So I wait. And I watch.
She creeps forward, behind the building, toward their voices. She crouches, her breath quiet, her limbs steady. She doesn’t blink.
And then—I see it. The shift.
Her expression calcifies. Her posture sharpens. There’s a quiet fury simmering beneath her skin, and it isdelicious.It spreads like poison blooming in still water.
Predator. That’s what she is now. She just doesn’t know it. Or maybe she’s realizing it.
She touches her mouth absently. Her fingers graze her teeth—and they’resharper.Her nails are longer too. Barely. But it’s enough to draw blood if she wanted.
And shewants.
Shawn keeps running his mouth. He laughs about what she “owed” him. He jokes about what she probably did after the bonfire. His friends echo him like the hollow cowards they are.
And she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t scream or shrink. Shelistens.And then—she leaves.
Not in defeat. No, no. There’s a promise in the way she walks. A vow written into every slow, deliberate step as she turns back toward campus, fists clenched, eyes hard.
She’s going to burn him. And when she does… I’ll be waiting. I’ll be watching. Because she’s not our victim anymore.
She’s our vengeance. Our little demon.
Becoming.
EIGHTEEN
Iwake to silence.
Not the kind that hums with breath and sleep and living bodies, but the hollow sort. The kind that swallows noise before it’s ever made. The house is dark, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something older, heavier—like the ghost of violence left behind.
For the first time in... gods, I don’t even know how long, I don’t feel empty.
Not in the gnawing, cavernous way I’ve grown used to. Not in my stomach. Not in my soul. The ache that lived beneath my ribs, whispering that I was starving even when I wasn't, is quiet. Sated. Content.
Something inside me has been fed.
I draw in a slow breath, then another. The air tastes different. Richer. Alive. I drag my hand down the center of my body, fingers trailing over bare skin slick with sweat and cooling traces of everything we did. I expect pain, the bruised throb of used flesh. But there’s none. No soreness. No fatigue.
If anything... I feel stronger.
The thought startles me, but I don’t linger in it. I push myself upright, the sheets falling away. The room is empty. The bed isstill rumpled, but cold now. No shadows move in the corners. No low, sinful voices. No cruel laughter. No Deimos. No Bastion. No Cassiel.
They’re gone. The realization shouldn’t sting the way it does.
I slip out of bed and reach for something to wear, rifling through a pile of discarded clothes until I find an oversized hoodie that smells like smoke and skin and something faintly citrus—Cassiel, maybe. I tug it over my head, pulling the hem down over my bare thighs. A pair of black shorts follows, low on my hips. They don’t belong to me. None of this does.
But I wear it anyway.
I step into the hall. The floor is cool beneath my feet, the silence oppressive now. I listen—really listen—but the house is still. No murmurs. No creaking floorboards. No flicker of movement behind closed doors.
They’re really gone.
A strange knot forms in my chest, twisting tighter the longer I stand in the doorway. I should be relieved. I should take this chance to run—slip into the night and disappear, leave this cursed house and its monsters behind. The silence begs for it. The open road beckons. No voices, no footsteps, no growling promises echoing through the halls.
But I hesitate.
And in that pause, disappointment seeps in. Thick and unwanted. I ache. I ache in a way I don't understand, and I hate that I feel it. Why do I want them here?
