Chapter 6
He was still when I finally let myself breathe.
Is he dead?
Steam curled around him like smoke from a chimney, thick and heavy, carrying the scent of heat, sweat, and something coppery in the air. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven bursts.
What the fuck had I actually witnessed?
I pressed myself further into the corner of the closet, my knees drawn tight to my chest, afraid to move, afraid even to blink.
My fingers dug into the floor as if holding myself in place could keep him alive in some strange way…so I could kill him.
Every sound of the white devil made me shiver. The shallow hissing of his breath, the tremble of his muscles, the faint drip of water from the shower. It all etched itself into my mind like a never-ending movie.
His lighter skidded across the floor, stopping in front of me. I gripped it tight as if it were a magnet to my energy.
I had seen the man break, watching every piece that led to his fall, from his orgasm with my words on his lips to the fire searing his flesh. His body, his rituals, and the release he could never let anyone else witness, but I had.
The fire he pressed to his scar…was it punishment?
Ten.
He’d counted to ten when he burned himself.
Was it the years in Monticello?
Ten seconds of flame, every single number counted aloud, even when his voice broke and cracked into a pained silence. I had heard it all and felt it from the shadows.
Slowly, I began to unfurl from my position in the closet.
Now, he was unconscious, brought by his own hand.
“What have you done to yourself, ōkami? I do not understand you. I come to collect your soul finally, but even this you try to take from me.”
I scooted closer to his naked body on the floor, my knee almost touching the top of his head. He looked smaller like this, his head lying on the ground, so fragile and human in a way that his collar and his sermons never allowed him to be.
And yet, even in unconsciousness, he radiated that same sharp, unrelenting energy that made him dangerous. His mask couldn’t survive the cloud of his past.
He can’t survive me.
I pressed my fingers to my lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood and heat that still lingered in the air. Every instinct screamed at me to end it now, skip the theatrics, and slice his throat.
I felt the metal of my dagger strapped to my thigh burn, but I didn’t grab it. Instead, I kneeled down to the cold floor beside the demon.
For a long moment, I simply let him exist in his own collapse, reminding him of his shame, and offering the silence a moment to press into the walls to keep the memory alive.
He would wake eventually, and when he did, he would have no idea I had been here and that I had borne witness to the most beautiful thing of all.
Him breaking.
I, for the first time, allowed myself a thought I couldn’t yet name.
Seeing him like this, so powerless, human, and utterly broken…it gave me a kind of control I had never felt before, but it wasn’t to destroy and kill as I had craved so long.
It was to own him.
He didn’t move when I shifted, pulling his heavy head onto my thighs. He didn’t even twitch as I memorized his face, the thick black eyelashes, and the short, dirty blond hair that had soft curls when they were wet.
He didn’t notice my fingertips as I traced his full pink lips. My breath caught in my throat as my stomach rolled with something I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t fear or relief. It was…fascination.
Disgust and intrigue collided in a sharp, bitter taste that flooded my mouth and my blood.
I am holding a demon.
I couldn’t help it.
For so long, I had hated this man with every fiber of my being. I got through beatings and ‘correction sessions’ by thinking of how I’d slit his throat and bathe in his blood when I was free someday. I had imagined him as a heartless, cruel, untouchable monster.
When I arrived here, I saw a snake hiding in the priest’s holy robes. Yet, here he was, every bit of a human, even I wasn’t anymore. He was trembling and raw on the floor. Broken in ways no one could ever see.
But I did.
I see you, ōkami.
I see you, Wolf.
My fingers hovered over the burn mark on his chest, over the scarred flesh I had watched him punish himself with just moments ago, and I hated that my pulse jumped at the memory of it.
It was from that night. My husband had not died without a fight. He stabbed Jedidiah before he fell. I hadn’t seen anything that night, just recalled the grunts of pain and the chaos of the fight.
Now, I could see the wound, and the memories clicked into place like a puzzle piece I didn’t realize I needed. It was like a haze cleared, the fog evaporating from the images fluttering around in my mind.
“I got you, it’s going to be okay. Just let me get help. I can’t help us like this. It’ll be okay, I’ll come back,”
But he didn’t.
They did.
“Would you have come back for me, if they hadn’t found me first?” I wondered aloud, stroking the hair from his sweaty, wet face.
With a sigh, I realized I would never know, and laid his head down gently before searching the damn cabinets for some salve or ointment to soothe his wound.
After a few moments of opening and closing drawers, I spied the tube and a bandage, snagging them.
The cap bounced onto the floor and settled back down next to him. I pressed the ointment to his affected skin carefully, almost gingerly, surprising myself.
The heat of the burn radiated into my palm, sharp and all too alive. The tension in me twisted, part revulsion, and part…something darker.
He was disgusting and fascinating all at once, and I hated the way that fascinated part clawed at me more than the hate right now.
His muscles twitched under the bandage as I wrapped it. I kept myself alive too many times with self-medicating. I could see his skin ripple with my work. Every shiver, every involuntary flinch, it all echoed in my chest like a warning or maybe an invitation.
I hated him for the strength he wielded over me, even in this state. I hated him for the way his body betrayed him, and for the fire and shame he carried like his own private sermon.
I’m not weak. You are.
The man was fucking heavy. He was insanely tall, and even on a good day, I wasn’t able to drag a six-foot body along the ground. Somehow I managed, not able to stick him in bed, but he was in his bedroom with a blanket.
I smoothed the material over him, shoving his damp hair back from his forehead. I hated the warmth of him beneath my fingers. I hated the small, ragged rise and fall of his chest and how much I knew.
I needed to suffocate him and not help him. And yet, I could not look away from those inhales. I was transfixed on his mouth, his lips parting as he drew in steadier breaths.
I leaned close, close enough to smell the faint tang of burned skin, water, and sweat, and the fragility of him being…human.
I wanted to tell myself it was pity or contempt. But no. The monster had another emotion blooming inside me, making me clench and loosen at the sight of him like this. It was something else entirely—something else to hate.
Curiosity?
No. Worse.
Hope.
He shifted slightly, still unconscious, and I froze, my quiet exhale escaping me, without permission. I had seen everything. I had counted the flames, the seconds, the ritual, the shame, the release. He was a monster, yes, but a fragile, human monster.
He will die more easily.
Now, I knew he could bleed.
So why did my hand tremble when I told myself to lift my blade?