Her Demons
Aries
The two of them sleep off their fever in my bed. Not sending them down to the demon sleep quarters has really set off an array of whispering gossip around me.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything now. Because they’re all safe. Even Ryke. Even if he isn’t mine.
Now, it’s time for the next step. The one I’ve actually been dreading...
I uncurl myself from the white chair in the corner of the bedroom and pull on black jeans and a black tee-shirt: standard Shadow Guard attire. I stare down at my clothes for a long moment before pulling the dagger from the back of my closet.
The same one I brought here the night I snuck into this room to killhim.
Can I really do that to my father? Can I kill the man who raised me and protected me?
He’s cruel, arrogant, and entirely racist.
But he did protect me.
Especially from Nathiale...
I shove aside the conflicting emotions inside me and slide the dagger into my black boot. As I stride to the door, an incubus judges me from the corner of the room.
“You’re really going to do it?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
He mirrors the motion.
“Do you want me to come?” Krave’s so serious, it’s alarming.
I shake my head at him, unable to admit in any way what I’m about to do.
He stares at me with white moonlight shining in his eyes. “Be careful, love,” he whispers.
And those words follow me in my mind over and over again as I make my way to the highest tower.
To my father’s bedchamber.
The thick shadows absorb my every move as I walk swiftly up the stairs, past the two guards, past my mother’s room, and finally stand before the enormous curving door.
The coldness of the handle stings against my palm as I turn the knob. I ease the door open without a sound. The sleek red rug silences my steps and my gaze falls on the glossy wooden bedframe at the center of the room.
Candlelight flickers over the faint lines along his closed eyes. His long gray hair is fanned over the pillow, and the white shirt that he wears doesn’t hug his broad shoulders the way his button-downs normally do.
There’s no anger twisting his features. The skin along his face is thin and carves out the bones of his cheeks and brow.
He looks...old.
He’s an old man clinging to old ways of life.
He’s my father.
And I’m his daughter, standing with a knife held numbly in my hand. It isn’t a weapon at all any more. It’s just one more thing weighing down my body in this moment.
Right along with all my clashing emotions.
