Chapter 4 #2
And yes, she knew, she knew it was him, knew he was safe.
But there was something, something too big, too dark, too much for her to bear.
The hand clutching the knife pressed against her forehead, her eyes shut tight.
No sound came out of her mouth, a strangled scream stuck in her throat, thick with panic and nothing she could reach.
“Give me the knife, Daphne,” he demanded. Calm. Even. Closer now.
She opened her eyes and saw him in front of her, steady and maddeningly gentle.
Her head shook violently, fast, desperate.
No. No. She couldn’t, couldn’t, because it was the only way to.
.. She shook her head again, the hole in her threatening to swallow her whole because she needed that knife, needed something.
Something. That music... That horrifying music. ..
He smiled like they were discussing the weather. “It’s alright. I’ll take it, then, if it’s all the same to you.”
His fingers closed gently around her wrist, warm but unshakable. He didn’t tug or force. Just slowly pulled her hand down from her face. “There you go,” he coaxed, voice smooth and sweet as silk. “See? All good, right?”
With his other hand, he reached for the knife, wrapped his palm around the blade, and twisted just enough to loosen her grip.
Her fingers resisted, but he forced the movement, and she relinquished the weapon.
A crimson line flashed across his skin, but when he set the blade on the table, there was nothing there.
Nothing, like the unbearable quiet standing between them.
Her arm dropped to her sides like it no longer belonged to her. Her entire body was shaking now, cold sweat on her skin, jaw locked, muscles rigid as stone.
“Now,” Hunter said, in that same incredibly reasonable tone, “we’re going to sit on the couch, okay?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers like they were taking a casual stroll down Main Street, then gently pulled.
Her legs moved on autopilot. The survival instinct had retreated, and the thinking part, the one that recognized Hunter on a cerebral level, surfaced enough to let her follow.
He led her to the stereo first, turned it off. Then to the couch, where he slid the sweater down over her head.
She sat when he sat. Forced herself to breathe–shallow, but at least she could.
She didn’t cry. Couldn’t. Everything inside her was locked down too tightly. But her hand stayed in his. And he didn’t let go.
“Do you want a sip of water?” he asked. “Or, I don’t know, tequila, if you have it.”
The soft laugh that escaped her surprised them both. Leave it to Hunter to drag her back to the surface through charm and humor. She sighed, feeling the horror slide off slowly. “No tequila. Sorry.”
He looked briefly thoughtful, then nodded like he’d solved an international crisis. “I could make a quick trip and get some. Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”
“On Christmas? Everything’s closed.”
He shrugged, totally serious. “Yeah, but I might know someone somewhere in Mexico who could hook me up with the good stuff.”
She looked up at him, at the absolute low-key seriousness on his face. “At some point, you’re going to have to tell me more about your demoniac self.”
“And at some point, I will.”
“Not tonight, though.” Her voice was small, almost sad, as she leaned into him, let him pull her close, wrap her up in the promise of safety.
If only she knew what she needed to be safe from.
He leaned back, resting his head on the backrest of the couch, eyes drifting to the window.
The snow had stopped. Outside was just cold and dark now. Fitting, really. It matched the way she felt.
He started stroking her hair in slow, calming movements, from crown to ends. “Let me stay tonight, Daphne,” he said gently. “Nothing will happen. I just don’t think you should be alone.” A pause. “There’s no reason for you to be alone.”
She knew that. She wasn’t truly alone. Not in the technical sense.
She had friends who would show up, who’d hold her without question.
But she never took them up on it. Never reached out.
Because accepting help when she was messed up meant admitting her past still had talons on her life. And that she refused to tolerate.
But here, now, wrapped in him, after he’d bled because of her and for her–even if he said otherwise, she’d seen the blood–after he’d watched her fall apart and hadn’t looked away... What was the point of saying no?
Tonight, her past had knocked her flat. She didn’t even know where the blow had come from.
Another day, another time, she’d need to unpack why she didn’t feel shame with him. Why, if anything, he made her feel like she wasn’t broken at all. Like someone with her history might just have bumps and hiccups in the road. Reasonable things.
Except, he didn’t know her history.
So the only person who made her feel like it was okay to be a complete mess was a demon with a questionable grasp on truth.
A smoking-hot demon whose scent still clung to her skin.
All considered, it was easier to focus on that.
Leave the rest for a time when her head wasn’t pounding, and her body didn’t feel like it had run a marathon underwater.
“What if I want something to happen?” she murmured, barely able to shape the words.
Hunter’s voice was warm and solid and wicked. “Oh, sweetheart. We’ll get there.” His voice dipped lower, a rich stroke against her spine. “But not as a Band-Aid, not as a way out. When we burn, it’ll be on purpose. And we’ll make it the sweetest damn blaze you’ve ever felt.”
He started running those clever fingers up and down her back. Pulled a blanket over her. Kept holding her.
And in his warmth, she finally slept.