Feeding on Trust

The first time I saw Andrea, she was crawling out of a circle of salt I'd drawn on my apartment floor at three in the morning because I was drunk and lonely and the internet said it might work.

It didn't work the way I expected.

She came through the floor like it was water, wings folded tight against her back, hair the color of arterial blood spilling over her shoulders. The salt circle hissed and smoked. My smoke detector started screaming. I was standing there in my underwear holding a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, and this woman, this thing, this impossible creature, looked up at me with eyes like polished amber and smiled.

"You summoned me," she said. Her voice was low and warm, like the first sip of something stronger than whiskey. "How delightfully desperate."

I should have run. I should have screamed. I should have done literally anything other than what I did, which was take a long pull from the bottle and say, "You're not what the wiki described."

Her laugh was a physical thing. It rolled through the room and settled somewhere low in my stomach. She stood, and I watched the way her body unfolded, all curves and pale skin and those wings stretching behind her like they were working out a cramp. She was wearing something black and minimal that didn't leave much to the imagination, and I have a very good imagination.

"The wiki," she repeated, tasting the word. "You're adorable."

I wasn't. I was twenty years old and living in a studio apartment in Portland that smelled like turpentine and old pizza, and I hadn't talked to another human being in four days. Adorable wasn't the word. Pathetic was closer. But she was looking at me like I was something interesting, and I hadn't been looked at like that in a long time.

"I'm Kennedy," I said, because apparently I was raised right.

"Andrea." She stepped out of the salt circle, and the smoke detector finally gave up its ghost. The silence that followed was thick. "You called me here, Kennedy. What do you want?"

What did I want? I wanted to not be alone. I wanted someone to touch me without flinching. I wanted to feel something other than the dull ache of another night spent talking to no one. But I couldn't say that. So I said, "I don't know. I didn't think it would work."

"Honesty." She tilted her head, studying me. "Rare in a summoner. Most of them want power. Money. Revenge on their exes." She took a step closer. "You want something else."

It wasn't a question.

I set the whiskey down on my paint-stained workbench. "I want to know what you are."

"Succubus." She said it casually, like she was telling me her star sign. "Demon of desire. I feed on sexual energy, among other things." Her smile sharpened. "Your fluids, specifically. But I'm guessing you figured that part out."

I hadn't, actually. I'd just thought the ritual was bullshit. Some kind of elaborate joke I was playing on myself. But now there was a demon in my apartment, and she was looking at me like I was a meal she was looking forward to.

"So you're here to..." I trailed off.

"Seduce you. Feed on you. Consume you." She shrugged, and the motion did interesting things to her chest. "The usual."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I go back to the lower realms and find someone else." She said it easily, but there was something underneath it. A flicker of something that might have been disappointment. "But you won't say no."

"How do you know?"

She crossed the space between us in three steps. Her hand came up to my face, fingers cool against my cheek. She smelled like cinnamon and something darker, something that made my head swim. "Because I can feel it, Kennedy. The want in you. It's practically screaming."

She wasn't wrong.

I'd been alone for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to be wanted. To have someone look at me like I was worth something. And here was this creature, this impossible thing, telling me I was exactly what she needed. It was a lie, probably. A trick. But I didn't care.

"What do I have to do?" I asked.

Her smile widened. "Trust me."

That was the catch. The thing about succubi, she explained later, was that they couldn't feed without consent. Not real consent. Not the kind you give when you're drunk and lonely and desperate. They needed genuine trust. Genuine connection. The kind of thing that took time to build.

"Most humans can't do it," she said, settling onto my couch like she belonged there. Her wings folded against her back, and I noticed the way they caught the light. Membranous. Veined. Beautiful in a terrifying way. "They want the fantasy. The quick fix. They don't want to actually know me."

"And you want me to know you?"

"I want you to try." She looked at me, and for a moment, the seductive mask slipped. Underneath it was something older. Something tired. "It's been a long time since anyone tried."

So that was the deal. I had to earn her trust. She had to earn mine. And somewhere in the middle of that, she'd feed on me, and I'd survive it, and we'd both get what we wanted.

Or something like that.

The first week was awkward. She stayed in my apartment because she didn't have anywhere else to go. The lower realms, apparently, weren't big on vacation time. She slept on my couch, which was too small for her, her wings hanging over the edge like some kind of gothic blanket. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and see her there, and I'd remember that my life had taken a very strange turn.

"You're staring," she said on the third night, not opening her eyes.

"You're in my apartment."

"You invited me."

"I was drunk."

"You were lonely." She opened one eye, and the amber of her iris caught the streetlight from outside. "There's a difference."

I didn't have a response to that.

We talked, mostly. She asked about my art, and I showed her the canvases stacked against the wall. Abstract stuff, mostly. Colors and shapes that didn't mean anything to anyone but me. She looked at them for a long time, her head tilted, and then she said, "You're trying to say something you don't have words for."

"That's what art is."

"No. Art is what you make when words fail. But you're not failing. You're hiding." She turned to look at me. "What are you hiding from?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how.

She told me about the lower realms. About the politics and the power struggles and the endless, grinding boredom of immortality. She'd been alive for centuries, and she'd spent most of that time being used. Summoned by men who wanted her body and nothing else. Discarded when they were done.

"I'm not a person to them," she said. "I'm a fantasy. A hole to fill."

"That's horrible."

"That's life." She shrugged, but I saw the way her jaw tightened. "You get used to it."

"You shouldn't have to."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and something shifted in her expression. "You're different," she said. "I don't know why, but you're different."

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to touch her. But I didn't. Because she was right. This wasn't about sex. Not yet. This was about something else. Something slower.

The second week, she started touching me. Casual stuff. A hand on my shoulder when she walked past. Her fingers brushing mine when we reached for the same thing. She'd lean into me when we watched TV, her wing draping over my legs like a blanket. It was deliberate, I knew that. She was testing me. Seeing if I'd push her away.

I didn't.

"You're not afraid of me," she said one night. We were on the couch, her head in my lap, my fingers tangled in her hair. It was soft. Softer than I expected.

"Should I be?"

"Yes." She looked up at me, and her eyes were dark in the dim light. "I could kill you. Drain you dry. Leave you a husk."

"But you won't."

"How do you know?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it. "Because you're lonely too."

She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "That's not fair."

"Neither is showing up in my apartment and expecting me to trust you without earning it."

She sat up, and her face was close to mine. Close enough that I could feel her breath. "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just..." I reached up and touched her cheek. Her skin was cool, but it warmed under my fingers. "Just let me in."

She kissed me then. Soft. Tentative. Nothing like what I expected from a demon. Her lips were gentle, questioning. She pulled back after a moment and searched my face.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah." My voice was hoarse. "That's okay."

We didn't go further that night. We just sat there, her body curled against mine, her wings wrapped around us both. It felt like safety. It felt like something I hadn't felt in years.

The third week, I started to notice things. The way she'd watch me when she thought I wasn't looking. The way she'd smile at small things, like when I burned toast or when a song came on that she liked. She had opinions about music. Strong ones. She hated pop and loved jazz, which I found hilarious for reasons I couldn't explain.

"You're laughing at me," she said, catching me.

"I'm laughing with you."

"You're laughing at me."

"Okay, yes." I grinned. "But affectionately."

She threw a pillow at my head. I caught it. She looked impressed.

"Good reflexes."

"I played baseball in high school."

"Ah. A jock." She said it like it was a dirty word.

"A jock who paints." I gestured at the canvases. "Multitudes."

She smiled. Real smile. Not the seductive one she wore like armor. This one crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look almost human.

"You're ridiculous," she said.

"You like it."

She didn't deny it.

The fourth week, she asked to see my sketchbook. The private one. The one I didn't show anyone.

"Why?"

"Because you've seen me," she said. "All of me. The wings. The horns. The parts of myself I don't show anyone. And you didn't flinch." She paused. "I want to see you."

I handed it over. My hands were shaking. I didn't know why. It was just paper. Just graphite. But it felt like handing her my heart.

She flipped through the pages slowly. Studies of hands. Shadows. The curve of a spine. And then, near the back, sketches of her. Her wings. Her smile. The way she looked when she slept.

"You drew me," she said.

"You're hard not to draw."

She looked up at me, and her eyes were wet. "No one's ever drawn me before."

"Now someone has."

She kissed me again. Harder this time. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer. I felt her wings wrap around us, blocking out the world. It was just us. Just this.

"I want you," she said against my mouth. "I want to feed on you. But I need you to trust me first."

"I do."

"Not yet." She pulled back. "Not really. But soon."

"How do you know?"

She smiled. "I can feel it. The want in you. It's changing. It's not just about sex anymore."

She was right. It wasn't. It was about her. About the way she laughed. The way she looked at my art like it mattered. The way she made me feel like I wasn't alone.

"I think I'm falling for you," I said.

"I know."

"That's arrogant."

"That's honest." She touched my face. "I'm falling too. That's the problem."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because I'm a demon. And you're..." She gestured at me. "You're human. Fragile. Mortal."

"I'm not fragile."

"You are. All of you are." She looked away. "I've killed people before, Kennedy. Not on purpose. But it happens. I get too hungry, and I take too much, and they..."

She didn't finish.

"I'm not them."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." I took her hand. "And I know you won't hurt me."

"You can't know that."

"I can." I squeezed her fingers. "Because you're not a monster. You're just... you. And I trust you."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she pulled her hand away and stood up.

"I need some air," she said, and walked out the door.

She didn't come back that night. Or the next. I sat in my apartment, staring at the salt circle I'd never cleaned up, and wondered if I'd said something wrong. If I'd pushed too hard. If she was gone for good.

On the third day, she came back. She looked tired. Worn. Her wings drooped.

"I went to the lower realms," she said. "I talked to some people. Old friends."

"And?"

"And they told me what I already knew." She sat on the couch, and I sat beside her. "That this is dangerous. That I'm dangerous. That I should leave before I hurt you."

"But you came back."

"I came back." She looked at me. "Because I couldn't stay away."

I took her hand. She didn't pull away.

"I'm scared," she said. "I haven't been scared in centuries. But I'm scared of this. Of you. Of what happens next."

"Me too."

She laughed, but it was watery. "At least we're scared together."

"Yeah." I squeezed her hand. "Together."

We sat there for a while, not talking. Just breathing. Just being. And then she turned to me, and her eyes were bright.

"I'm ready," she said. "If you are."

I was. I'd been ready for weeks. But I didn't want to rush. I wanted to remember this. The way she looked at me. The way her hand felt in mine. The way my heart was pounding in my chest.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"I'm sure." She touched my face. "I trust you, Kennedy. I don't know why. I don't know how. But I do."

I kissed her. Soft at first, then harder. She made a sound low in her throat, and her wings wrapped around us, and I felt her body press against mine. She was warm now. Warmer than before. Like she was coming alive.

"Not here," she said. "The bed."

I led her to my bedroom. It wasn't much. A mattress on the floor. Sheets that didn't match. But she didn't seem to care. She pulled me down onto the bed and kissed me again, and her hands were everywhere, touching, exploring.

"You're nervous," she said.

"A little."

"Don't be." She smiled. "I'll be gentle."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Then what?"

I looked at her. At her wings. Her horns. Her amber eyes. "I'm worried this changes things. That after this, you'll leave."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I won't leave."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." She touched my chest, right over my heart. "I'm not going anywhere, Kennedy. I've been alone for centuries. I'm tired of it. I want..."

She trailed off.

"What do you want?"

"You." She kissed me. "Just you."

And then there was no more talking.

Her body was a revelation. Cool skin that warmed under my hands. Wings that trembled when I touched them. She gasped when I kissed her neck, and the sound went straight to my groin. I wanted to touch every part of her. Taste every part of her.

"Slow," she breathed. "We have time."

Time. Right. We had time.

I slowed down. I explored. I learned the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her stomach. She watched me with those amber eyes, and for the first time, she looked vulnerable. Open.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"So are you."

"I'm a mess."

"You're perfect." She pulled me up to kiss her. "Perfect for me."

We undressed slowly. Piece by piece. I watched her wings fold and unfold, the way they caught the light. I touched her horns, and she shivered.

"Sensitive?"

"Very."

I filed that away for later.

When we were both naked, she pushed me onto my back and straddled me. Her hair fell around us like a curtain. Her wings spread wide, blocking out everything but her.

"This is the part where I feed," she said. "It might feel strange."

"Strange how?"

"Like I'm inside you. Not physically. But... spiritually." She touched my chest. "I'll take your energy. Your desire. Your fluids. And I'll give you pleasure in return."

"Sounds like a fair trade."

"It's not a trade." She leaned down and kissed me. "It's a gift. From me to you."

I didn't understand then. I would later. But in that moment, all I knew was that she was on top of me, and she was beautiful, and I wanted her more than I'd ever wanted anything.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready."

She lowered herself onto me, and the world exploded.

It wasn't just sex. It was something else. Something deeper. I felt her inside my head, my heart, my soul. She was everywhere. In every cell. Every breath.

"Kennedy," she gasped. "Oh, Kennedy."

I couldn't speak. I could only feel. Her body moving against mine. Her wings wrapping around us. Her energy flowing into me, through me, around me.

"More," I managed. "Give me more."

She did.

Time lost meaning. I don't know how long we went. Hours. Days. It could have been minutes. It could have been forever. All I knew was her. Her touch. Her taste. Her smell. Cinnamon and something darker. Something that made me dizzy.

When it was over, I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling. She was curled against me, her head on my chest. Her wings were folded, relaxed. She looked almost peaceful.

"Wow," I said.

She laughed. "Eloquent."

"Shut up." I stroked her hair. "That was..."

"Yeah."

We lay there in silence for a while. I could feel her heartbeat against my ribs. Slow. Steady. Like she'd been doing this forever.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm great." I kissed the top of her head. "Are you?"

"I'm..." She paused. "Full. For the first time in a long time."

"Good."

She lifted her head and looked at me. Her eyes were soft. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trusting me. For letting me in." She touched my face. "For being you."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I just kissed her. Soft. Gentle. Like she was something precious.

We fell asleep like that. Tangled together. Her wings draped over us like a blanket. And for the first time in years, I didn't feel alone.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the window and the smell of coffee. Andrea was standing in my tiny kitchen, wearing one of my shirts and nothing else. Her wings were folded against her back, and she was humming something I didn't recognize.

"You made coffee," I said.

She turned. Smiled. "You're awake."

"I'm awake." I sat up, wincing at the ache in my muscles. "How long was I out?"

"Twelve hours." She handed me a mug. "You needed it."

"Twelve hours?" I took the coffee. "That's..."

"Normal. For a first feeding." She sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

I thought about it. "Good. Tired. But good."

"Any pain?"

"No." I took a sip of coffee. "Should there be?"

"Sometimes." She looked away. "If I take too much."

"Did you?"

"No." She met my eyes. "I was careful."

"Thank you."

She smiled. "You're welcome."

We sat there for a while, drinking coffee and not talking. It was comfortable. Easy. Like we'd been doing this for years.

"So what happens now?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." I gestured vaguely. "You fed. You got what you came for. Do you leave now?"

She set her mug down. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No." The word came out fast. Too fast. "I mean... no. I don't."

"Good." She moved closer. "Because I don't want to."

"But you said..."

"I know what I said." She touched my face. "But that was before. Before I knew you. Before I..."

She trailed off.

"Before you what?"

She kissed me. Soft. Gentle. "Before I fell in love with you."

I stared at her. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"But you're a demon."

"And you're a human." She shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

"Like what?"

"Like a botched summoning bringing me the best thing that's ever happened to me." She smiled. "Like finding someone who sees me. Really sees me. Not just the wings and the horns and the sex. But me."

I didn't know what to say. So I kissed her. Deep. Slow. Like we had all the time in the world.

"I love you too," I said when we broke apart.

"I know."

"Arrogant."

"Honest." She grinned. "There's a difference."

I laughed. She laughed. And for a moment, everything was perfect.

But perfect doesn't last.

The thing about demons is that they have enemies. Andrea had more than most. She'd been around for centuries, and she'd made a lot of people angry. Some of them were powerful. Some of them were patient. And some of them had been waiting for her to get attached to someone.

"I need to tell you something," she said a few days later. We were walking through the park near my apartment. It was a nice day. Sunny. Normal. She had her wings hidden, folded into some kind of dimensional pocket I didn't understand. She looked human. Almost.

"What's up?"

"There's someone looking for me." She kept her eyes forward. "An old enemy. He's been tracking me for years."

"Tracking you? Why?"

"Because I killed his brother." She said it flatly. "It was self-defense. But he doesn't care about that."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Malakar. He's a demon lord. Very powerful. Very angry." She glanced at me. "And he knows about you."

My stomach dropped. "How?"

"I don't know. But he does." She stopped walking. "He's going to come for me. And when he does, he'll use you to get to me."

"Use me how?"

"I don't know." She touched my face. "But I won't let him hurt you. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." Her eyes were fierce. "I've lost people before. I won't lose you."

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But I'd seen what she could do, and I knew there were things stronger than her. Things older. Things angrier.

"What do we do?" I asked.

"We prepare." She took my hand. "And we trust each other."

"That's it?"

"That's everything." She squeezed my fingers. "Trust is the only thing that matters, Kennedy. It's the only thing that's ever mattered."

I looked at her. At this impossible creature who'd crawled out of my floor and into my heart. And I knew she was right.

"Okay," I said. "I trust you."

She smiled. "I trust you too."

We walked home in silence. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It was beautiful. Peaceful. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that it wouldn't last.

But I didn't care.

Because I had her. And she had me. And whatever came next, we'd face it together.

That was enough.

That was everything.

The next few weeks were a blur of preparation and pleasure. Andrea taught me about the lower realms, about the politics and the power struggles and the things that lurked in the dark. I taught her about being human. About art and music and the simple joy of a good cup of coffee.

We made love every night. Sometimes slow and tender. Sometimes rough and desperate. She fed on me, and I gave her everything I had, and she gave me everything back.

"You're getting stronger," she said one night, tracing the lines of my chest. "Your energy. It's different."

"Different how?"

"Brighter. Fuller." She kissed my shoulder. "You're not the same person I met three months ago."

"Neither are you."

She smiled. "No. I'm not."

We lay there in the dark, listening to the city outside. Cars. Sirens. The occasional shout. It was noisy and messy and alive.

"I used to hate this place," she said. "The mortal realm. Too loud. Too bright. Too much."

"And now?"

"Now I think it's beautiful." She turned to look at me. "Because you're here."

"You're getting sappy."

"You're rubbing off on me."

"I hope so."

She laughed. And I laughed. And for a moment, everything was perfect.

But perfect doesn't last.

Malakar came on a Tuesday.

I was at my workbench, painting, when the lights flickered. Andrea was on the couch, reading one of my art books. She looked up, and her face went pale.

"He's here," she said.

"Who?"

"Malakar." She stood, her wings unfolding. "Stay behind me."

The air in the room changed. Got colder. Heavier. Like something was pressing down on us. And then the shadows in the corner started to move.

He was tall. Taller than any human. His skin was the color of ash, and his eyes burned like coals. He had horns, bigger than Andrea's, and wings that filled the room. He was beautiful in the way a forest fire is beautiful. Terrifying. Inevitable.

"Andrea," he said. His voice was like gravel. Like broken glass. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough." She stood her ground. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want." He looked at me. "And I see you've found yourself a pet."

"He's not a pet."

"No?" Malakar smiled. It was not a nice smile. "Then what is he?"

"He's mine."

"Yours." He laughed. "How quaint. A demon in love with a mortal. It's almost tragic."

"What do you want, Malakar?"

"I want you to suffer." He stepped closer. "I want you to feel the pain I felt when you killed my brother. I want you to lose everything you love."

He moved fast. Faster than I could track. One moment he was across the room, the next he was in front of me, his hand around my throat.

"Kennedy!" Andrea screamed.

"Such a fragile thing," Malakar said, squeezing. "So easy to break."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could see was his burning eyes and Andrea's terrified face.

"Let him go," she said. "Please. I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes. Anything."

He smiled. "Good."

He dropped me. I fell to the floor, gasping. Andrea was there in an instant, her hands on my face, her eyes searching.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine," I croaked. "I'm fine."

She turned to Malakar. "What do you want?"

"I want you to come with me." He crossed his arms. "Back to the lower realms. You'll serve me for a century. And then, maybe, I'll let you go."

"A century?"

"Or I kill him now." He shrugged. "Your choice."

She looked at me. I looked at her. And I knew, with a certainty that broke my heart, what she was going to do.

"Don't," I said. "Don't do it."

"I have to."

"No. We can fight him. We can..."

"We can't." She touched my face. "He's too strong. I won't let him hurt you."

"Andrea..."

"I love you." She kissed me. Soft. Gentle. "I'll come back. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"I can." She smiled. "Trust me."

And then she was gone.

She walked to Malakar, her head high, her wings spread. She didn't look back. And when they disappeared into the shadows, the room felt emptier than it ever had before.

I sat on the floor for a long time. Hours. Maybe days. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I just sat there, staring at the spot where she'd been.

She'd promised to come back. She'd told me to trust her. And I did. I trusted her more than I'd ever trusted anyone.

But trust doesn't stop the pain. Trust doesn't fill the emptiness. Trust doesn't bring her back.

I looked at the salt circle on my floor. The one I'd drawn three months ago. The one that had brought her to me.

I could summon her again. I could try. But I didn't know if it would work. I didn't know if she'd come.

And I didn't know if I could survive losing her twice.

But I had to try.

I got up. I found the book. I drew the circle.

And I waited.

The first time I saw Andrea, she was crawling out of a circle of salt I'd drawn on my apartment floor at three in the morning because I was drunk and lonely and the internet said it might work.

The second time, I was sober. And desperate. And I didn't know if it would work.

But I had to try.

Because she was mine. And I was hers. And I wasn't going to let her go without a fight.

I lit the candles. I said the words. And I waited.

The circle hissed. The smoke detector screamed.

And nothing happened.

I waited. Minutes. Hours. Nothing.

She wasn't coming.

I sat on the floor, surrounded by salt and candle wax and broken promises, and I cried. I cried for her. I cried for me. I cried for the life we could have had.

And then, just when I was about to give up, I heard it.

A whisper. Soft. Faint. Like it was coming from very far away.

"Kennedy."

I looked up. The circle was glowing. Not with fire. With something else. Something darker.

"Andrea?"

"I'm here." Her voice was weak. "I'm trying to get back."

"How? What do I do?"

"Trust me." A pause. "And wait."

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The circle glowed brighter. The air got colder. And then, with a flash of light and a sound like thunder, she was there.

She collapsed into my arms, her wings torn, her body bruised. But she was alive. She was here.

"Andrea." I held her. I held her so tight I thought I might break her. "You came back."

"I promised." She looked up at me. Her eyes were dim. "I always keep my promises."

"I know." I kissed her forehead. "I know."

She smiled. Weak. Tired. But real.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

We sat there, holding each other, and I knew that whatever came next, we'd face it together.

Because that's what you do when you love someone.

You fight. You wait. You trust.

And you never, ever give up.

The days after her return were quiet. Healing. She slept a lot, her body recovering from whatever Malakar had done to her. I stayed by her side, watching her breathe, watching her wings slowly mend.

"You don't have to watch me," she said one morning, her voice hoarse.

"I want to."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." I touched her face. "I just... I need to make sure."

She smiled. "You're sweet."

"You're beautiful."

"Flatterer."

"Honest."

She laughed. It was weak, but it was real. And it was the best sound I'd ever heard.

We talked, in those quiet days. About the future. About what we wanted. About what came next.

"I can't go back to the lower realms," she said. "Not ever. Malakar will be looking for me."

"So stay here."

"For how long?"

"Forever." I took her hand. "Stay with me. Forever."

She looked at me. Her eyes were bright. "You mean it?"

"I mean it."

"But I'm a demon. I'm dangerous. I..."

"I don't care." I squeezed her hand. "I love you. All of you. The wings. The horns. The hunger. I love it all."

She kissed me. Soft. Gentle. "I love you too."

And that was that.

We stayed in my apartment. She healed. I painted. We made love. We laughed. We lived.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't easy. There were nights when she woke up screaming, nightmares of Malakar and the lower realms. There were days when I couldn't stop thinking about how fragile this all was. How easily it could be taken away.

But we had each other. And that was enough.

That was everything.

The first time I saw Andrea, she was crawling out of a circle of salt I'd drawn on my apartment floor at three in the morning because I was drunk and lonely and the internet said it might work.

It worked.

Just not the way I expected.

And I wouldn't change a thing.