobody demanded sound from her anymore. Daemon had still not arrived. Femi checked his table twice. Empty.

At eight-fifteen, she checked again.

Malone caught her.

“He said maybe.”

Femi looked at him.

Malone shrugged.

“That’s Daemon for no.”

Her expression disagreed.

Malone smiled.

“Or Daemon for yes three hours late.”

Femi carried two beers toward a table.

At eight-forty, the front door opened. Daemon entered. Femi stopped. Only for a second. He wore black jeans. Black shirt. Leather jacket. Long blond hair loose around his face. Nothing unusual. Except he looked exhausted. Not physically. Somewhere deeper.

Daemon’s eyes found her instantly. They always did. Femi held his gaze. He looked at her throat. Then away.

He crossed Helix without speaking to anyone and took his usual seat in the darkest corner.

The Devil stirred.

She’s still here.

Daemon ignored it. Femi approached five minutes later. She placed a Jack on the rocks in front of him. Daemon stared at the glass.

“I didn’t order yet.”

Femi lifted an eyebrow.

“I see.”

She turned.

Daemon caught himself before reaching for her. His hand stopped halfway across the table.

Femi noticed. Of course she noticed. She looked at his hand. Then at him. Daemon slowly withdrew it.

“Thanks.”

Femi nodded. She returned to work. Daemon watched her walk away.

She came back.

“She works here.”

She kissed us.

“She kisses Malone.”

Not like that.

Daemon drank.

“Shut up.”

The Devil did not.

—

For the next two hours, Daemon barely moved.

Femi came to his table three times.

First whiskey.

Second.

Third.

Each time she behaved exactly as she always did. She leaned close enough for him to smell strawberries. Collected the empty glass.

Looked at him with those green eyes. Once, when she set down his third drink, her fingers touched the back of his hand. Daemon flinched. Not visibly enough for anyone else. Femi saw it. Her expression softened.

He looked away.

“Busy tonight.”

She nodded.

It was a stupid thing to say.

He knew it.

Femi knew it.

Neither cared.

Across the bar, Malone watched them intermittently.

Something was off. He knew that much. Daemon was too quiet even for Daemon. Femi kept checking him when she thought nobody noticed. But nothing looked wrong enough for Malone to interfere. Relationships were strange. Daemon and Femi’s relationship was stranger than most. Malone had accepted this.

At ten-thirty, Malone brought Daemon a drink himself. He set it down.

“You planning on glaring at that wall all night?”

Daemon looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Good talk.”

Malone remained there.

Daemon frowned.

“What?”

“You’ve had three drinks in two hours.”

“So?”

“You normally drink faster when you’re miserable.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened.

“I’m not miserable.”

“Right.”

Malone leaned one elbow against the booth. Daemon stared at him until he moved.

“You’re annoying.”

“Professional skill.”

Malone looked across the room. Femi was delivering drinks to a table of bikers. Daemon’s eyes followed automatically. Malone noticed.

“You know, she isn’t going anywhere.”

Daemon’s head snapped toward him.

Malone frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked like I slapped you.”

Daemon picked up his whiskey.

“You talk too much.”

“Maybe.”

Malone returned behind the bar. Daemon stared into his drink.

The Devil was very still.

He said she isn’t going anywhere.

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Neither do you.

Daemon said nothing. That was becoming the problem. He didn’t know. Femi had not told him she was leaving. She had not told him she was staying. She had simply moved through the day. Laundry. Books. Breakfast. A kiss. Work. The absence of a goodbye should have meant something.

Guilt refused to let it.

At eleven, Femi came to collect his glass.

Daemon finished it before handing it over. Their fingers touched again. This time he didn’t pull away. Femi paused. Daemon looked at her. For several seconds, neither moved.

Then Femi gave his hand the smallest squeeze.

Once. She walked away. Daemon stared at his fingers.

The Devil whispered:

Little ghost.

Daemon closed his eyes.

His chest hurt.

Across the room, Malone watched him.

He shook his head.

“Hopeless bastard.”

The bartender beside him laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Malone reached for another glass.

Outside, a black sedan rolled to a stop. Neither man noticed. Not until the door opened and Malone looked toward it. The glass in his hand went still.

A beautiful blonde woman stood beneath the red glow of the Helix sign, dressed in tiny leather biker shorts, a black tube top, heels, and a black leather jacket Daemon had not seen in years.

Malone’s expression hardened.

“No.”

Sherri Dream smiled and stepped inside.

“Hello to you too, Malone.”

Daemon slowly lowered his drink. Sherri’s blue eyes found him in the darkest corner of the room. Her smile softened into something old and dangerously familiar.

“Hello, Demon.”

Femi looked toward Daemon.

He had gone completely still.

Sherri’s blue eyes found Daemon in the darkest corner of the room.

The Devil recognized her before Daemon had finished processing the sight of her.

It recoiled.

No.

Her smile softened into something old and dangerously familiar.

“Hello, Demon.”

The Devil’s disgust sharpened.

Her.

Daemon went completely still.

Femi looked toward him.

Not surprised.

Not pleased.

Still in the way a predator became still when something entered its territory and had not yet decided whether it was prey or a threat.

Except the Devil had already decided.

Make her leave.

Malone stepped into Sherri’s path.

“No.”

The Devil approved immediately.

Malone.

The fragile smile remained on Sherri’s lips. “You already said that.”

“And I meant it both times.”

Again.

“Move, Malone.”

“Turn around, Sherri.”

Good.

Her gaze slipped past him to Daemon.

“I didn’t come here for you.”

“That’s the only reason you’re still standing.”

A few nearby conversations began to fade. The regulars might not have known Sherri Dream, but they knew Malone. They knew the warning in his voice and the danger in the way his hand rested against the edge of the bar.

Femi remained beside a table with an empty glass in her hand.

Sherri’s appearance suggested she had ridden through the night. Damp strands of blond hair clung to her face. Mud stained her boots and the lower edge of her leather jacket.

The jacket was too large for her, worn soft with age.

Daemon recognized it immediately.

It had once belonged to him.

The Devil hated that too.

Take it back.

Daemon almost laughed.

You don’t even like that jacket.

It is ours.

You hate everything she touched.

Yes.

At least it was consistent.

Sherri shifted around Malone before he could stop her.

She crossed the barroom beneath the weight of every stare and walked directly toward Daemon’s corner. The closer she came, the more the Devil withdrew. It had always done that around Sherri. Even before the betrayal. Before the warehouse. Before fire. Before Daemon had learned exactly what she was capable of doing to him.

The Devil had never liked Sherri Dream.

Daemon had. Once. That had been the problem. Daemon had liked her perfume. The Devil thought it smelled wrong. Too sweet. Too heavy. Artificial flowers trying to conceal something rotten underneath.

Years ago, when Sherri slept beside Daemon, her scent would cling to his sheets. His clothes. His skin.

The Devil hated that most.

Wrong.

Daemon had never understood what it meant. Not then. Sherri laughed loudly. Spoke loudly. Wanted loudly. Even now, the memory of her voice scraped across something inside him.

The Devil had always found it irritating. Especially when she whined his name. Especially when she called him Demon. Especially when she believed that name belonged to her.

Her voice is still awful.

Daemon nearly smiled.

Twelve years had changed many things. Apparently not that. Sherri reached his table. She did not ask permission before pulling out the chair opposite him. She took a seat.

The Devil stared.

No.

Malone swore under his breath. No one sat at Daemon’s table. Not without being invited. Sherri used to. Perhaps that was why she settled into the chair as though the years between them had been nothing more than an unusually long absence.

The Devil remembered those years differently.

Even when Daemon had dated her, it had withdrawn whenever she came too close. Sherri would climb onto Daemon’s lap. The Devil disappeared. She would kiss his throat. Silence. Her fingers would move through his hair. Nothing.

She would press herself against him and whisper that name— Demon. —and the Devil would retreat so deeply Daemon sometimes forgot it was there.

Daemon had once mistaken that silence for contentment. It had not been. The Devil simply wanted no part of her. Her hands were wrong. Her scent was wrong. Her voice was irritating.

And there had always been something in the way she touched Daemon that made the Devil want to crawl backward beneath his skin. Not fear. Not jealousy. Rejection.

Not ours.

It had never claimed her. Not once.

Daemon set his glass down.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice was quiet.

Sherri opened her mouth. The Devil flinched internally before she even spoke. But no answer came. Her composure broke instead.

Her face crumpled. She covered her mouth with one trembling hand as tears spilled down her cheeks. She tried to draw a breath, failed, and bowed forward as though something inside her had finally given way.

“Please,” she whispered.

Daemon did not move.

Neither did the Devil.

No.

Sherri reached across the table, but his hands remained beneath it, beyond her grasp.

The Devil approved.

“Please, Demon. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Stop calling us that.

“Don’t call him that,” Malone said.

The Devil almost purred. Sherri flinched. Daemon’s eyes never left her face.

“What happened?”

“I’m in trouble.”

“You’ve always been trouble.”

The words carried no humor.

The Devil added—

And loud.

Sherri lowered her gaze, accepting the blow as though she believed she deserved it.

“This is different.” Her voice shook. “My life is in danger.”

Malone gave a cold laugh.

“Then you should have brought more than that jacket.”

Sherri clutched the leather closed around herself.

“I barely got away.”

“From who?” Daemon asked.

She looked over her shoulder.

The door to Helix had closed behind her, but she stared at it as though she expected someone to come through at any moment.

Her fear appeared absolute. Her breathing came too quickly. Her fingers trembled against the old leather. Femi watched those fingers. She watched Sherri’s eyes. The tears were real. So was the fear. Femi simply did not know whether they belonged to the story Sherri was about to tell.

The Devil did not care.

Send her away.

Daemon ignored it.

“I can’t say here.” Sherri leaned closer to Daemon.

The scent reached him. Old perfume beneath rain. Sweat. Mud. Leather. The Devil recoiled so violently Daemon nearly leaned back.

Wrong.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Twelve years.

He had not smelled that perfume in twelve years. The Devil remembered it instantly. And hated it exactly as much.

“If they find out I came to you—”

“Who?”

Sherri shook her head violently.

“Not here.”

Daemon’s expression hardened.

“Then you came to the wrong place.”

“I came to the only man who might be able to keep me alive.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

The Devil made an irritated sound.

Still loud.

She reached for him again. This time, her fingertips caught the sleeve of his jacket before he could withdraw. The Devil vanished from the contact. Not frightened. Disgusted. The reaction was so immediate Daemon felt the absence like a door slamming shut inside him.

Sherri held on as if the worn black leather were the last solid thing left in her world.

“I need you, Demon.”

The Devil returned only long enough to snarl.

Do not touch us.

The name settled between them with an intimacy Femi had never heard from another person.

Sherri’s eyes lifted to Daemon’s.

“I need you more than ever.”

I hate her voice.

Daemon stared at the hand curled around his sleeve. 

Once, he would have crossed a city because Sherri Dream called his name. Once, he would have destroyed anyone who frightened her enough to cry.

The Devil had never understood why.

We told you.

You didn’t exactly use words back then.

I left every time she touched us.

Daemon almost conceded the point. Then she had traded the back of his motorcycle for someone else’s limousine and left him with nothing but questions.

He removed her hand.

The Devil immediately settled back into place.

Better.

Sherri’s fingers fell empty against the table.

“You stopped needing me a long time ago.”

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Malone came forward. “You gutted him and stepped over the body.”

“Stay out of this.”

The Devil surged.

Do not speak to Malone that way.

“I was the one who found what you left behind.”

Daemon looked at him.

“Malone.”

One word.

A warning.

Malone’s jaw tightened, but he fell silent.

Sherri wiped at her cheeks. The gesture only smeared the tears across her face.

“I know I have no right to ask you for anything,” she said. “I know what I did to you.”

“You don’t know half of what you did.”

Her lips parted. For the first time since entering Helix, something other than fear moved behind her eyes. Guilt. Perhaps. It disappeared too quickly for anyone but Femi to catch.

Sherri bowed her head.

“You can hate me.”

I do.

“You can throw me out when this is over.”

Now.

“I won’t fight you. But if you send me away tonight, they’ll kill me.”

The Devil considered this.

Not our problem.

Daemon leaned back in his chair.

“Who is trying to kill you?”

“I’ll tell you everything. I swear.” Her gaze moved around the barroom before returning to him. “Just not in front of all these people.”

“These people are my family.”

The words stopped her.

The Devil stilled.

Family.

Sherri looked toward Malone first. Then her attention drifted across the room until it found Femi. Everything inside Daemon changed. So did the Devil. It came forward. Not withdrawing. Never withdrawing from her.

Little ghost.

Femi stood motionless beneath the low amber lights, still holding the empty glass. She met Sherri’s stare without lowering her own. Sherri studied her. The apron. The midnight hair. The bright green eyes. The faint softness still lingering around her mouth from the kiss she had given Daemon outside.

The Devil did not like Sherri looking at her.

Stop.

Understanding did not come all at once. It crept into Sherri’s expression slowly, piece by piece, until she looked back at Daemon.

“You have a family now?”

Daemon’s gaze followed hers to Femi. Everything in his face changed. The hard lines did not vanish, but something warmer moved beneath them. Something quiet. Possessive. Devoted.

The Devil softened.

Yes.

“Yes.”

The answer was for Sherri. His eyes remained on Femi. Sherri sat back as though he had struck her. Another tear slid down her cheek, but Femi saw the difference in this one. The others had been born from fear. That tear came from a plan beginning to fracture.

The Devil noticed too.

Good.

Daemon rose from the table. The entire room seemed to adjust around the movement.

“You can stay tonight,” he said.

The Devil erupted.

No.

Malone turned on him.

“Daemon.”

Listen to Malone.

“Only tonight.”

No nights.

Relief rushed across Sherri’s face. She stood so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.

“Thank you.”

She reached for him again. The Devil withdrew before her fingers came close.

Do not.

Daemon stepped out of reach.

“I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

Her hand lowered.

Tell her again.

Daemon looked toward Malone.

“Lock the doors. No one comes in without being searched.”

Malone glared at Sherri.

“And her?”

“Search her too.”

The Devil approved.

Twice.

Sherri stared at him.

“Demon—”

The Devil snapped.

Enough.

“That name died with whatever we were.”

The quiet finality in his voice stripped the color from her face. The Devil disagreed with only one part. That name had not died. It simply had never belonged to Sherri. Daemon crossed the room toward Femi. He did not hesitate. The closer he came to her, the more completely the Devil returned.

No retreat. No revulsion. No silence. Femi’s scent reached him.

Strawberries.

Coffee.

Something faintly sweet.

Strawberries from breakfast.

The Devil breathed her in through Daemon.

Right.

There.

That was the difference. Sherri had always smelled wrong. Femi smelled like home. Daemon took the empty glass from her hand and placed it on the nearest table. Then he touched her cheek, giving her every opportunity to pull away before he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. The Devil pressed close beneath his skin.

Little ghost.

Femi rested one hand over the small black box hidden inside his jacket.

The Devil went still.

She did not know what it was.

The ring

His little ghost.

Daemon felt the warmth of her palm through the leather and covered her hand with his.

Give it to her.

Not now.

Her eyebrow moved slightly. Daemon almost smiled. His life was still here. His home was still here.

The Devil knew exactly where it belonged.

Here.

But when Daemon lifted his head, he saw Sherri watching them. There were tears on her face. Fear in her eyes. And beneath both, something Daemon had once been too blinded by love to recognize. Calculation. The Devil had recognized it long ago. It simply had not possessed the language to explain it.

Wrong.

That had been its word for Sherri then.

It remained its word now.

---

Calculation. Daemon recognized it now. The slight narrowing of Sherri’s eyes. The pause before an expression settled over her face. The way emotion arrived precisely when it became useful.

He had loved those eyes once.

Loved watching them brighten when he entered a room. Loved the way she would smile from across a crowded club because she knew everyone else was watching him and he was watching only her.

The Devil remembered those moments too.

Differently.

She always watched to see if you were watching.

Daemon frowned internally. Back then, he had mistaken being studied for being known. There was a difference. Femi’s hand remained beneath his. Warm through the leather of his jacket. The Devil rested beneath that warmth without resistance.

That was another difference. With Sherri, it had withdrawn. With every woman before Femi, it had withdrawn. Touches belonged to Daemon. Sex belonged to Daemon. Affection belonged to Daemon. The Devil disappeared until it was needed again.

Then Femi touched him. And for the first time, the Devil had not gone anywhere. It had moved closer. Daemon looked down.

The small black box rested inside the inner pocket, exactly where it had remained since earlier. The ring His little ghost. He had meant to give it to her tonight. Before Sherri. Before the past walked through Helix wearing his old jacket and carrying the same irritating voice.

Femi tilted her head slightly.

Daemon realized he was staring.

“Nothing.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

The Devil whispered—

Liar.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Across the room, Sherri watched that too.

Malone came around the bar.

“All right.”

He pointed toward Sherri.

“Arms out.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“You cannot be serious.”

The Devil recoiled at the pitch of her voice.

There.

Daemon knew what it meant.

That sound.

Yes.

I hate it.

I know.

“I’m always serious when somebody I don’t trust walks into my bar claiming killers are behind her,” Malone said.

“I told you I barely escaped.”

“And Daemon told me to search you.”

Sherri looked toward him.

Daemon didn’t move.

“You’re really going to let him put his hands on me?”

The Devil’s response was immediate.

Why would we care?

Malone barked a laugh.

“Trust me, sweetheart. I’ve got absolutely no interest in putting my hands anywhere on you.”

The Devil approved.

Sherri’s expression hardened.

“There are women here.”

Marta’s voice came from the end of the bar.

“I’ll do it.”

Sherri turned.

Marta had arrived sometime during the confrontation and stood with her leather jacket open, arms crossed beneath it. She smiled. There was nothing friendly about it. Sherri looked her over.

“And you are?”

“The woman searching you.”

Marta motioned toward the back hallway.

“Move.”

The Devil liked Marta considerably more than Sherri. Sherri looked toward Daemon one more time.

“Demon?”

Daemon’s jaw flexed.

The Devil snarled.

I hate when she says that.

Femi felt the tension beneath her fingertips where her hand had risen to his cheek again. The Devil instantly quieted beneath her touch. Not gone. Calmed. That was the difference too.

“That’s twice.”

Sherri blinked.

“Call me that again and you sleep outside.”

Make it outside now.

The room became very quiet.

Sherri’s face reddened.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Daemon took Femi’s hand from his cheek and kissed her knuckles.

The Devil followed the touch.

Ours.

“Go with Marta.”

Sherri stared at the gesture. Something flickered in her face. Then disappeared. She turned sharply and followed Marta toward the back. The Devil listened to her footsteps disappear down the hallway.

Then—

Her voice is gone.

Daemon almost laughed. Malone waited until the hallway swallowed them. Then he looked at Daemon.

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

Daemon picked up his whiskey.

“Probably.”

“You’re letting Sherri Dream sleep here.”

“One night.”

“One hour would be too long.”

Malone understands.

“She’s scared.”

“So?”

Daemon looked at him.

Malone’s expression hardened.

“You think fear made her honest?”

“No.”

That stopped him.

Daemon drank.

“I think fear made her come here.”

Malone leaned closer.

“Those aren’t the same thing.”

“I know.”

Femi watched the exchange.

Malone glanced toward the hallway.

“Then why let her stay?”

Daemon said nothing for a moment. His thumb moved slowly against Femi’s fingers. The Devil watched the hallway.

Information.

Daemon stilled.

Yes.

That was why it had stopped demanding Sherri be thrown into the street. Not mercy. Not nostalgia. Not affection. Information. Sherri had come to Helix because something frightened her badly enough to seek Daemon after twelve years.

The Devil wanted to know what.

Let her talk.

“She came here for a reason.”

“Probably a bad one.”

“Usually.”

“You could throw her back outside and let the reason follow her.”

Daemon’s expression changed.

Malone saw it.

So did Femi.

“No.”

The word came quietly.

The Devil agreed now.

Not yet.

Malone swore.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That stupid fucking thing you do.”

Daemon frowned.

“Somebody tells you they’re in danger and suddenly you think you have to stand between them and the bullet.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

Malone pointed toward the hallway.

“That woman set you on fire.”

The Devil surfaced.

Violently.

Yes.

Femi’s fingers tightened around Daemon’s.

His face went still.

Fire.

Malone saw the movement and stopped.

Too late.

Femi already knew.

But hearing the words in this room— with Sherri twenty feet away— made the story Malone had told her days earlier become flesh.

Set you on fire. The Devil remembered. Smoke. Heat. Concrete. River water. Sherri.

I hated her before that.

Daemon almost closed his eyes.

I know.

Before the fire.

Yes.

Before Leto.

Yes.

Before she left.

Daemon looked toward the hallway.

Yes.

The Devil settled slightly. Apparently this distinction mattered to it. Femi looked at Daemon. She met his eyes. No pity. Good. Only anger. A terrifying amount of anger. The Devil noticed.

Then warmed.

Little ghost is angry.

Daemon almost smiled.

The Devil sounded absurdly pleased.

For us.

Malone noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You smiled.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Femi nodded. The Devil laughed. Daemon glared at both of them. Malone shook his head.

“Disgusting.”

Femi smiled.

The Devil melted.

Beautiful.

For one precious second, the morning loosened its grip around Daemon’s throat. Then Marta returned. She carried a small folding knife between two fingers. A burner phone. A thin wallet. And a brass hotel key. Sherri followed behind her looking furious.

The Devil immediately became irritated again.

She is back.

Marta dropped everything onto the bar.

“No gun.”

Malone examined the knife.

“Cute.”

“It’s for protection.”

Her voice scraped across the Devil again.

Still hate it.

“Clearly working well.”

Sherri ignored him. Daemon picked up the phone.

“Locked?”

“Yes.”

“Code?”

Sherri stared at him.

“Daemon.”

The Devil paused.

Better.

Daemon almost smiled. The use of his actual name registered.

“Code.”

She hesitated.

“0417.”

Femi’s eyes dropped toward the phone. Daemon entered it. The screen opened. Sherri moved instantly.

“That is private.”

The Devil was already interested.

No.

Daemon looked through the recent calls.

“Not tonight.”

“Daemon.”

He scrolled. Multiple unknown numbers. Several calls received. More missed. One contact repeated. No name. Just a single letter. L.

The Devil stirred.

Leto.

His face revealed nothing. He opened the messages. Empty. Deleted. He looked at Sherri.

“You erased them.”

“I erase everything.”

“When?”

“What?”

“Messages.”

She crossed her arms.

“Regularly.”

“Bullshit.”

The Devil agreed.

Liar.

Sherri’s expression tightened. Daemon held up the phone.

“Who’s L?”

Silence.

Malone leaned against the bar.

“Well, this should be fun.”

Sherri’s eyes moved around the room.

“Not here.”

The Devil groaned.

Again.

Daemon laughed softly. It wasn’t amused.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

“Then start talking somewhere.”

Sherri stared at him.

“Can we go somewhere private?”

“No.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Why?”

Daemon turned his head toward Femi. The Devil followed immediately.

Little ghost.

“Because I’m staying here.”

Sherri followed his gaze. Her mouth tightened. Femi returned the look calmly. Sherri’s attention shifted to the faint mark beneath the makeup along Femi’s throat. She noticed it. Femi knew immediately. Her gaze lingered a second too long.

The Devil changed. Instantly. The irritation disappeared. So did the commentary. Something much older took its place. Cold. Predatory. Absolute.

Her eyes.

Daemon caught it. His body changed. Barely. Femi felt it before anyone else did. Sherri looked back at him. Something passed behind those blue eyes. Interest. The Devil moved closer to the surface.

No.

Daemon’s voice dropped.

“Don’t.”

Sherri blinked.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t.”

The Devil moved beneath his skin. Not loudly. Not wildly. A low awareness. Sherri knew that stillness. She had known it years before. Her face softened instinctively.

“There you are.”

The Devil recoiled as though she had touched something filthy to it.

I hate her.

Daemon’s eyes went cold.

Sherri smiled faintly.

“I wondered if he was still in there.”

The Devil stared through Daemon’s eyes. It had always been there. When she kissed Daemon. When she climbed into his bed. When she laughed too loudly against his ear. When her perfume clung to his skin.

The Devil had been there. Withdrawing. Waiting for her to leave. Hating the sound of her voice. Hating the smell of her perfume. Hating the presumption in every touch.

She had mistaken its absence for acceptance. Now she mistook its attention for recognition. The Devil finally gave the feeling words.

I never wanted you.

Daemon’s jaw clenched. Femi looked at him. His hand tightened around hers. The Devil immediately registered her. Warm. Small. Familiar. Right.

Sherri was none of those things.

The Devil looked at her again.

Her.

Daemon knew.

Fire.

I know.

She left us.

I know.

A pause.

Then, with considerably more venom—

Her voice is irritating.

Daemon nearly laughed. Of all the sins Sherri had committed, apparently the Devil remained committed to that one. Sherri took one small step closer.

“Do you remember?”

Daemon stared at her.

“Everything.”

Her smile vanished.

Good.

He wanted her to understand that. There would be no nostalgic version of their history. No selective memories. No softening. He remembered her laughter. The Devil hated it.

Her perfume.

Wrong.

Her legs around his waist. The Devil had withdrawn. The nights she slept against his chest. The Devil had waited for morning..

Do not touch us.

He also remembered restraints. Electricity. His own skin burning. The smell of smoke. A window exploding. Cold river water filling his mouth. Everything.

Sherri seemed to understand. Her gaze lowered.

“I didn’t know what they were going to do.”

Malone made a disgusted sound. Daemon lifted one hand. Malone fell silent. Sherri looked at him.

“I knew they wanted you out of the way.”

Daemon said nothing. Her breathing changed.

“I knew Leto said you were becoming dangerous.”

Still nothing.

“I knew they were going to hold you.”

Femi became very still.

Daemon felt her fingers tighten.

Sherri swallowed.

“But I didn’t know about the experiment.”

The Devil laughed.

Dark.

Ugly.

Liar.

Daemon wasn’t certain. That bothered him.

Sherri stepped closer.

“I swear to you.”

The Devil immediately snapped—

Back.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You watched the building burn.”

The words silenced Helix.

Sherri’s face collapsed.

Daemon did not raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

“You watched.”

Tears filled her eyes again.

“I thought you were already dead.”

“You hoped I was.”

“No.”

“You waited until there was nothing left.”

“Because they told me you were dead!”

Her voice cracked across the room.

The Devil recoiled.

God, I hate that sound.

Daemon almost hated himself for the fragment of amusement that tried to surface. Several people turned. Daemon didn’t. Sherri pressed both hands to her mouth. The Devil approved of the improvement. Her shoulders trembled.

When she spoke again, the words came smaller.

“They told me your heart stopped.”

Daemon stared.

“They told me you didn’t survive the procedure.”

Malone looked toward him. Femi did too. Daemon’s face remained unreadable. Sherri wiped her cheeks.

“Leto told me burning the warehouse was cleanup.”

The name changed the air. Daemon leaned back slightly. There. Finally. Leto. The Devil focused. No more irritation.

No more old resentment.

Listen.

“Now we’re talking.”

Sherri looked frightened again. Real frightened. Femi saw it. Daemon did too.

“What did Leto do?”

Sherri shook her head.

“Not here.”

The Devil almost lost patience.

She said it again.

Daemon’s expression hardened.

She hurried forward.

“He’ll kill me.”

“Why?”

“I found something.”

“What?”

Sherri looked toward Femi. Then Malone. Then Marta. Daemon followed the movement.

“No.”

Sherri stared at him.

“They stay.”

“This has nothing to do with them.”

The Devil immediately disagreed.

Family.

“Everything about me has something to do with them.”

His thumb moved across Femi’s hand. Sherri’s lips tightened again.

“You really trust them that much?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation. The Devil answered with him.

Yes.

Something painful moved across Sherri’s face. It almost seemed genuine. Daemon no longer cared enough to decide. She looked down.

“I found records.”

Daemon stopped moving. The Devil did too.

“What records?”

“Organization records.”

Malone straightened. Sherri’s voice lowered.

“Old ones.”

“How old?”

“Before the warehouse.”

Daemon’s stare sharpened. Sherri swallowed.

“After.”

The Devil went silent. Daemon leaned forward.

“What records?”

Sherri looked directly into his eyes.

“Experiments.”

Femi’s fingers became cold in his hand.

The Devil noticed instantly.

Little ghost.

Daemon shifted his thumb across her skin.

Here.

Sherri continued.

“Names. Dates. Procedures. Subjects.”

Malone swore softly. Daemon’s voice remained calm.

“Where?”

“I don’t have them.”

“Then how did you find them?”

“Leto kept copies.”

Daemon’s expression changed.

“He never destroys anything he thinks gives him power over somebody.”

That sounded like Leto. Far too much. Sherri rubbed her arms.

“I found a storage ledger.”

“Where?”

She hesitated. Daemon stood. Sherri backed away instinctively.

The Devil noticed.

Good.

“I asked you a question.”

“In one of his old houses.”

“Which?”

“West Ravenside.”

“Address.”

“I’ll show you.”

“Address.”

She gave it.

Marta immediately took out her phone. Sherri watched her type.

Daemon asked, “What was in the ledger?”

“Locations.”

“Of what?”

“Storage.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

Daemon stared.

“And you went to one.”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

Sherri’s face drained.

“A file with your name on it.”

The Devil awakened completely. Daemon’s hand tightened around the back of the chair.

Sherri continued.

“And photographs.”

Femi watched him.

“What photographs?” Malone asked.

Sherri’s gaze remained fixed on Daemon.

“Before.”

A pause.

“During.”

Daemon stopped breathing. The Devil remembered flashes. Masks. Needles. Lights. Smoke. Kill them.

Femi’s hand slid into his. The command stopped. Daemon looked down. She had taken his hand without asking. No fear. No hesitation. Just warmth.

The Devil turned toward her immediately.

Here.

Sherri watched.

“And after.”

Daemon’s eyes lifted.

“After?”

Sherri nodded.

“They knew you survived.”

Everything stopped. The Devil became utterly still.

They knew.

Malone’s head snapped toward her.

“What?”

Sherri started crying again. But this time Daemon barely saw it. The Devil was listening now. Only listening.

They knew.

Daemon felt cold spread through him.

“No.”

Sherri nodded.

“They knew.”

“Leto thought I was dead.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Leto—”

“I don’t think Leto knew.”

Daemon froze.

Malone looked between them.

“Then who the hell did?”

Sherri looked toward the locked front doors. Her entire body began trembling again.

“I don’t know.”

Daemon stared at her.

“That’s why they’re trying to kill me.”

The room went silent.

Sherri hugged his old jacket around herself.

The Devil noticed it again.

Still want that back.

Daemon almost snarled.

Not now.

“I found something I wasn’t supposed to find.”

Daemon’s mind began moving. Fast. The morning. The nightmare. The warehouse. Sherri. Leto. The experiment. Someone knowing he survived. Someone watching afterward. For how long? Days? Months? Years? His eyes moved instinctively toward Femi.

The Devil was already there.

Little ghost.

She stood beside him.

Still holding his hand.

Family.

Yes.

Daemon’s fear became something much colder. The Devil followed it. If someone had known he survived the warehouse—then there was no telling how long they had been watching him. Or who they knew about now.

Femi.

The name alone changed everything.

Daemon turned toward Malone.

“Nobody leaves alone.”

Malone nodded immediately.

“Already ahead of you.”

“Marta.”

She looked up.

“Call Red.”

“Done.”

“Find out everything you can about that address.”

She nodded. Daemon looked at Sherri.

“You’re staying where I can see you.”

The Devil immediately clarified—

For information.

Daemon agreed.

Nothing else.

Sherri blinked.

“At your house?”

The Devil surged so hard Daemon nearly laughed.

NO.

“No.”

Her face fell.

“Daemon—”

“You stay here.”

She looked around Helix.

“Here?”

“Upstairs.”

Malone immediately objected.

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

The Devil agreed wholeheartedly.

Malone.

“One night.”

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it.”

Malone pointed at Sherri.

“She sleeps somewhere without knives.”

“I had one knife.”

The Devil recoiled at her voice again.

Why does she sound like that?

Daemon almost rubbed his forehead.

“That’s one too many.”

Marta picked it up from the bar.

“I’ll keep it.”

Sherri glared at her.

“You seem happy about that.”

“Very.”

The Devil liked Marta more every minute. Daemon looked toward Femi.

“You’re coming home with me.”

Femi stared at him. The statement had come too quickly. Too hard.

The Devil felt it too.

Keep her close.

Then the nightmare flashed between them. His hands. Her throat. Daemon released her immediately. The Devil recoiled from the memory. Not from Femi. Never from Femi.

No.

“If you want.”

Femi looked down at his empty hand. Then up at him. Her face softened. She took his hand again.

Yes.

One sign.

Daemon’s breath caught. The Devil went absolutely silent. Not because it had nothing to say. Because anything it said would break them. Femi had been given the choice. She had chosen.

Again.

Her fingers folded through Daemon’s. The Devil settled around the contact. No withdrawal. No revulsion. No desire to escape beneath Daemon’s skin. Only warmth.

Little ghost.

Sherri watched the exchange. Something in her expression hardened. There it was again. Calculation. Femi saw it. So did Daemon. The Devil saw something else. Jealousy. It recognized that emotion now. Femi had taught it that one too.

This time, neither Daemon nor Femi looked away. Sherri had come to Helix frightened. Perhaps hunted. Perhaps telling the truth. Perhaps not. But she had come looking for the Devil she remembered. That was the greatest irony.

Sherri Dream had never known the Devil. She had known Daemon when he was violent. Known Daemon when he was angry. Known Daemon when blood covered his hands. She had watched the Devil surface and believed its violence meant she understood it. She never noticed that it disappeared when she kissed him.

Never noticed how deeply it withdrew beneath her hands. Never knew it hated the perfume she left on his skin. Never knew her laughter grated against it. Never knew the voice whispering Demon against Daemon’s ear made the creature wish desperately for silence.

Sherri had mistaken proximity for intimacy.

Just as Daemon once had.

She had come looking for the weapon.

The abandoned man.

The fool who once confused being needed with being loved. She had found the weapon. The Devil was still there. Still violent. Still watching. Still capable of terrible things. And it still hated Sherri Dream. Nothing had changed there.

But she had also found something she had never possessed. A family. A home. Femi. A woman whose scent made the Devil settle instead of retreat. A woman whose touch drew it closer instead of driving it beneath Daemon’s skin.

A woman who could lay her palm against the Devil’s face and feel the monster become still beneath it because it knew exactly who she was.

Ours.

Daemon raised Femi’s hand and pressed his mouth against her knuckles. The Devil followed the kiss with something dangerously close to reverence. Sherri’s eyes followed the movement. Daemon watched her watch it.

The Devil did too.

She hates that.

Perhaps. The Devil considered Sherri for another moment. Then dismissed her.

Good.

Daemon finally understood what Femi had already seen. Whatever danger had followed Sherri Dream through the doors of Helix— it was not the only reason she had come back. And whatever Sherri believed she remembered about the Devil— she had never known it at all.

By midnight, Daemon had stopped counting his drinks.

Femi had not.

Neither had the Devil.

Seven.

Daemon lifted the glass.

Eight.

He drank.

Femi watched from behind the bar as he emptied it and pushed it toward the edge of his table. Malone collected it with a disapproving glance but replaced it anyway.

The Devil considered the new glass.

Nine.

“Shut up.”

Sherri turned toward him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Her smile appeared.

The Devil immediately regretted speaking aloud.

Her voice.

Daemon closed his eyes briefly.

Yes.

Still irritating.

Alcohol had changed nothing about that.

Daemon was not loud when he drank.

He did not laugh more easily or tell stories he would regret in the morning. He simply became quieter. The hard lines of his face softened slightly, his shoulders settled against the back of the chair, and his gray eyes took longer to focus on whatever held them.

Tonight, that happened to be Femi.

The Devil noticed her every time.

There.

She crossed Helix carrying glasses.

There.

She disappeared into the kitchen.

Wait.

She returned.

There.

Daemon took another drink.

He felt his gaze follow her whenever she crossed the room.

It was not the careless stare of the men who watched her hips when they believed Malone was not looking.

Daemon studied her as if she were a question he had not yet learned how to ask.

The Devil had already begun trying to answer it.

Little ghost.

The name had appeared inside him weeks ago.

Daemon did not know why.

Quiet.

Pale beneath the low lights. Always there and somehow gone whenever he looked for her directly.

Little ghost.

Sherri occupied the chair beside him.

The Devil hated that.

Move.

Daemon drank. She had been there for nearly an hour, leaning close enough that her lips brushed his ear whenever she whispered. The Devil withdrew every time. It had always done that with Sherri. Years ago.

Now.

Nothing had changed.

Her perfume reached him beneath the smells of whiskey, smoke, leather, and bodies.

The Devil recoiled.

Wrong.

One of Sherri’s hands rested on his shoulder. The Devil moved away from the contact. The other traced idle circles around the rim of her glass.

“You remember New Faun?” she murmured.

The Devil made a sound of pure annoyance.

Unfortunately.

Daemon lifted his whiskey. Sherri smiled as though his silence were an answer.

“That little place above the club. The room with the broken lock and that awful red wallpaper.”

Daemon drank.

The Devil remembered. Red wallpaper. Cigarette burns. Broken lock. Sherri’s perfume soaked into the sheets. Her voice filling every corner of the room.

Hated it.

“You hated that wallpaper.”

“I hated the room.”

The Devil corrected him.

And her perfume.

Daemon drank again.

“You didn’t hate everything that happened in it.”

Her fingers moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, slipping beneath his long blond hair. The Devil disappeared from the touch. Instantly. Not fear. Not pain. Rejection. It had always done that.

When Sherri touched Daemon, the Devil withdrew. When she kissed him, it went silent.

When she climbed into his lap, it disappeared somewhere deep beneath Daemon’s consciousness and waited for her to leave.

Daemon had never questioned it then. He had assumed the Devil understood there was no danger. Now, with whiskey loosening old memories and new awareness alike, he understood something else.

The Devil simply had not wanted her.

Take her hand off us.

Daemon did not pull away. He did not encourage her, either. Femi lowered her gaze and continued wiping the bar.

The Devil noticed immediately.

Little ghost.

Daemon’s eyes followed her.

“You used to drink with me until sunrise,” Sherri continued. “Then we would sleep until dark and do it all over again.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Sherri laughed. Loudly. Too loudly. The Devil recoiled.

That.

Daemon knew.

That sound.

I know.

Sherri smiled.

“You never complained.”

“I was younger.”

“You were dangerous.”

Daemon’s eyes moved across the room.

They found Femi.

There.

She was stacking clean glasses beneath the counter. Her movements remained precise, but she placed one glass down harder than necessary.

Click.

Daemon noticed.

The Devil noticed faster.

Angry.

Daemon studied her.

Why?

The Devil did not know. It wanted to.

Sherri kept talking.

“You were beautiful when you were angry. Everybody was terrified of you.”

“They still are.”

“Yes.”

Her smile became soft and hungry.

“But I wasn’t.”

“That was because you had poor judgment.”

The Devil agreed.

Terrible judgment.

Sherri laughed again and rested her cheek against his shoulder. The Devil retreated from the contact.

Wrong.

Daemon poured the last of the whiskey into his glass. Femi turned away. The Devil did not like that.

She is leaving.

She’s working.

She turned away.

Daemon looked after her. Femi told herself she did not care. Sherri was a stranger. A dangerous one. Who he had known before walking into Helix was none of her concern. What he had done with Sherri in rooms with broken locks and ugly red wallpaper mattered even less. Still, she cleaned the same section of the bar three times.

Across the room, Daemon watched her do it.

The Devil counted.

Four.

Daemon frowned.

What?

She cleaned it four times.

His gaze sharpened.

Sherri leaned closer.

“You could come upstairs with me.”

The Devil recoiled.

No.

“Just for tonight.”

No.

“We could remember who we used to be.”

Absolutely not.

Daemon stared into his drink.

“I remember.”

“Then you remember how good we were.”

The Devil almost laughed. Daemon’s gray eyes lifted toward Femi once more. She was looking down. Avoiding him. Something about that bothered him. The Devil understood only one thing with certainty.

Do not go upstairs.

“No,” Daemon said after a moment. “I remember how bad we were.”

Sherri stiffened.

The Devil settled.

Better.

Before she could answer, Malone announced last call.

The remaining customers complained without conviction. Chairs scraped across the floor. Money appeared on tables, jackets were collected, and the jukebox played the final notes of a song no one had been listening to.

Within twenty minutes, Helix was empty except for Malone, Femi, Sherri, and Daemon. Daemon remained in his corner. His head rested against the wall, eyes half closed. The room shifted unpleasantly whenever he moved too quickly. The Devil remained alert beneath the alcohol. Not sharp. Not entirely. But present.

Sherri sat beside him, one hand gripping his sleeve as if she feared he might vanish should she let go.

Her hand.

Daemon ignored it.

Remove it.

He closed his eyes.

Daemon.

Malone stopped beside the table.

“Time to get him out of here.”

The Devil approved.

Home.

Sherri looked up.

“He can stay with me.”

No.

Malone answered for both of them.

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

“And I wasn’t negotiating.”

Malone.

The Devil liked Malone. Malone caught Daemon beneath one arm and hauled him upright. The floor shifted. Daemon stood, swayed once, and frowned at it.

Floor moved.

The floor doesn’t move.

It moved.

Femi hurried around the bar.

The Devil noticed before Daemon managed to turn his head.

Little ghost.

She came to his other side and slipped beneath his arm.

The instant her body touched his— the Devil stopped withdrawing. Everything inside Daemon changed. Her shoulder fit beneath his arm. Her hand closed around his wrist. Warm. Small. Careful. The Devil moved closer.

Oh.

The weight of him nearly folded Femi in half. Daemon looked down. For several seconds, he appeared unable to understand why she was there. Midnight hair. Green eyes. Soft skin. The faint scent of flour. Bread. Strawberries. Something that belonged only to her. Recognition entered his eyes.

The Devil supplied the words before Daemon could stop them.

“Little ghost.”

Femi stilled. So did Daemon. Now the whiskey had weakened whatever wall usually kept the words trapped inside.

Little ghost.

His arm tightened around her shoulders—not enough to hurt, only enough to keep her close. The Devil immediately checked the pressure.

Careful.

Daemon adjusted.

 Better.

He lowered his head. Her hair brushed his face. He breathed in. The Devil moved closer still. No recoil. No disgust. No desire to disappear beneath his skin. Only curiosity. Warmth. Wanting to remain.

“You smell like bread.”

Malone grunted as they started toward the door.

“She works in a kitchen.”

Daemon considered this with enormous seriousness.

The Devil considered it too.

Bread. Soap. Something sweet like strawberries. Nothing heavy. Nothing false. Nothing that clung to his throat.

Right.

“Good bread.”

Femi’s mouth curved before she could stop it.

The Devil went silent.

Daemon stared.

There.

That.

That tiny smile.

Something warm moved through the alcohol.

Again.

Sherri followed them.

“Daemon, you don’t have to leave.”

Her voice cut through the moment.

The Devil recoiled.

I hate her voice.

Daemon did not look back.

Between Malone’s strength and Femi’s determination, they maneuvered him through the doorway and into the humid night. Malone’s truck waited near the end of the lot. Daemon’s boots dragged over the gravel. Femi adjusted her hold. Her hand moved around his wrist. The Devil focused on it. Her fingers were small enough that they did not meet.

Little.

Daemon’s gaze dropped to her again. Drunk as he was, he studied her with unnerving concentration. Her green eyes. The midnight hair falling across her face. The small hand wrapped around his wrist. The Devil studied her with him.

It had never done this before. Not with Sherri. Not with any woman. Usually, women belonged entirely to Daemon. His attraction. His pleasure. His relationships. The Devil withdrew and waited until it was needed.

But it did not want to withdraw from Femi. It wanted to know. Her scent. Her eyes. The exact pressure of her hand. The shape of her smile. Why she cleaned the same spot four times when Sherri touched him. Why she looked away.

Why seeing her smile made something inside them become quiet. Daemon stared as if he were trying to memorize her before morning stole the memory away.

The Devil whispered—

Remember.

“Where are you going, Demon?” Sherri begged.

The Devil recoiled.

Away from you.

They reached the truck.

“I need you,” she cried.

No.

Daemon remained quiet. He did not look at Sherri. He watched Femi. The Devil watched her too.

Malone opened the passenger door, and together they wrestled Daemon inside. He sank heavily against the seat, one arm stretched across the back. Femi reached for the seat belt. Daemon caught her wrist. She froze. The Devil surged. Not violence. Awareness.

Careful.

His grip was loose, made clumsy by alcohol. Daemon loosened it further. His thumb rested over the faint beat of her pulse.

The Devil felt it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Alive.

Femi looked at him. Daemon’s gray eyes moved over her face.

“Quiet,” he murmured.

She did not know whether he meant her or the night. Perhaps he did not know either.

 The Devil did. Quiet. She was quiet. But not empty. Never empty. The Devil liked her quiet.

Sherri filled every silence because she feared what might exist inside it. Femi entered silence as though she belonged there. She did not demand words from Daemon. Did not fill spaces he left open. Did not claw at the Devil with noise. She simply existed beside them.

Quiet.

Good.

Daemon’s hand opened.

Femi secured the belt across his chest. When she began to withdraw, Daemon caught a strand of her hair between his fingers. The Devil became fascinated.

Soft.

Daemon rubbed it slowly, studying its dark sheen beneath the parking-lot lights. Midnight. His gaze found hers again. Something inside it unsettled her. Not hunger. Not exactly.

Recognition, perhaps.

As if some drunken part of him had found something the sober man had not yet permitted himself to want.

The Devil had. It did not understand what. Only that it did not want her to step away.

Stay.

“Demon,” Sherri called again. “Please. Don’t leave me here.”

The Devil recoiled from her voice.

Go away.

Daemon released Femi’s hair. His eyes never left her face. Malone moved around the front of the truck and held out the keys. Femi stared at them.

“You’re driving.”

She looked toward Helix. Then at Sherri.

The Devil noticed.

Do not leave us with her.

Malone followed her gaze.

“I’ll handle this.”

Femi hesitated.

“Take him home. Put him on the sofa. Leave a bucket nearby unless you want to spend the morning cleaning the floor.”

Daemon frowned from inside the truck.

“I don’t vomit.”

Malone looked at him.

“You’re barely conscious.”

“I remain dignified.”

“You just told Femi she smells like bread.”

The Devil objected.

She does.

“Good bread,” Daemon repeated.

Femi silently laughed. Her shoulders moved. Her eyes brightened. The Devil caught it immediately.

There.

Daemon’s attention returned to her as though pulled by a wire. For one brief moment, his own mouth almost curved. Malone placed the keys in Femi’s palm and closed her fingers around them. Then he bent and kissed her forehead.

The Devil watched. No threat. Malone. Safe.

“Get home safe,” he whispered.

Femi nodded. She climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted it forward until her feet reached the pedals. Daemon turned his head to watch her, his cheek resting against the seat. The Devil remained focused on her.

Little ghost is driving.

“This should be interesting.”

Femi looked at him. Daemon closed his eyes innocently. Sherri came to the passenger window.

“Demon.”

The Devil recoiled.

Stop.

Daemon did not respond.

“I said I need you.”

His eyes remained on Femi as she started the engine. Sherri struck her palm against the glass.

“Don’t do this to me!”

Femi startled. Everything changed. The alcohol disappeared beneath instinct. The Devil surged forward.

She frightened her.

Daemon’s expression went cold. He turned his head slowly and looked at Sherri through the window. The Devil stared with him. No nostalgia. No affection. No old desire. Only irritation sharpened by something new.

Sherri had startled Femi.

Do that again.

The thought remained unfinished. It did not need finishing. Whatever Sherri saw in his face made her step back.

Good.

Femi shifted the truck into drive. The vehicle rolled forward. Sherri disappeared behind them. The Devil settled immediately.

Better.

Daemon turned his head toward Femi again. Her hands held the steering wheel carefully. Ten and two. Too rigid. Her shoulders tense. She glanced toward him. Daemon watched her.

The Devil whispered—

Little ghost.

His eyes closed. Not completely. Just enough to rest. Her scent remained inside the truck. Bread. Strawberries.

Femi.

No perfume.

No Sherri.

Better.

---

Malone stood in the parking lot, watching until the taillights disappeared up the road.

Beside him, Sherri began to cry.

Again.

“He would’ve stayed if she hadn’t come over,” she said. “He was remembering us. I know he was.”

Malone turned toward her. There was fire in his eyes now.

“Either go upstairs and find a room or get out.”

Sherri stared at him.

“You don’t own me.”

“No. I own Helix. Right now, you’re standing in its parking lot trying my patience.”

“He belongs with people who understand him.”

“Daemon doesn’t belong to anybody.”

“You don’t know what we had.”

“I know exactly what you had.” Malone’s voice hardened. “Two damaged people helping each other bleed.”

Sherri’s tears stopped. Her thoughts turned vicious. She cursed Femi silently—the mute little stray with her lowered eyes and innocent face.

Daemon had barely noticed anyone since arriving in Ravenside, yet tonight he had watched that girl as though Sherri were not sitting beside him whispering memories against his skin.

“He was mine before she crawled out of whatever alley you found her in.”

Malone stepped closer.

Sherri retreated.

“I am warning you, Sherri. Stay out of Daemon’s business.”

“She doesn’t even speak.”

“Femi doesn’t need a voice to be more of a woman than you’ll ever understand.”

Sherri’s face twisted. Malone had never cared for her. He had tolerated her because Daemon once had, but that history had expired years ago. What Sherri had never known was that even then, she had only ever had Daemon.

Never the Devil.

The Devil had withdrawn from her perfume. Her hands. Her kisses. Her bed. Her voice. Especially her voice. She carried old memories like keys to doors that no longer existed and mistook Daemon’s silence for an invitation to keep trying them.

Malone wanted her gone.

As soon as possible.

“If you have any sense left,” he said, “you’ll leave before Daemon sobers up and remembers you were pounding on the window beside Femi.”

For the first time that night, uncertainty entered Sherri’s face.

Malone turned away.

“Door locks in five minutes.”

He started back toward Helix without waiting to see which choice she made.

Behind him, Sherri remained beneath the parking-lot lights, staring at the empty road where Malone’s truck had disappeared.

Daemon had left without looking at her. Worse, he had spent the entire journey to the truck looking at Femi. And Sherri had understood that gaze. Or thought she had. She believed the past had whispered in Daemon’s ear all night.

She had no idea what had actually been whispering.

The Devil remembered New Faun. It remembered the red wallpaper. The broken lock. The alcohol. Sherri’s perfume. Sherri’s hands. Sherri’s irritating voice. And it wanted none of it.

For years, whenever women entered Daemon’s bed, the Devil had simply withdrawn and waited.

Tonight, for the first time, a woman had slipped beneath Daemon’s arm— and the Devil had moved closer.

It had smelled bread in her hair. Counted the pulse beneath her wrist. Watched her smile. Listened to her silence.

The past had whispered all night. But Daemon had not been listening. Neither had the Devil.

They had both been watching Femi.

The road outside Wolfwater was almost empty.

Femi drove carefully.

Very carefully.

Both hands remained fixed on the steering wheel as Malone’s truck moved beneath pools of yellow streetlight and then back into darkness.

She had driven before.

Technically.

Once.

A foster parent had decided she needed to learn when she was sixteen and spent twenty terrifying minutes shouting instructions while Femi tried not to drive into a drainage ditch.

She had never driven again.

Until tonight.

Beside her, Daemon had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

His head rested against the passenger window. Long blond hair covered part of his face. His eyes were closed, one arm folded loosely across his stomach.

His thoughts had become pleasantly useless.

Heavy.

Slow.

The truck moved.

Or the road moved.

One of them.

Daemon could not be bothered to decide.

The Devil could. It was wide awake. Alcohol dulled Daemon. It did not dull the thing inside him. If anything, whiskey had thinned the wall between them. The Devil watched through half-lidded gray eyes. Road. Dark. Trees. No headlights behind them. No one following.

Femi.

Both hands strangling the steering wheel.

Too close to the center line.

Little ghost drives badly.

Daemon’s mouth moved.

“You drive like an old woman.”

Femi startled so badly the truck drifted toward the center line.

The Devil immediately sharpened.

Road.

She corrected.

Good.

Daemon opened one eye.

The Devil looked at her through it.

“Dangerous old woman.”

Femi glared at him.

Pretty.

Daemon’s eye closed again. She shook her head. The Devil continued watching. It did not need Daemon’s eyes entirely open anymore. Not tonight. Everything was loose. Thought. Tongue. Control. The usual doors between Daemon and the Devil had been left hanging crooked on their hinges.

They drove another half mile. The Devil studied Femi’s profile. Tight mouth. Small crease between her brows. Hands still too rigid on the wheel.

And something else.

Something that had begun inside Helix.

Mad.

Daemon’s mouth moved.

“You’re mad.”

Femi looked toward him. Daemon hadn’t moved. She pointed at herself. The Devil answered.

“Yes.”

Her brows rose.

“At me.”

Femi looked back at the road.

No.

The Devil had watched her clean the same piece of wood. Had heard the glass strike harder than necessary. Had watched her look away whenever Sherri touched Daemon.

It knew.

“Liar.”

She turned sharply toward him. Daemon opened both eyes this time. Gray met green. The Devil stared through them.

“Bad liar.”

Femi frowned.

Then lifted one hand briefly from the steering wheel.

I am driving.

The Devil looked at the road.

Then at her.

“Poorly.”

Her mouth fell open.

Some distant, drunken part of Daemon realized he probably should not have said that.

The Devil did not care. It liked her expression. A faint smile moved across Daemon’s face. Femi slapped the steering wheel once. Daemon laughed. Low. Rough. Unprotected. The sound seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised her.

Femi looked at him. The Devil looked back. Angry green eyes. Warm cheeks.

Beautiful.

The word came easily.

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

Femi nearly drove off the road.

The Devil surged.

Road.

She corrected.

Daemon’s smile widened.

Somewhere beneath the whiskey, Daemon thought—

Probably shouldn’t distract her.

Too late.

Her face heated. She pointed toward the windshield.

Stop talking.

The Devil watched her hands. It knew some of her signs. Not enough. That irritated it.

“I don’t know what that means.”

She signed it again.

The Devil stared.

Still nothing.

“I still don’t know what that means.”

Femi narrowed her eyes.

Daemon chuckled.

“Pretty hands.”

Her blush deepened. The Devil liked that. Femi put both hands firmly back on the steering wheel.

Better.

The Devil continued watching her. Face. Hair. Mouth. Eyes.

“Green.”

She glanced at him.

Daemon pointed vaguely toward her face.

“Your eyes.”

Femi nodded.

“I know.”

The Devil considered that.

Of course she knew.

“Of course you know.”

Femi smiled. The Devil stopped. Everything inside Daemon stopped with it. There. That smile. Not the polite one she gave customers. Not the small one she used when Malone embarrassed her. This one belonged here. Inside the truck. For them. The Devil stared.

Daemon’s drunken thoughts drifted somewhere behind it.

Pretty.

Very pretty.

The Devil already knew.

It lifted Daemon’s hand.

Femi tensed.

The Devil stopped immediately.

No.

Not afraid.

Never make her afraid.

Daemon’s hand hovered between them.

The Devil adjusted.

Only hair.

It reached far enough to catch one loose strand.

The same way it had outside Helix.

Soft.

It rubbed the strand between Daemon’s fingers.

“Black.”

Femi nodded.

“Pretty.”

Her pulse changed. The Devil heard nothing. But it saw the tiny movement at her throat. Faster. Interesting.

Daemon let the strand slip through his fingers. His hand fell heavily back into his lap. The Devil looked at her.

Everything about Femi was different. Her scent. Her touch. Her silence. Especially her silence.

“Everything about you is quiet.”

Femi’s expression changed. The Devil understood immediately that the words had landed somewhere deeper than intended.

Daemon did not.

His head leaned against the window again.

“Good quiet.”

Femi swallowed. The Devil watched. Sherri’s silence had never existed. She filled every room. Every pause. Every breath. Her perfume arrived before she did. Her laughter struck walls and came back louder. Her voice scraped. Even memories of it scraped.

Femi was different. She did not fill silence. She made silence feel full.

Good quiet.

The truck passed beyond the last dense stretch of Wolfwater. Buildings thinned. Streetlights became farther apart.

Daemon’s eyes closed. Femi thought he had fallen asleep again.

The Devil had not. It watched her through memory now. The bar. The glass. Sherri’s hand beneath Daemon’s hair. Femi turning away. The same section of bar wiped again. And again. And again.

The Devil understood.

“She hates you.”

Femi’s fingers tightened around the wheel.

Sherri.

Of course she knew.

Daemon opened his eyes.

The Devil looked directly at her.

“Don’t care.”

Femi glanced at him. The Devil meant it. Sherri’s hatred meant nothing.

“She always hates women prettier than her.”

Some sluggish piece of Daemon drifted upward.

Does she?

The Devil considered.

Probably.

Femi almost laughed.

Daemon frowned.

“What?”

She shook her head.

“Don’t do that.”

Do what?

She signed.

The Devil stared at her hands.

Nothing.

“I don’t know.”

Femi rolled her eyes. The Devil immediately recognized that.

“Yes. That.”

She smiled.

There.

Again.

The Devil watched for several seconds.

Then remembered something more important.

Sherri.

Memories.

New Faun.

The way she had spent the evening trying to put old things into Femi’s head without speaking directly to her.

The Devil did not like that.

“Don’t believe her.”

Femi looked toward him.

“Sherri.”

The humor had disappeared from Daemon’s voice. Not because Daemon had sobered. He had not.

His thoughts were somewhere behind the Devil trying to remember whether Malone’s truck always smelled faintly like cigars.

The Devil was the one speaking now.

“Don’t believe things she says about me.”

Femi’s eyebrows drew together.

The Devil stared through the windshield.

“She knows old things.”

Old Daemon. Old blood. Old rooms. Old mistakes.

“She’ll make them sound…”

The Devil searched Daemon’s language.

Pretty.

That would do.

“Pretty.”

Its mouth twisted.

“They weren’t.”

Femi looked back at the road.

The Devil remembered. Blood. Broken teeth.Men screaming. Sherri laughing. Sherri clapping once. Sherri whispering Demon as though violence were a trick performed for her pleasure.

“We were bad.”

Femi nodded faintly.

“I hurt people.”

Another pause.

“A lot of people.”

The road hummed beneath the tires. Daemon watched darkness pass beyond his window. The Devil remembered Sherri smiling whenever someone recognized him.

“She liked it.”

Femi looked at him.

“At first.”

No. Longer than that.

“She liked everybody knowing who I was.”

It rubbed Daemon’s hand over his face.

“Liked people moving out of the way.”

Then it heard the name in memory. That voice. That irritating voice.

“Demon.”

The word came from Daemon’s mouth with mockery instead of affection.

Femi’s fingers tightened.

The Devil noticed.

“You don’t like it.”

She shook her head.

“The name?”

Another shake.

“Why?”

Femi couldn’t sign and drive safely. She reached for her phone at the next red light. The Devil watched her type. The screen lit.

Because it doesn’t sound like you when she says it.

The Devil stared.

Daemon’s thoughts tried to rise.

What does that mean?

The light changed.

Femi drove. The Devil continued staring at the phone until the screen dimmed.

It understood.

Sherri said the name like a claim. Like she had discovered the Devil. Like she knew it. Like it had ever belonged to her. The Devil hated that most of all.

“How does it sound?”

Femi glanced at him. She could not answer. The Devil already could.

“Like she owns it.”

Femi’s eyes flicked toward him.

The Devil nodded.

“Yeah.”

It looked out the window.

“She always did.”

Or believed she did. She had been wrong. Something cold moved through Femi. The Devil watched her mouth tighten. Sherri’s hand beneath Daemon’s hair. Fingers against his neck. Casual ownership in the touch.

You remember New Faun?

You didn’t hate everything that happened in it.

The Devil had.

It had hated the room. Hated the perfume. Hated her voice. Hated her hands. Most of all, it had hated the way she touched Daemon and assumed the silence inside him meant the Devil welcomed her.

It never had. The Devil had withdrawn. Every time.

Femi’s mouth tightened further.

The Devil noticed.

“You’re angry again.”

She shook her head.

“Yes.”

No.

“You put a glass down hard.”

Femi looked at him.

“At Helix.”

Her eyes widened slightly. The Devil smiled using Daemon’s mouth.

“I saw.”

Femi faced forward.

“You cleaned the same place three times too.”

The Devil paused.

Four?

No.

Three. Maybe four.

Whiskey had interfered with the count. Annoying. Her cheeks warmed. The Devil understood.

“Jealous.”

Absolutely not.

The signs meant nothing.

Her face meant everything.

“Jealous.”

Femi aggressively turned on the windshield wipers although it had stopped raining.

The Devil stared at them.

Why?

Daemon’s drunken thoughts surfaced briefly.

Rain?

No rain.

The Devil understood a second later. She was flustered. Daemon laughed. Femi turned them off.

“Definitely jealous.”

She pointed a warning finger at him.

The Devil caught it.

Femi froze. So did the Devil. Her finger rested inside Daemon’s hand. Warm. Small. The Devil loosened his fingers immediately. Not restraining. Holding. It looked down. Femi let him.

Daemon’s thumb brushed slowly across her knuckles. The Devil remembered Sherri’s hand on his shoulder. Nothing. Her fingers at his neck. Withdrawal. Her cheek against him. Disgust.

Then Femi. This. The Devil did not want to leave. It wanted closer. That realization was still new enough to fascinate it.

“Don’t be.”

Femi looked at him.

The Devil kept Daemon’s eyes lowered.

“Nothing there.”

His voice was quiet.

“Not anymore.”

Not Sherri. Not New Faun. Not those rooms.Not those hands. Nothing.

Femi didn’t move. The Devil released her hand.

Because she was driving. Because it had learned something important about wanting. Wanting did not mean taking. She returned her hand to the wheel.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

Daemon drifted farther beneath the whiskey.

The Devil remained awake.

The road became darker as they crossed beyond the city. Fields stretched into the night. Daemon’s house waited another fifteen minutes away.

The Devil looked at Femi.

“Femi.”

She turned.

His eyes had closed again.

“Little ghost.”

Her chest tightened.

The Devil noticed.

It liked the reaction.

She touched two fingers to herself.

Me?

The Devil opened one of Daemon’s eyes.

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“You.”

Why?

She shaped the question slowly.

The Devil understood.

“Because you disappear.”

Femi tilted her head.

“One second you’re there.”

Daemon’s hand moved vaguely.

“Next second…”

The Devil gestured toward nothing.

“Gone.”

Femi smiled.

Daemon’s eye closed.

“And you’re quiet.”

She gave him a look. The Devil knew that look now.

“Obviously.”

She punched his shoulder lightly.

The Devil considered the assault.

“Violent ghost.”

Femi silently laughed. 

The Devil opened Daemon’s eyes.

There.

Her shoulders shook. A faint breath escaped her. Not laughter exactly. But close. The Devil stared. Everything else disappeared. Road. Alcohol. Sherri. New Faun.

“There.”

Femi looked at him.

“That.”

She frowned.

“Do it again.”

Do what?

“That.”

Daemon’s hand gestured helplessly.

“The almost laugh.”

Femi’s smile disappeared from embarrassment.

The Devil disliked that immediately.

“No.”

She looked forward.

“Come on.”

She shook her head.

“Little ghost.”

No.

The Devil searched Daemon’s vocabulary for something more effective.

“Please?”

Femi turned toward him in surprise.

The Devil frowned.

What?

Daemon’s drunken consciousness stirred.

Did we just say please?

Apparently.

Femi stared.

“I know manners.”

Her shoulders began shaking again.

The Devil smiled.

“There.”

Femi covered her mouth with one hand.

“Good.”

She looked at him. The Devil’s smile faded. It wanted to touch her. Not hair this time. Cheek. Maybe the corner of her mouth where the smile remained. It lifted Daemon’s hand. Stopped.

No.

Driving.

The hand lowered.

Femi noticed.

The Devil noticed her noticing.

Interesting.

The truck turned onto the road leading toward Daemon’s property. Alcohol dragged Daemon deeper. His head settled against the seat. The Devil remained. Then an old wound surfaced through the whiskey. Not the Devil’s. Daemon’s.

The thought drifted upward broken and heavy.

Sherri.

Left.

Leto.

The Devil caught it.

“Sherri left me.”

Femi looked toward him. Daemon’s eyes remained closed.

“For Leto.”

The Devil hated the ache attached to the memory. Daemon had carried it for years.

“Didn’t know at first.”

Femi slowed the truck slightly.

“Thought I did something.”

The words came slower now. Daemon’s thoughts were trying to speak through the Devil. Fragments. Pain without structure.

“Always thought I did something.”

Femi’s expression changed. The Devil watched. Pain recognized pain. Daemon opened his eyes. They were unfocused.

“You ever have somebody leave and you spend years trying to figure out what you did?”

Femi stared ahead. The Devil saw the answer before she gave it. Her face changed. Tiny. But enough.

Yes.

It did not know the details.

Only that she understood.

“Yeah.”

Quiet. Knowing.

Femi blinked quickly. The Devil saw moisture gather.

No. Sad.

It did not like that.

“You too.”

She nodded. Daemon’s gaze drifted toward the window. The Devil considered everyone who had ever made that expression appear on her face. It wanted names.

Daemon’s drunken mind supplied a simpler conclusion.

“People are shit.”

Femi laughed silently. The Devil approved. His mouth curved.

“Mostly.”

The house appeared ahead.

The Devil recognized it immediately.

Home.

Femi turned into the driveway. Daemon watched the brick house approach through heavy eyes. A thought surfaced. Important.

“You know…”

The words slurred. Femi parked. Turned off the engine. The Devil looked at the house. Then at her.

“Never brought Sherri here.”

Femi turned.

“This is mine.”

Daemon frowned.

No.

Not exactly.

Mine sounded wrong now.

“Bought it after.”

After what?

Femi waited.

Daemon gestured vaguely toward the world.

“Everything.”

Warehouse. Fire. River. Sherri. Leto. Survival. Everything. The Devil looked at Femi. A new thought formed. Not drunken. Not Daemon’s. Its own.

She was the first woman brought here. The first woman whose scent belonged in these rooms. The first woman it did not want to leave.

“You’re the first.”

Femi stopped breathing.

The Devil watched her.

Yes.

Important.

Remember that.

Daemon reached for the door handle. Missed. The Devil stared at his hand.

Again.

He tried. Femi caught his arm. Daemon frowned at the door.

“Moving.”

It absolutely was not. Femi shook her head. She climbed out and walked around the truck. Daemon had successfully opened the door by the time she arrived.

Victory.

Unfortunately, he also attempted to stand. The ground moved.

Probably.

He nearly fell directly onto Femi.

The Devil surged.

No.

Daemon caught the truck before flattening them both.

“Dignified.”

Femi stared up at him.

The Devil looked down at her. Small. Very small. Daemon pointed toward himself.

“Very.”

She rolled her eyes. The Devil was beginning to like that too. Together they made their way toward the porch. Daemon leaned heavily against her. Too heavily.

The Devil noticed.

Weight.

Daemon tried to correct. Poorly. Femi struggled beneath him.

“You’re small.”

Her head snapped toward him. The Devil considered her.

“Tiny.”

She glared.

Daemon’s drunken thoughts contributed something ridiculous.

Pocket.

The Devil liked it.

“Pocket woman.”

Femi shoved him. Daemon laughed. The sound carried across the dark yard. The Devil felt her against his side. Safe. Home. They reached the porch. Femi dug through his jacket pocket for the keys. Her fingers brushed something hard.

The Devil snapped to attention.

No.

A small box. Femi paused. Daemon looked down.

“What?”

She touched it again.

The Devil covered her hand with Daemon’s.

“No.”

Not angry. Not harsh. Just— not yet. Femi immediately withdrew. The Devil stared at the pocket. The ring. Two years. Daemon’s fear. His question. His future.

“Not yet.”

She tilted her head.

“Later.”

The Devil meant that.

Later.

When Daemon was sober. When he could kneel without falling over. When Femi understood every word. When the choice was entirely hers. Femi found the keys in the opposite pocket. She opened the door.

Getting Daemon inside proved easier than getting him through the parking lot. Barely. He kicked off one boot. The second refused to cooperate.

The Devil stared at it.

Enemy.

Daemon glared.

“Traitor.”

Femi knelt. The Devil reacted immediately.

“No.”

She looked up.

“I got it.”

Daemon bent down. Bad decision. The room moved. He nearly fell. Femi caught his knee. Daemon sat heavily on the floor. For several seconds they stared at one another.

The Devil assessed. No injury. Femi’s mouth twitched.

Do not.

“Don’t.”

Her shoulders shook.

“I said don’t.”

She laughed silently. The Devil stared.

Worth it.

Daemon leaned back against the wall. His defeated expression only made it worse.

“Cruel woman.”

Femi pulled off his boot. Then stood and offered him both hands. The Devil looked at them.

Take them.

Daemon did. Femi pulled. Nothing happened. Daemon remained sitting. She frowned. The Devil watched her try again. Tiny. Determined. Ridiculous.

Daemon smiled.

“Tiny.”

Femi yanked harder. The Devil allowed one more second. Then Daemon pushed himself upright. She slapped his chest.

The Devil caught her hand.

Again.

This time neither moved. The world quieted. Daemon’s drunken thoughts sank away. The Devil became completely aware. Her palm rested against his chest. Over his heart. Warm. Trusting. Femi looked up. The Devil looked down.

It felt Daemon’s heartbeat beneath her hand.

Slow.

Heavy.

The humor disappeared from his face.

The Devil understood something then. Something it had been trying to understand all night.

“You make it quiet.”

Femi stopped.

Daemon’s thumb brushed her wrist.

“In here.”

His free hand touched his temple. Femi’s expression softened. The Devil searched for language. Words were Daemon’s things. Clumsy. Insufficient.

“Usually…”

His eyes closed.

Loud.

The Devil. Memories. Blood. Commands. Instinct. Everything.

“Loud.”

Femi didn’t understand. Not fully. The Devil opened Daemon’s eyes again.

“When you’re around…”

It looked at her. No Sherri. No warehouse. No screams. No old rooms. No red wallpaper. No perfume. No voices. 

Just Femi.

“A long pause.”

No. Wrong.

The Devil tried again.

“Quiet.”

Femi stared.

“Good quiet.”

Her throat tightened. The Devil saw it. It had told her something Daemon had never managed to tell anyone. Maybe something Daemon did not entirely understand himself.

Femi made the Devil quiet. Not gone. Never gone. Quiet. Content to watch. Content to wait. Content simply to exist beneath the same skin while she stood nearby.

The Devil released her hand. Daemon made it three steps toward the sofa.Femi followed. He dropped onto it.

Malone had instructed her to leave a bucket nearby. She fetched one from beneath the kitchen sink.

The Devil saw it when she returned.

Daemon’s pride surfaced through the alcohol.

“I told you.”

Femi placed it beside the sofa.

“I don’t vomit.”

She patted his shoulder. The Devil liked the touch. Daemon scowled.

“Everybody thinks I’m drunk.”

Femi stared at him.

“You too?”

She nodded.

“Betrayal.”

Femi pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa. Daemon watched her unfold it. The Devil watched too. She draped it over him. Warm. Her scent clung faintly to the fabric from other nights sitting there. The Devil noticed.

Femi began to step away. Something inside it tightened.

No.

Daemon’s hand caught the edge of the blanket.

“You leaving?”

The question stopped her. She shook her head. The Devil stared.

“No?”

Another shake.

Something inside Daemon relaxed.

The Devil relaxed with it.

Stay.

Femi pointed toward the kitchen.

Water.

Daemon’s sluggish consciousness surfaced.

“I know where water is.”

She went anyway. The Devil watched until she disappeared. One second. Two. Three. Four. Footsteps. Returning. There. Femi placed the glass on the table. She stood over him for a moment. The Devil watched through barely opened eyes.

She thought he was sleeping. Not yet. She turned away.

“Femi.”

She stopped.

Daemon’s eyes remained closed. The Devil had one more thing to say.

“Don’t listen to her.”

Femi waited.

“About me.”

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the blanket. The Devil did not want Sherri writing Daemon’s history for Femi. Did not want her turning blood into romance. Violence into devotion. Damage into passion.

“Ask me.”

Femi looked back.

“If you want to know something…”

Daemon’s voice weakened.

“Ask me.”

Femi’s expression softened.

She nodded although Daemon couldn’t see it.

The Devil did.

Good.

Daemon became still. Femi started toward the hallway. The Devil felt the distance immediately.

“Little ghost.”

She looked back. His breathing had slowed. The whiskey was finally pulling even the Devil downward. But one thought remained. 

One truth.

“You’re better.”

Femi frowned.

Better than what?

Sherri. New Faun. Violence. Noise. Perfume. Hands the Devil never wanted.

A past Daemon once mistook for love.

All of it.

“Better than all that.”

Daemon’s eyes remained closed. Femi stood in the dark living room and watched him. Then she came back. The Devil felt her before she touched him. Her fingers moved his hair away from his face. Daemon leaned almost imperceptibly into her palm.

The Devil did not withdraw. It moved closer. Femi froze. She thought he was asleep. He nearly was.

Her thumb brushed once across the scar on his cheek. The Devil went still. Then she bent. Her lips touched the scar. The smallest kiss.

Everything stopped. No recoil. No retreat. No disgust at being touched. No instinct demanding distance.

The Devil had spent years disappearing when women touched Daemon. Sherri’s perfume. Sherri’s hands. Sherri’s mouth. Other women. Other beds. It had left those things to Daemon.

But this— Femi’s palm against his cheek. Her lips against his scar. Her scent lingering above him. The Devil did not leave.

It surfaced through the whiskey one final time. Not enough to move Daemon. Not enough to open his eyes.Only enough to recognize what had happened.

Little ghost.

Femi pulled the blanket higher over his shoulders. She turned off the lamp. Darkness settled over the room. The Devil listened.

Her footsteps moved away.

Not toward the front door. Toward the hallway. She was staying. Something inside Daemon loosened. The Devil followed her footsteps until they disappeared into the house.

Then, for the first time that night, its vigilance eased. No threats. No Sherri. No irritating voice. No wrong perfume. No hands it wanted to escape.

Only Femi.

Inside their house.

Choosing to stay.

The Devil settled beneath Daemon’s skin.

Quiet.

Good quiet.

And for the first time in years, Daemon Pallid slept in a house where someone had chosen to stay.

The Devil slept too.

The next morning, Marta arrived at Helix just after breakfast to collect Femi for the farmer’s market.

Her old truck announced itself before it came into view, rattling along the road with a protesting engine and something loose beneath the hood.

Femi was already waiting near the front door with two empty baskets looped over one arm. She wore a pale-blue summer dress beneath one of Daemon’s oversized black shirts, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her midnight hair had been gathered into a long braid that fell down her back.

Daemon watched from his corner table.

So did the Devil.

Blue.

Daemon lifted his coffee.

The Devil had become oddly opinionated about colors lately.

Pretty.

“I know.”

Femi glanced toward him. Daemon realized he had spoken aloud. Her eyebrow lifted. He drank his coffee.

The Devil was pleased with itself.

She heard us.

Malone had disappeared into his office after another argument with him, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the liquor bottles behind the bar.

That left Daemon alone with his coffee.

And Sherri.

The Devil had been complaining about that arrangement since she came downstairs.

She is still here.

Yes.

Why?

Information.

We have gotten very little.

Daemon agreed.

Sherri had left her jacket draped over a chair in the main room before wandering into the kitchen dressed in nothing but a black tube top and biker shorts. She returned carrying a fresh cup of coffee she had not made for anyone but herself, then leaned one hip against the counter.

Her eyes moved over Daemon slowly.

He wore a sleeveless black shirt, leaving his scarred arms exposed. His long blond hair was still damp from the shower, and the hard planes of his face suggested he had awakened in no better mood than the one in which he had gone to bed.

The Devil had awakened in an excellent mood.

Femi had stayed.

That fact seemed sufficient.

Little ghost stayed.

Daemon drank.

I noticed.

She kissed us.

His cup stopped halfway to his mouth.

“We were asleep.”

Mostly.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. The Devil settled smugly beneath his ribs. It had been thinking about that kiss all morning. Fingers moving his hair. Her palm against his cheek. Her thumb against his scar.

Then— soft.

Warm.

Her mouth.

The Devil had not withdrawn.

That mattered.

It did not entirely understand why.

It simply knew that when Sherri touched Daemon, it wanted distance.

When Femi touched him, distance became intolerable.

Sherri smiled.

“Do you remember that time in Neo Vegas?”

The Devil’s pleasant mood disappeared.

Unfortunately.

Daemon did not look up from his coffee.

“You beat up two men for looking at me.” She laughed softly. “They didn’t even touch me. One of them smiled, and you broke his jaw.”

The Devil remembered immediately. Two men. Gray sedan. Three blocks. Same turn twice. One reached beneath his jacket. The other moved behind Daemon.

Following.

No jealousy. No wounded male pride. Threat assessment. Simple.

“You were always so jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

Sherri’s smile widened.

“No?”

“They were following us.”

“That isn’t how I remember it.”

The Devil almost laughed.

She never noticed anything.

“You rarely remembered anything correctly.”

Sherri ignored the insult and pushed away from the counter. She crossed the room slowly, making certain he had ample opportunity to look at her.

He did not.

The Devil did. Only because threats required observation. Hands empty. No weapon visible. Bare legs. No ankle holster. Waist exposed. No obvious blade. Perfume approaching. The Devil recoiled before she reached him.

No.

Outside, Marta’s truck turned into the parking lot. Femi stepped away from the door. Daemon’s gaze lifted immediately.

The Devil had already found her.

There.

Sherri noticed.

Her smile tightened, but she continued toward him and sat in the chair beside his. Close beside him. Too close. Her bare thigh pressed against his jeans. The Devil pulled inward.

Move.

Daemon remained still. Her perfume overwhelmed the scent of his coffee. The Devil recoiled harder.

Wrong.

Twelve years had done nothing to improve it.

“Listen, Demon,” she murmured.

The Devil bristled.

And that.

“I don’t know why you’re following that waitress around like a lost puppy.”

Daemon’s hand stilled around his cup. The Devil went silent. Not withdrawn. Listening. Sherri mistook his silence for permission.

“She obviously isn’t giving you what you need.”

The Devil stared at her.

What do we need?

Daemon almost smiled. Apparently Sherri knew. Her gaze slid toward the window, where Femi was walking to the truck.

“Not like I did.”

The Devil’s disgust sharpened.

Nothing.

Her fingers settled on Daemon’s bare arm. The Devil vanished from the contact. Immediate. Complete.

No.

She slowly traced the dark ink beneath his skin. Daemon looked down at her hand. Sherri smiled at the warning in his eyes as though it were something intimate. The Devil hated that too. She had always done it. Mistaken danger for invitation. Silence for desire. Tolerance for affection. Withdrawal for surrender.

“I know you remember how hot and heavy we were,” she whispered. “You could never get enough of me.”

The Devil almost choked on its own contempt.

I could.

Sherri laughed softly. The sound grated.

Still irritating.

Daemon did not laugh.

Outside, Marta leaned across the truck and pushed open the passenger door. Femi placed the baskets inside. Then paused before climbing in. She looked toward Helix. Through the window, her green eyes found Daemon. The Devil immediately moved forward again.

Little ghost.

Sherri’s fingers were still resting on his arm. Femi’s expression did not change. Daemon might once have missed it. The Devil did not. Her mouth tightened. Barely. Her gaze dropped. Sherri’s hand. Then returned to Daemon’s face. Distance entered her eyes.

The Devil disliked it instantly.

No.

Femi stepped into the truck. Daemon removed Sherri’s hand from his arm. The Devil returned immediately.

Better.

“We were,” he said.

Sherri leaned closer.

“What?”

His gray eyes remained fixed on Femi.

“We were hot and heavy.”

A pleased smile spread across Sherri’s face.

The Devil watched it.

Wait.

Daemon finally looked at her. His expression killed it.

“As in, we are not anymore.”

The Devil purred.

Good.

Sherri’s mouth tightened.

“Either you have information about the people hunting you, or you can get out.”

Her face changed.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“After everything we were to each other?”

“That ended years ago.”

“Because I left.”

Daemon’s eyes hardened.

“Because you came back only when you needed something.”

The Devil corrected silently.

And because I hate you.

Daemon almost sighed.

Yes.

That too.

Pain flashed across Sherri’s face. Whether it was genuine or carefully summoned, Daemon could no longer tell. The Devil did not care.

Useful or gone.

Sherri pulled her hand back.

“I came here because I knew you would protect me.”

“You came because you knew I could.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes.”

A large one. The Devil understood that now. Protection was not ownership. Need was not love. Violence was not devotion. Femi had somehow taught it all three without ever saying a word.

Outside, Marta shifted the truck into reverse. Femi glanced toward the window once more. Daemon held her gaze.

Smile.

She did not. The Devil disliked that. She gave him a small wave. Almost reluctant. Daemon lifted two fingers from his cup. The truck backed out of its space. His eyes followed it.

So did the Devil.

Come back.

Sherri watched him watching Femi.

“She’s a child.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened.

“She’s twenty-four.”

“And mute.”

Everything inside him stopped. The Devil turned. Slowly.

Careful.

Daemon’s head followed. Sherri saw the warning then. She should have stopped. Instead, jealousy sharpened her voice.

“What are you going to do with someone like that, Demon? Sit around exchanging meaningful looks for the rest of your life?”

The Devil considered.

Yes.

Daemon nearly laughed.

Sherri continued.

“Seriously. What can she possibly—”

Daemon placed his coffee on the table.

Click.

Sherri recoiled.

The Devil was no longer amused.

Do not speak about her.

Daemon’s voice followed.

“You don’t speak about her.”

Sherri stared.

“She can’t give you what I gave you.”

The Devil’s answer came first.

Good.

“I don’t want what you gave me.”

The words landed without anger. That made them worse. Sherri’s face reddened.

“You wanted it before.”

“I wanted a lot of things before I knew what they cost.”

The Devil remembered the price. Fire. Blood. Isolation. Noise. A woman who loved what Daemon could destroy and had never once asked what destruction cost him.

“And now you want her?”

Daemon looked through the window again. Marta’s truck reached the road and turned toward the market. Femi’s midnight braid disappeared from sight as the vehicle passed behind the trees. The Devil followed until there was nothing left to see.

Yes.

Daemon said nothing. The answer disturbed him more than he expected. Not because it was wrong. Because it was simple.

Yes.

He wanted Femi. Not merely her body. Not merely her presence. Her mornings. Her books. Her bread. Her bare feet on his floors. Her terrible driving. Her almost-laugh. Her hand on his scar. Her choice.

The Devil settled beneath the thought.

All of it.

Daemon lifted his coffee.

Sherri studied his profile.

She knew Daemon’s silences.

Once, she had understood their different shapes: the silence that came before violence, the silence of boredom, the silence he used when deciding whether someone would live until morning.

What Sherri had never understood were the silences that belonged to the Devil.

The ones when it withdrew from her. The ones when her touch made it disappear. The ones when it waited beneath Daemon’s skin for her perfume to fade. This was none of those.

The Devil was fully present now. Watching an empty road. Waiting for Femi to return. Stillness without anger. Attention without suspicion.

A quiet Sherri had never seen before because she had never created it.

Femi had.

Sherri rose from the chair.

“You’re going soft.”

Daemon lifted his coffee.

“No.”

The Devil smiled.

No.

Soft was not the word. The Devil could still remember exactly how to break a man’s neck. Femi had not taken that away. She had simply given it reasons not to.

Sherri waited for more.

None came.

He had spent the night listening to her whisper about their past. He had let her drape herself against him while whiskey blurred the room and old memories loosened beneath his skin.

What Sherri did not know was that the Devil had spent the entire night recoiling from her. Then Femi had slipped beneath Daemon’s arm. And it had spoken.

Little ghost.

Now, sober beneath the morning light, Sherri could barely persuade him to look at her. She glanced toward the empty road. The little waitress had done nothing. She had not flirted. Had not challenged her. Had not needed to say a single word.

Still, Daemon’s attention had followed her out of Helix as faithfully as a shadow.

For the first time since returning to Ravenside, Sherri felt something colder than jealousy settle in her stomach.

Fear.

---

Fear.

Sherri Dream had known fear before. She had known it in hotel rooms when men outside argued over money. She had known it in the back seat of cars moving too quickly through Neo Vegas.

She had known it while standing outside a burning warehouse, watching flames consume steel and timber while smoke turned the night black.

She had known it when men with expensive suits and dead eyes told her never to speak Daemon Pallid’s name again.

But this was different. This fear wore a pale-blue dress. It carried empty baskets. It had green eyes and no voice. And it had done something Sherri had once believed impossible. It had made Daemon want something other than destruction.

Sherri stared through the window long after Marta’s truck disappeared.

“You love her.”

Daemon’s coffee stopped halfway to his mouth. The Devil stilled.

Daemon did too.

Love.

He had avoided that word.

The Devil had not bothered naming what was happening. It knew only that Femi leaving made it restless. Femi returning made it settle. Her fear made it murderous. Her touch made it quiet. Her smile made it want another. Her sadness made it want names. Her scent meant home.

Her choice mattered more than possession.

Love?

The Devil considered.

Yes.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

Sherri saw it.

There. Not surprise. Not denial. Just the smallest tightening. She smiled bitterly.

“My God.”

Daemon drank.

“You actually love her.”

Yes.

“Sherri.”

“You do.”

We do.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the cup. That was new. He did not argue.

Sherri watched him.

“Does she know?”

Daemon’s eyes lifted.

The Devil became quiet.

Sherri’s smile changed.

A weakness.

Finally.

Something she understood.

“She doesn’t.”

Do not.

“Leave it alone.”

“Have you told her?”

“Sherri.”

“Does she even know what you are?”

The chair moved backward. Daemon stood. The Devil rose with him. Sherri instinctively stepped away.

Good.

He didn’t approach her.

That somehow made the warning worse.

“You’re staying here because somebody may be trying to kill you.”

His voice remained quiet.

“That bought you a roof. It didn’t buy you permission to interfere in my life.”

“I am part of your life.”

“No.”

The Devil answered with him.

No.

Sherri stared.

“You don’t get to erase me.”

“I didn’t.”

Daemon picked up his coffee.

“You’re part of my past.”

Where you belong.

Her face tightened.

“There’s a difference.”

He walked toward the bar. Sherri watched him go. Once, she could have stopped him with a touch. A word. A promise whispered against his ear. The Devil remembered those things. And remembered withdrawing from every one.

Now he left her standing beside an empty chair while his attention remained fixed on a woman who wasn’t even in the building.

Sherri looked toward the road again. The fear deepened. Because jealousy could be fought. Desire could be manipulated. Sex could be competed with. Sherri knew those weapons. She had spent most of her life learning them.

But Femi wasn’t using any of them.

That was the problem.

---

The Riverward farmers market was already crowded when Marta found parking.

Femi climbed from the truck with both baskets. Marta killed the engine. The truck continued rattling for another three seconds. Femi looked at it.

Marta pointed a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

Femi’s mouth curved.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Femi widened her eyes innocently.

“She has character.”

Femi looked at the rust along the hood.

Marta gasped.

“You’re becoming mean.”

Femi laughed silently.

“Daemon’s influence.”

At his name, Femi’s smile faded slightly. Marta noticed. She climbed from the truck.

“What?”

Nothing.

“Bullshit.”

Femi adjusted the baskets over her arm. Marta came around the hood.

“What happened?”

Femi shook her head.

Nothing happened.

“You looked back at Helix three times.”

Twice.

“Three.”

Femi frowned.

“Fine. Twice.”

Marta linked her arm through Femi’s.

“Sherri?”

Femi didn’t answer. That was enough.

They entered the market.

Riverward on Saturday mornings existed in another world from Wolfwater.

Canvas awnings stretched over rows of produce. Vendors called prices above the crowd. Children ran between adults carrying pastries and fruit. Music drifted from somewhere near the flower stalls.

Femi usually loved it.

Today she barely noticed. She selected tomatoes. Peppers. Onions. Fresh herbs. Marta watched her squeeze an avocado hard enough to threaten its future.

“You know she wants you jealous.”

Femi stopped. Marta took the avocado from her.

“And this innocent vegetable has done nothing to deserve your anger.”

Femi glared.

“I’m serious.”

Femi placed another avocado in the basket.

I am not jealous.

Marta laughed.

Femi glared harder.

“All right.”

Marta raised both hands.

“Not jealous.”

Femi nodded.

“Furious.”

Femi considered it. Then nodded again.

“That’s better.”

They continued walking.

After several stalls, Femi signed:

She touches him constantly.

Marta snorted.

“I noticed.”

He lets her.

Marta’s expression changed.

“That bothers you.”

Femi looked away. Marta didn’t dismiss it. She understood why. Daemon had spent years teaching Femi to notice his attention. The corner table. The whiskey. The eyes that followed her across Helix. His quiet interventions. His ridiculous habit of appearing whenever she needed something before she had asked.

Then Sherri had arrived carrying history Femi could never compete with because Femi had not been there to live it.

Marta chose her words carefully.

“Daemon has history with her.”

Femi’s mouth tightened.

“A lot of it.”

Femi looked down.

“But history isn’t the same thing as wanting it back.”

Femi’s hands moved.

She knows things about him I don’t.

“Yes.”

Femi looked at her.

Marta didn’t soften the truth.

“She probably knows hundreds of things about him you don’t.”

Femi’s face fell slightly.

“And you know things she doesn’t.”

Femi frowned.

“Like what he looks like when he’s trying not to smile.”

Her expression changed.

“What books he’ll pretend he doesn’t want and then finish in two nights.”

Femi’s mouth twitched.

“How he takes his coffee now.”

Marta emphasized the last word.

“Now.”

Femi became thoughtful.

Marta touched her arm.

“Don’t compete with a dead relationship.”

Femi looked toward her.

“You’ll exhaust yourself trying to defeat something that already lost.”

They reached the flower stalls. Femi stopped. Black orchids. Her eyes went immediately to them. Marta followed her gaze.

“Of course.”

Femi touched one delicate petal.

Daemon.

Everything had become Daemon lately. Books. Whiskey glasses. Motorcycles. Black flowers. Scarred hands. Gray eyes. Quiet corners. The smell of leather.

A crooked smile appearing where nobody else could see it.

And now—

Sherri.

Femi withdrew her hand.

Marta studied her.

“You care about him.”

Femi’s hands remained still. She didn’t need them. Marta understood.

“Yeah.”

They walked on.

---

Back at Helix, Malone emerged from his office carrying paperwork and irritation.

He saw Sherri first.

Then Daemon.

Then Sherri watching Daemon.

“No.”

The Devil approved.

Malone.

Sherri threw up her hands.

“What now?”

The Devil winced internally.

Her voice.

“Whatever you’re planning.”

“I am standing here.”

“You’ve caused disasters with less.”

Daemon drank his coffee. The Devil agreed with Malone on principle. Malone looked at him.

“You’re still here?”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“I own part of this place.”

“Unfortunately.”

Malone walked behind the bar.

Sherri followed.

“I need clothes.”

“Buy some.”

“With what?”

Malone stopped. He looked slowly toward her.

“You came here without money?”

“I left in a hurry.”

“Of course you did.”

“My things are at the hotel.”

“Then go get them.”

Sherri’s face changed.

“I can’t.”

Daemon looked up.

The Devil did too.

Malone caught it.

“Why?”

Sherri crossed her arms.

“I told you. They’re looking for me.”

“Who?”

“I’ll explain when I’m sure we’re safe.”

The Devil stirred.

Still nothing useful.

Malone laughed.

“You’ve been here all night.”

“And nobody followed me.”

“That you know of.”

Sherri went pale. Daemon watched. The Devil watched harder.

Real.

That fear was real.

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You hadn’t considered that.”

Her eyes moved toward the windows.

The Devil assessed them too. Front. Side. Rear. No movement. No vehicles lingering. No faces where they should not be.

“Which hotel?” Daemon asked.

Sherri hesitated.

“Riverview Hotel.”

Malone swore.

Daemon stood.

“No.”

Sherri looked at him.

“You don’t go back.”

“My things—”

“Replace them.”

“With what money?”

Daemon reached into his pocket. Sherri’s expression softened instantly. The Devil recognized it.

There.

Familiar territory. Money. Protection. Daemon fixing everything. The old pattern opened beneath his hand. Cash. Clothes. Hotel. Threat. Blood. Done. The Devil remembered how easily they used to move through that sequence.

She expects us to fix it.

Yes.

Like before.

Daemon slowly returned the money to his pocket.

The Devil approved.

Sherri’s expression faltered.

“Malone.”

Malone looked at him.

“Give her an advance.”

“On what?”

“Work.”

The Devil paused.

Then understood. It liked this considerably more.

Sherri stared.

“What?”

Daemon looked at her.

“You need money.”

“You want me to work here?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t bartend.”

“Learn.”

Her mouth opened. The Devil recoiled in anticipation of whatever sound was coming next. Malone started laughing. Daemon ignored him.

“You need clothes, food, somewhere to stay.”

Sherri’s face reddened.

“You have money.”

“I do.”

“You used to give me anything I asked for.”

“That was part of the problem.”

The Devil went very still.

Yes.

It had not understood that then.

Daemon had given. Sherri had taken.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The Devil had hated her hands without understanding why.

Now it did.

Malone’s laughter stopped.

Sherri stared at Daemon.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

Daemon glanced around Helix.

The Devil looked too.

Tables.

Floor.

Kitchen.

Hallway.

Bathrooms.

Bathrooms.

“Clean.”

Malone turned away because his face was becoming dangerous.

Sherri looked horrified.

“Clean?”

The Devil was delighted.

“Bathrooms need doing.”

Malone made a strangled noise. Daemon looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Sherri’s face had become crimson.

“You want me cleaning toilets?”

The Devil settled back, immensely satisfied.

Yes.

“You want money.”

“I came to you for help.”

“And I’m helping.”

“This is humiliating.”

Daemon shrugged.

“Being broke usually is.”

The Devil had no sympathy. Sherri stared at him as though someone had replaced the man she remembered overnight.

Maybe someone had.

The old Daemon would have emptied his wallet. Bought clothes. Paid the hotel. Found the threat. Killed it. Asked questions afterward. This Daemon had boundaries.

Femi had boundaries. Choice. Consequences. Apparently those things were contagious. Sherri hated boundaries. The Devil liked them. Especially around Sherri.

“I can’t believe you.”

Daemon returned to his table.

“That makes two of us.”

Malone waited until Sherri stormed toward the hallway.

The Devil listened until her footsteps disappeared.

Better.

Then Malone leaned toward Daemon.

“I’ve never been prouder of you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bathrooms.”

Daemon lifted his coffee.

“She needs money.”

Malone grinned.

“You are a cruel, beautiful bastard.”

Daemon almost smiled.

Then his eyes moved toward the front window. The road remained empty. The Devil had already checked it.

Malone noticed.

“They’ve been gone forty minutes.”

Daemon looked at him.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No.”

Malone began polishing a glass.

“You’ve only checked the road twelve times.”

Daemon’s expression flattened.

The Devil corrected automatically.

Thirteen.

“Thirteen.”

Malone blinked. Daemon realized what he had done.

The Devil was pleased.

Malone laughed.

---

At the market, Femi bought strawberries. She didn’t intend to. She passed the stall. Stopped. Walked backward. Looked at them. Then bought two baskets. Marta watched the entire process.

“Those for Helix?”

Femi nodded. Marta stared. Femi stared back.

“Sure.”

They moved on.

Femi bought flour.Fresh butter. Apples. Honey. Then another loaf of bread from an elderly woman who had been selling there longer than Femi had lived in Ravenside.

The baskets became heavy. Marta took one. Femi protested.

“You’re five feet of stubbornness carrying half a farm.”

Femi frowned.

“Give it.”

She surrendered the basket. They were approaching the truck when Marta stopped.

Femi nearly walked into her.

What?

Marta wasn’t looking at her. She was looking across the parking area. Two men stood near a dark sedan. Neither carried market bags. Neither appeared interested in produce. One was watching Femi. Marta’s expression changed. Femi followed her gaze. The first man looked away.

Too late.

Marta placed the basket down.

“Get in the truck.”

Femi looked at her.

“Now.”

The second man started walking. Not toward them. At first. Then his direction changed. Femi’s heartbeat quickened.

Marta opened her jacket.

The first man called out.

“Femi?”

She froze.

Marta stepped in front of her.

“Truck.”

The second man smiled.

“We just want to talk.”

Marta’s hand disappeared beneath her jacket.

“Then talk from there.”

The men exchanged a glance. That was enough. Marta turned slightly.

“Femi.”

Femi backed toward the passenger door. The first man moved faster. Marta moved with him.

“Bad choice.”

He stopped. People around them were beginning to notice. A vendor looked up. An older couple slowed. The market suddenly offered too many witnesses.

The man smiled again.

“Wrong girl.”

Marta’s expression did not change.

“Then you won’t mind leaving.”

They did.

Slowly.

No running.

No confrontation. They climbed into the sedan. Marta memorized the plate. The car pulled away. Femi stood beside the truck. Her hands had begun trembling. Marta immediately turned toward her.

“Hey.”

Femi looked at her.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

Marta didn’t believe her.

Neither did Femi.

“Get in.”

Femi climbed into the passenger seat. Marta loaded the baskets into the back without caring what bruised. Then she got behind the wheel. Femi touched her arm.

Helix?

“No.”

Femi frowned.

Marta started the truck.

“We’re not going back to Helix.”

Where?

Marta pulled onto the road.

“Daemon.”

Femi’s eyes widened.

Marta glanced at her.

“Those men knew your name.”

Femi looked through the rear window.

The sedan was gone.

“That means I’m not guessing.”

She reached for her phone. Femi caught her wrist. Marta looked at her.

Don’t call him.

“Why?”

Femi hesitated.

Marta’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

Femi looked down.

Because he’ll kill them.

Marta considered this.

“Yes.”

Femi stared.

“Probably.”

Marta took her phone back.

“But I’m still calling him.”

Femi shook her head urgently.

“Femi.”

Please.

Marta looked at her. Really looked. Fear was there. But not fear of the men. Fear of what Daemon would become when he heard. Marta understood. She put the phone down.

“All right.”

Femi relaxed slightly.

“I won’t call him.”

Thank you.

Marta shifted gears.

“We’ll tell him in person.”

Femi’s eyes widened. Marta smiled without humor.

“I didn’t say I was stupid.”

---

At Helix, Daemon looked toward the road for the fourteenth time. The Devil had stopped counting for amusement. Now it counted because something was wrong.

Malone saw Daemon look. Said nothing. Daemon drank the last of his coffee. The Devil shifted restlessly inside him.

Something’s wrong.

Daemon frowned.

Nothing’s wrong.

Something is wrong.

Forty-three minutes.

Market. Marta. Crowds. Femi. Safe enough.

No.

Daemon looked toward the road again.

Empty.

Find her.

“She’s with Marta.”

Find her.

“They’re at the market.”

Too long.

Daemon’s fingers tightened around the cup.

The Devil was not panicking.

The Devil did not panic. It calculated. Time. Distance. Possible routes. Market exits. Traffic. Number of men required to take Femi if Marta was armed.

How quickly Daemon could reach Riverward.

How many people he would have to hurt before someone gave him an answer.

Behind him, Sherri emerged from the hallway holding a mop like it had personally insulted her ancestors.

“This is degrading.”

Neither man answered.

Sherri dropped the mop against the wall.

“I am not doing bathrooms.”

Malone continued polishing a glass.

“Then you’re not getting paid.”

She looked toward Daemon. He was no longer listening. His eyes remained fixed on the window.

The Devil had gone quiet. Not peaceful. Listening. Waiting. Sherri followed his gaze. Nothing was there.

“What are you looking for?”

Daemon didn’t answer.

The Devil did.

Her.

Then— faintly— an engine rattled in the distance.

The Devil recognized it.

There.

Daemon stood before Marta’s truck appeared. Malone looked up. Sherri stopped speaking. The old truck turned onto the road.

Daemon’s shoulders eased. For half a second.

The Devil found Femi through the windshield.

Alive.

Then Marta. Her face. Wrong.

The Devil sharpened.

Something happened.

The truck entered the lot. Femi sat beside her. Safe. Alive. Daemon saw that first. The Devil saw everything else. Hands locked together in her lap.Too tight. Shoulders rigid. No smile. Eyes down. Fear. The Devil became cold.

Marta parked. Daemon was already moving.

The Devil moved with him. Door. Lot. Truck. Femi. Nothing else mattered. Femi climbed down. Daemon reached her before her feet fully touched the ground.

His hands settled on her arms. The Devil took inventory. Face. No bruising. Throat. Clear. Shoulders.Clothing intact. Hands. No blood.No abrasions. Eyes.

Afraid.

“Are you hurt?”

Femi shook her head.

The Devil did not believe answers until it verified them.

Daemon’s hands moved slightly.

Arms.

Ribs.

No visible injury.

“What happened?”

Nothing.

Liar.

Daemon looked at Marta.

Marta sighed.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“What happened?”

Femi caught his arm. The Devil registered the touch. Femi. Safe. Still here. But it did not look away from Marta.

“Two men approached her at the market.”

The Devil opened its eyes. Everything changed. Helix disappeared. Sherri disappeared. Morning disappeared. There were only two men. Unknown. Approached Femi. At Riverward. Public place.

Bold.

Names.

Daemon became completely still.

Behind him, Helix went quiet. Sherri stood inside the doorway. Watching. Daemon’s voice dropped.

“What men?”

Marta reached into her pocket.

“I got the plate.”

The Devil smiled.

Not pleasantly.

Good, Marta.

Daemon held out his hand. Femi grabbed it. He looked down. Her green eyes met his.

No.

The Devil stared.

No?

“Femi.”

No.

“They knew her name,” Marta said.

The Devil stopped smiling. Daemon’s eyes snapped toward her. They knew her name. Not random. Not mistaken. Not opportunistic.

Targeted.

The Devil began building the hunt.

Plate. Registration. Address. Family. Employer. Known associates. Find the weaker one. Separate them. Ask once. Break something. Ask again.

Give me the plate.

“Give me the plate.”

Femi stepped between them. The Devil looked down at her. She placed both hands against Daemon’s chest.

No killing.

The Devil almost laughed.

They knew your name.

Daemon’s jaw tightened.

“They knew your name.”

I know.

“They approached you.”

I know.

“They followed you.”

We don’t know that.

The Devil did.

“I do.”

Femi shook her head.

Daemon leaned closer.

“Move.”

No.

“Little ghost.”

No.

The Devil pressed hard against Daemon’s ribs.

Move her.

Daemon’s answer was immediate.

Never.

The Devil stopped. Not because it agreed. Because that rule was absolute. Never move Femi like an obstacle. Never make her fear his hands. Never turn protection into imprisonment. Femi stared up at him. Behind the anger in his eyes she saw something else.

Fear.

The Devil hated that word. But it was there. Cold and vicious. The possibility of arriving too late. An empty truck. A dropped basket. Her blood somewhere he had not been.

No.

Femi lifted her hand.

Her fingers touched the scar on his cheek. The Devil went silent. Instantly. Everything narrowed to that touch. Scar. Warm fingers. Green eyes.

Little ghost.

Femi signed slowly.

I am here.

The Devil looked at her.

Alive.

Here.

Touching them.

Choosing to stand directly in front of everything violent inside Daemon because she trusted it not to come through her.

The Devil eased backward. Not gone. Leashed. Daemon swallowed. His eyes closed for one second beneath her hand. When they opened again, the violence remained. But it had changed shape.

Information first.

“Give me the plate.”

Marta handed it over. Femi glared. Marta shrugged.

“He asked nicely.”

The Devil approved of Marta again.

Daemon looked at the number. Memorized it. Once. Enough. Then folded the paper and put it into his pocket.

Femi pointed at him.

No killing.

The Devil immediately objected.

No.

Daemon stared at her.

“I heard you.”

Promise.

The Devil went still.

Daemon’s expression hardened. Femi waited.

Do not promise.

He looked away. That was answer enough. She crossed her arms. The Devil watched her. Angry. Alive. Here.

“Don’t.”

Her eyebrow rose.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You didn’t have to.

The Devil almost smiled.

Daemon almost followed.

Then Sherri spoke from the doorway.

“What happened?”

The Devil’s amusement vanished.

Her voice.

Daemon turned.

Sherri stood wearing his old leather jacket again.

The Devil stared.

Take that off.

The sight of it suddenly irritated Daemon too. Her gaze moved from Daemon to Femi. Then to Marta.

“Was someone following you?”

The Devil stopped. Marta’s eyes narrowed. Daemon noticed. Femi noticed. The Devil had already dissected the sentence.

Following. Not bothering. Not approaching. Not threatening. Following. 

Interesting.

Sherri realized her mistake a fraction too late. Daemon turned fully toward her.

“We didn’t say they were following anyone.”

Sherri froze. Silence settled over the parking lot. The Devil loved silence. Especially this kind. Malone appeared behind her. His expression changed as he looked from Sherri to Daemon.

Then Femi. Then back. Sherri swallowed.

“I assumed.”

Liar.

Daemon stared.

The Devil watched her body. Shoulders. Hands. Eyes. Breathing.

“You said two men approached her. What else was I supposed to think?”

Too many words.

Defensive.

The Devil knew fear. It knew lies better. Daemon said nothing. Femi watched Sherri’s hands. No trembling now. No fear. Not until Daemon took one slow step toward her. Then it returned.

“Demon.”

The Devil moved beneath his skin.

Ask her.

He stopped. Sherri’s blue eyes widened.

“I don’t know anything about this.”

The Devil smiled.

There.

Nobody had accused her.

Not yet.

Again.

Femi’s gaze moved to Daemon. He had noticed. Malone stepped into the doorway.

“Well.”

His voice was very quiet.

“That was an interesting thing to say.”

The Devil almost purred.

Malone heard it too.

Sherri looked between them.

“I meant—”

Daemon raised one hand. She stopped.

Good.

The Devil preferred her quiet. His other hand remained at his side. Then Femi slipped her fingers into it. Everything inside him shifted.

The Devil looked down.

Her hand. Small. Warm. Steady now. Not trembling. She did not hide behind him. She did not ask him to stand in front of her. She stepped beside him. The Devil understood the distinction immediately.

Beside.

Daemon closed his fingers around hers. Carefully. Sherri watched. The Devil looked at her through Daemon’s eyes. No withdrawal now. Sherri was not touching them. Femi was. And the Devil remained fully present.

For the first time that morning, Sherri Dream understood something important. Femi was not standing behind Daemon. She was standing beside him. What Sherri could not understand was that the distinction mattered to the thing inside Daemon too.

Sherri had spent years believing she knew the Devil because she had watched it kill. Because she had seen the stillness. Because she had watched men bleed and Daemon remain unmoved. But she had never stood beside it. Never touched Daemon and had the Devil move closer.  Never told it no and had it listen. Never made it reconsider killing two men whose names it did not even know.

Femi had. The Devil tightened Daemon’s fingers around hers by the smallest amount. Not possession. Acknowledgment.

Little ghost.

Femi’s thumb moved once against his hand. The Devil settled. Not asleep. Not peaceful. The plate remained inside Daemon’s pocket. Two men had approached Femi. They knew her name. Sherri knew too much.

Nothing about that had been forgotten. The old Devil was already arranging the pieces. Find the car. Find the men. Find who sent them. Find out what Sherri knew. But Femi stood beside it now. That changed the order. Not the danger. Never the danger.Only the order.

Information first.

Truth.

Then choice.

Then—

The Devil looked at Sherri.

Sherri looked back.

Fear entered her face.

Good.

We will see.

And whatever Sherri had feared when she watched Daemon follow the little ghost with his eyes— it had just become considerably worse.

Because Daemon was no longer the only thing watching her.