Page 40 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

She stiffens, recalling how she hunted them with terrifying ease. “I was outnumbered,” she murmurs defensively. “They would’ve killed me.”

“I’m not chastising you for defending yourself,” I say, gentler now. “But you need to understand, if you keep losing control like that, you risk corruption.” My gaze slides over her bruised arms. “Demonic influence can consume you from within if you don’t learn to master it.”

Her lips part in alarm, though her chin tilts in stubborn defiance. “So teach me,” she challenges. “Instead of scolding me, show me how not to become a monster.”

I arch a brow, surprised by her directness.She’s bold, I admit, a spark of reluctant admiration stirring. “Very well,” I reply, voice steady. “We’ll begin today.”

She nods, though uncertainty lingers in her eyes. Quietly, we finish dressing and gather our belongings. The air between us brims with tension—remnants of both desire and unspoken pain. But we say nothing more about the night’s intimacy. We step out of the cave, leaving that charged memory to fade among the shadows.

For the next few days,we roam farther into the wilderness—harsh landscapes dotted with jagged hills and pockets of twisted woodland. We skirt around any sign of civilization, unwilling to tempt more trouble. Each evening, we find a place to camp, and each day, I push Calla to hone the power seething under her skin.

“You can’t rely on surprise alone,” I warn her on the second day as we stand in a desolate clearing. Above us, the sky churns with gray clouds. A bitter wind snatches at our cloaks. “You took those elves unprepared before. Next time, your enemies might be ready.”

She grits her teeth, recalling my comment about her beingweak. “I’ll do better,” she mutters.

“Show me,” I say, and direct her to focus on conjuring a thread of dark magic in her palm.

She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly. I sense the bond stir between us as she taps into the demonic well. A faint swirl of shadow flickers around her hand. It’s there, ephemeral but real. My own aura bristles in recognition.

“Good,” I whisper. “Steady now. Don’t let it engulf you. Picture the power as a tool you wield, not a hunger that rules you.”

She nods, sweat beading her brow. The swirl of black intensifies, dancing along her forearm. I step closer, bracing a hand on her arm. Her breath hitches—some mixture of fear, desire, and concentration. The bond thrums. Even a casual touch sets me on edge, memory of her body pressed against mine still so fresh. But I force calm.

“Now, release it,” I instruct, stepping back. “Cast it away from you, harmlessly.”

Her eyes snap open, and she lifts her hand, letting the swirling energy unravel like a whip of shadow. It crackles, striking a nearby boulder with a dullcrack. A hairline fracture appears in the stone. Impressive for a novice. But I see how her lips curl in a momentary rush of pride, how the power surges in her chest.

She staggers a bit, fighting the wave of euphoria. “Gods,” she breathes, hand trembling. “It feels so… addictive.”

I nod grimly. “That’s how it draws you in. You must remain clear-headed. If you indulge too much, you risk losing yourself.”

Her expression tightens. “Then keep pushing me,” she says, determination flaring. “I won’t be helpless again.”

I sense her referring to more than just the elves. Perhaps she recalls years of enslavement to the dark elves in House Vaerathis, the helplessness she endured. I swallow, nodding. “We continue, then.”

So begins a cycle. We train from dawn until midday or beyond, forging through exhaustion. When she’s not practicing magic, I teach her basic combat: how to grip a blade properly, how to dodge, how to read an opponent’s stance. Whenever she grows complacent, I lash out with a sudden feint or challenge. She falters, but she’s learning to adapt—her eyes flick with a growing confidence, even as I remain harsh in my critiques.

“Don’t rush in blindly,” I snap on the fourth day, parrying her attempt to strike me with a wooden staff we scavenged. We’reperched on a wide plateau, a biting wind pushing at our backs. “You assume you can absorb every blow with magic, but your enemies might be faster or stronger.”

She bristles, frustration evident. “I’m trying,” she retorts, swinging again, only for me to knock her staff aside with a single deft movement. She nearly stumbles, muttering a curse. “I’d do better if you didn’t keep changing tactics.”

I slam her staff again, sending it flying from her grip. “Your foes won’t stick to a neat pattern,” I retort. “They’ll do everything they can to kill you. Accept that.”

Her eyes flash with anger, a swirl of dark power flickering around her knuckles. She lifts a hand as though to hurl a bolt of energy at me. I raise an eyebrow. “I said no magic in this exercise.” My tone is icy.

She hesitates, the shadows dissipating as she clenches her fists. “Fine. But once you’re done mocking me, I’ll show you that Icanfight without relying on your demon tricks.”

A faint smirk tugs at my lips, though a part of me admires her spirit. “Try again, then.”

She lunges, bare hands this time, attempting to sweep my legs. I dodge easily, hooking my arm around hers and pulling her close until her back slams against my chest. For a moment, we freeze—her breathing ragged, my heart pounding in my ears. The tension flares again, an undercurrent of the physical closeness. My pulse spikes, recalling how we fit together in the throes of passion. Her scent envelops me, fanning embers I’ve tried to smother.

But I force myself to remain stern, releasing her abruptly. She stumbles forward, scowling. “This is impossible,” she mutters, rubbing her bruised elbow.

“You said you wanted me to push you,” I remind, voice sharper than intended. “So don’t complain.”

She glares, wiping sweat from her brow. “I’m not complaining. I’m—just—” She bites her lip, frustration evident. “I hate feeling useless.”

I exhale, some of my harshness draining away. “You’re not useless. You’re learning.”

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