“I need help,” I whisper into the dark.
I stand in front of my closet with my arms crossed, glaring at my reflection as though it personally offended me. Clothes hang limp like dead skins, none of them right. I’ve already changed three times—first jeans and a cropped sweater, then a short dress that felt like too much, then back to jeans that now feel like a noose around my hips.
Every option seems wrong tonight. I want to feel sexy. Confident. In control. But I also don’t want to look like I’mtryingto be sexy. God, why is this so hard?
Behind me, Penny sighs from her bed. She’s sprawled across it with her legs tucked under her, earbuds in, her phone screen casting pale light over her face. “Jesus, Lillien. It’s just a party.”
I huff, yanking off the shirt I just pulled on and tossing it onto the growing pile at my feet. “Yeah, thanks for the insight, Penny.”
She flops onto her back, groaning theatrically. “Oh my God, you’re actually spiraling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You so are.” She doesn’t even look up from her phone now. “You do this every time you try to pretend you’re normal.”
My spine stiffens. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She shifts, propping herself on one elbow. “You spend all your time being good, and then once in a while, you decide to be bad, and it breaks your brain. You can’t just have fun like the rest of us. You have to self-destruct while you do it.”
Her words sting. They hit too close to home. I scowl, snatching a short pleated skirt off a hanger. “You don’t know me.”
She snorts softly. “I know you better than you think, church girl.”
I ignore the interruption, slipping the skirt up my hips. It hugs my waist perfectly, flaring just enough to make my thighs look thick in a way I actually like. I roll fishnets up slow, the mesh rasping against my skin and catching the light with each turn. I pair it with a black sweater—tight enough to cling, loose enough to pretend I didn’t pick it on purpose.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I expect to see the same indecisive girl staring back. But for a moment, my reflection wavers. My eyes glow faintly, violet like his. The color catches and burns before vanishing just as quickly.
I blink hard. Gone. Better. Maybe even… good.
Penny lifts her head just enough to glance at me. “There. Was that so hard?”
I roll my eyes, running my fingers through my hair. “Shut up.”
She smirks, going back to scrolling through her phone. The room feels too small, too warm. My heart is pounding harder than it should be for a simple outfit change. I sling my bag over my shoulder and exhale sharply, trying to steady myself.
This is fine. This is normal. I can do this. I can go to a party. I can make out with a boy. I can have fun.
I square my shoulders and head for the door. But something makes me glance back. In the corner of the mirror there’s a flicker—shadow, movement, horns curling like smoke. My breath shudders. When I blink, it’s just me again, only my reflection, only a girl in a skirt and a sweater.
I don’t look back at the mirror again. Because if I do, I’m afraid the girl staring out won’t be me. And deep down, I already know. She’s stronger. And she’s waking up.
NINE
The sun bleeds across the horizon, a molten spill of orange and gold as twilight swallows the sky. Flames crackle behind me, licking up the stacked wood in a frenzy of hunger and heat. I take a step back, watching the fire stretch taller, stronger, like it wants to consume the air itself. The clearing glows with violent light, shadows shifting like spirits caught between escape and surrender.
It’s perfect.
Already, the air buzzes with something electric. Laughter echoes too loud. Music thrums like a pulse just beneath the surface. The scent of liquor, smoke, and sweat thickens with every second. But soon, the real perfume of the night will rise—sex, sin, lust turned tangible. It's in the way the crowd moves. In the sharp edge of every glance. In the restless pacing of my own heartbeat.
I want to break something. I want to fuck something until it cries for mercy. I want to burn this place down to ash just to see what survives.
Deimos stands to my left, staring into the fire. His body is carved from tension—rigid spine, clenched jaw, fingers curlinginto fists. It’s not rage. It’s restraint. And it’s worse. He’s starving, and not for the usual reasons.
He’s waiting for her.
That girl. Thathuman.
My lip curls, bitterness coating my tongue before I can swallow it down. I’ve seen him obsessed before, but this... this is something else. He hasn’t fed since she showed up, hasn’t touched anyone, hasn’t lost himself the way he needs to. It’s not a phase. It’s fixation. It's rot disguised as romance.
