Page 18 of Thane's Demon
I ignored him…as I always did.
I pressed my hand to the side of his head, letting the demon seep into his mind, planting nightmares so deep he would wake screaming for weeks, unable to look at her again without reliving the fear that now belonged to him.
When I released him, shaking and broken, the demon purred.
‘Protect.
Punish.
Mine.
Ours.’
I walked away, my steps silent, my thoughts heavy, the taste of her presence tangled in the night air like a thread around my throat.
She did not know me. She did not understand me. She also did not realize I was the monster who had already claimed her without her permission.
But she felt me.
Every time she turned her head. Every time her breath hitched. Every time her pulse quickened for no reason at all.
She felt me.
And I knew then that this was…
Only the beginning.
9
FAKE SMILES AND REAL DREAMS
ALORA
Istood in front of my mirror for a long time, longer than any reasonable person should. I lost time watching the way my reflection stared back at me with an expression I barely recognized. The faint traces of fear and loneliness still clung to the edges of my eyes like smudged mascara I could not wipe away. The morning light coming through the window softened the room around me, turning the pale walls a shade of gold. But it did nothing to quiet the heaviness sitting behind my ribs. I took a breath, held it, and slowly curled my lips into a smile.
The smile looked wrong.
Too fragile, too thin, too stretched. Like someone had painted it on the wrong face.
I tried again, lifting my chin a little higher this time, relaxing my shoulders, pushing brightness back into my features. The way I had practiced since I came here. Because a bright smile was easier for the world to accept than a broken one. My reflection shifted obediently, the corners of my mouth rising, the expression settling into something almost natural.
Almost believable.
But I felt the lie under my skin.
My gaze drifted to the small photograph tucked into the corner of the mirror, the edges frayed from how many times I had run my fingers along them. My mother’s face smiled back at me, her eyes bright with that gentle joy she always carried. The same kind of joy I had been trying to recreate every day since she died. I reached out and touched the picture softly, tracing the curve of her cheek, the familiar shape of her smile, the love I always saw in her eyes.
“I am trying,”I whispered, my voice trembling in the quiet room.“I am trying so hard.”
The smile broke first, slipping from my lips as if it were too heavy to hold. Then the tears came, sliding down my cheeks in soft streaks. I immediately wiped them away, even though no one was here to see them. I hated crying in front of people, hated showing weakness, the way it made others uncomfortable. The way it made me feel like a burden. But alone in this small room, I let myself cry quietly, pressing a hand to my mouth so the sound would not escape.
My knees gave slightly, and I sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight as I drew my diary into my lap. It was the one place where I could pour every tangled thought without fear of judgment or disappointment. Hoping my whirlwind of memories wouldn’t get the better of me this time, I opened to a fresh page and let the pen hover for a moment before my thoughts spilled uncontrollably.
I wrote about the man who saved me. About the alley. About the danger. I also wrote about the impossibility of what I had witnessed. The way he towered over me like a living shadow. The way power radiated from him.
He should have terrified me.
But he did not.
