Page 68 of Helsing: Demon Slayer
And not before he figured out how to stop Abaddon from taking her completely.
Dianne adjusted her grip, exhaling slowly as Beta placed two fingers lightly against her wrists to correct the angle.
“Do not overcompensate,” said Beta, her voice quiet in Dianne’s ear. The tallElioudfemale moved with a practiced ease, standing near without imposing, adjusting Dianne’s grip as if her presence was a necessary fixture rather than a disruption. “You want control, not stiffness.”
Dianne nodded, rolling her shoulders back as she refocused on the target. The range was empty except for them, a pocket of quiet in a world that was anything but. There was comfort in the precision of Beta’s instructions. No emotional clutter, no sympathy, just direct guidance, rooted in unrivaled expertise.
Which was exactly what she needed.
Since arriving in Fushë-Arrëz, she had buried herself in physical training, in learning to fire a weapon with the accuracy to land every shot where she intended, in absorbing everything Beta had to offer.
She’d grabbed onto the intimidatingElioud’s suggestion that she learn to shoot as well as train in hand-to-hand combat—her sister had been distracted, Mihàil still slept in an induced coma as his burns took everything anyone knew how to do for him.
And Germaine, her best friend and only link to her past life, had disappeared in an ICU unit shielded by harmonics to contain thedaemonpossessing her. Unlike Mihàil’s medical coma, Germaine’s catatonic state arose solely from the pernicious influence that malevolent spirit held over her body, mind, and soul.
Meanwhile, her parents spent their waking hours watching her baby niece, and Michael … well, her brother the finance bro had started hanging out with the mysterious Elias and his otherworldly knights. Dianne refused to sit idle, waiting for the world to make sense again. Training was structure. Training meant control.
And Beta, even with her keen edges, had extended a steadying hand where no one else had.
“Take the shot,” said Beta.
Dianne tightened her grip, centered herself, and fired. The bullet hit slightly off-bullseye, clean, but not perfect.
Beta let out a quiet hum of approval. “Better. But you need to trust yourself.”
Dianne looked at her, blinking against the afternoon glare. “I do trust myself.”
Beta gave a finely honed smile, fleeting but sincere. “Then your aim should reflect that.”
Dianne huffed, shaking her head, but there was something reassuring in Beta’s crisp honesty. She didn’t waste words, didn’t cushion failure or dress it up as something else—and that clarity helped Dianne recalibrate.
Then, mid-adjustment, a shudder of awareness crept through her, threading into her senses like the hum of what she now knew were harmonics, the pervasive, underlying energy that charged her new world. A shift. A presence.
She turned her head slightly. And there he was, the man she’d fallen hopelessly in love with, approaching with that unreadable expression, his posture steady but his energy taut.
For the first time in weeks, Dianne felt herself falter, misgiving creeping into the foundation she had carefully laid down. When she turned to see Ryan approaching, her stance shifted slightly. Still strong, still composed, just uncertain.
Beside her, Beta muttered something and drifted away, far enough to give them space to talk.
“You finally emerged from the clinic,” said Dianne lightly to Ryan, though her heart beat like a hummingbird at the base of her throat. “I thought you were avoiding me.”
He didn’t answer right away. “You checked in on me,” he said instead, his gaze everywhere but her face.
Had he felt her presence then? Was that a good thing? Suddenly she felt breathless. “You were unconscious.”
“Or pretending to be.” His words and tone were clipped, cold. Impersonal.
A flicker of irritation crossed her face before she could stop it. “Ryan,” she said, quieter now. She could already feel the hurt well deep inside her, somewhere behind her breastbone and jagged as shattered ice. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” He folded his arms, increasing his distance. She realized that Emily’s ring, which had never left his finger while he recuperated in the hospital, was gone.
“Pretend you don’t feel it.” Her voice didn’t waver, but there was something raw in it.
“You’re imagining things,” he said, his voice unbelievably colder still. His hazel eyes had turned glacial.
Something inside her fractured at that. And before she could stop herself, she asked, “Is it because of her? The woman whose picture you carry in your wallet?”
He flinched—just slightly—but she caught it. A quick tightening around his mouth, a blink that lasted a beat too long. And then, as if her question had given him permission, he sealed himself off behind that blank, impenetrable stare she was only beginning to recognize as his armor.
