Chapter 4
Daisy
Idon’t scream.
Which, in hindsight, is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Because standing in front of me is a literal demon.
Tall, so tall his head nearly brushes the ceiling, and what the… horns… those are horns. Curled from his skull, looking like polished obsidian in the dim light. And behind him, drape large, black, leathery wings. His eyes are midnight black. Not brown, not dark. Hauntingly black.
But it’s his face that unsettles me the most. He’s beautiful, in a way that’s completely inhuman.
Sharp cheekbones, full lips, a jaw carved like he was born from storm and stone.
He has pointed ears that poke out of his long black hair, which sits at shoulder length.
Power radiates off of him, humming like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap.
He’s wearing a tight black shirt, which is rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscled forearms that are intricately tattooed in swirls and patterns.
His hands are huge, veins protruding from them, showing the strength behind what I imagine is a lethal grip.
His black pants hug his legs in a way that makes them look like solid stone, ending tucked into black combat boots. Good god, he’s death incarnate.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, still frozen by the door. “But did you just say you’ve come to collect from a deal?”
The man—creature—whatever he is, lifts one eyebrow, like I’d just asked if the sky was blue.
“Yes, from your dad. Keep up.” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “I’d say offer me a drink, but your fridge is a shrine to sadness and expired dairy.”
“My dad wouldn’t,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“He would. He did. And frankly, you should be flattered. He could’ve offered up his rotten soul, but no, he went with you, his ‘precious girl.’” He sneers the words with a mocking undertone.
My legs remember how to move, barely, and I stumble toward the kitchen counter, gripping onto it for some sense of stability.
“This is some kind of joke.”
“If only.” The demon sits back down, leaning back against the couch, his wings shifting with a leathery rustle. “Do I look like I do jokes?”
He has a point. He looks like he does wars, or plagues, or poetry slams where the poems are just death threats.
“This is a dream,” I whisper. “A very weird, stress-induced, demon-laced dream, brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, because your subconscious definitely knows how to sculpt such perfection. Sit down, Daisy.”
I don’t sit, instead opting to pace. Although there isn’t much room to pace in here, it’s more like taking two steps forward, turning on the spot, then repeating the process the other way.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Your father gave it to me.” His tone changes, just a fraction. “Along with your soul.”
And just like that, my body feels like ice. I know my dad’s bad with money. I know about the gambling, the drinking, the times rent wasn’t paid. I’d scraped coins from couch cushions just to keep food in my belly. But this? This was worse than anything I’d imagined.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he says. “And I’m bored now. So, unless you’d like me to start packing your things for the trip to Hell, I suggest you get a grip.” He stands, crossing his arms across his broad chest.
“Trip to Hell?” I repeat, voice rising with panic.
“Figuratively speaking. For now.” He smiles like he’s enjoying watching me short-circuit. “You’ve been claimed, sweetheart. That means a few things, one of which involves me keeping close until I’m ready to collect.”
I blink. “So... what? You’re like, haunting me now?”
“No. More like, babysitting what’s mine.”
The rage hits before the fear, and I slam my hands on the counter before marching toward him and jabbing a finger at his chest. Well… his torso, because this man is a damn skyscraper.
“I don’t care who or what you are,” I snap. “You don’t get to waltz in here, insult my fridge, and act like I’m some kind of possession.”
He looks down at my finger, then back at me with an arched brow. “You touch me again, sunshine, and I’m turning your bathroom into a portal that leads to a screaming abyss, and I’m fucking pushing you through it.”
I drop my hand, but refuse to back down.
He sighs like I’m giving him a migraine. “You’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I’m pretty sure was a curse word, and sits back down with the wariness of a demon realising he’s been assigned to the worst possible human going.
“Of course, I had to agree to take the soul of a cheerleader. With the glitter and the unbearable sunshine aura.”
“Excuse me for not decorating in death and brimstone.”
He raises both of his eyebrows at me this time, and I just glare at him with as much hatred as my face can muster.
“I didn’t come to collect,” he says, after a moment. “Not yet. Just figured I’d meet the girl who was worth more than her father’s soul.”
“And?” I ask.
“And I’m disappointed.” His smirk sharpens. “You don’t look like much.”
The words hit me, but they don’t hurt like he probably intended. I cross my arms over my chest, chin lifted despite the tremble in my knees.
“Well, you’re not exactly the Prince Charming I imagined either,” I mutter. “Too many horns. And you tracked smoke onto my rug.”
Something flickers across his face, a noise threatening to leave his throat.
A laugh, almost. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.
He stands and takes a step toward me, making me push myself as far as I can against the door to recoil away from him.
The closer he gets, the more heat I can feel radiating from his sun-kissed skin.
He lifts my chin with a long finger, making my eyes meet his dark gaze.
He grins, a smile worthy of dreams and nightmares.
He tilts his head again at me, “I’ll be seeing you, Daisy.”
And just like that—he’s gone. No flash. No sound. Just a ripple in the air where he stood, and the lingering scent of fire and musk. Even the smoke from my rug has vanished. How considerate of him.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. I don’t scream, I don’t cry.
I just sit there, staring at the empty space where he was.
And I wonder how many more things in my life are going to be taken from me before anyone ever thinks to ask me what I’m willing to give.
The room is deathly quiet after he’s gone, like the walls are holding their breath.
I sit there on the floor for what feels like hours, the imprint of his presence still pressed into the air around me, the feel of his finger on the underside of my chin still burning.
I stare at the floor where my bag fell, its contents spilled all across the floor.
That didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened. Demons aren’t real. Fathers don’t sell their daughters’ souls. Except… mine might have.
I press my hands to my head, slowly dragging them down my face. They’re shaking, my breath stuttering in and out like my lungs have forgotten how to work.
“It wasn’t real,” I whisper. “It was just stress. You’re tired. You haven’t slept. You hallucinated. People under stress hallucinate all the time.”
Oh great, now I’m talking to myself too. This is normal. Everything’s absolutely fine.
I peel myself off the floor and move toward the kitchen on autopilot, stepping over the contents of my bag without bothering to clear it up. My throat feels tight, my head buzzing. My body is moving, but my mind is pacing in circles and screaming.
Denial:
It was a dream. A waking dream. You’ve been working too much. Not eating enough. You just imagined it; people imagine things. It happens.
Anger:
But why him? Why a demon? Why not a faceless shadow or a monster under the bed? Why a voice like thunder wrapped in silk? Why a man who looked like sin carved into something holy? And why did it feel so freaking real?
Bargaining:
Maybe you’re crazy. That’s better, right? That’s fixable. You can take meds, go to therapy. Maybe you’ve snapped, and you don’t know it yet. Maybe this is what losing your mind feels like.
I start moving through the kitchen to look for something to comfort me. I open the fridge and stare blankly inside. There’s nothing there. Nothing but a small piece of cardstock placed carefully on the middle shelf.
I freeze.
No. No, no, no.
I reach for it with trembling fingers, my breath catching in my throat. It’s smooth, black, and the edges are gilded in gold, catching the fridge light.
There’s only one line printed in silver ink:
Your soul now belongs to me.
- Korithax
My knees almost give out. I grip the counter, the card clutched in my fist, heart pounding so hard I think I might be having a heart attack.
He was real.
He was real.