Sometimes his hands grip me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Sometimes he murmurs my name so quietly I almost miss it. Sometimes he just breathes, deep and slow, until the tension bleeds out of him.
Then there are the times where his hands drift, and moans slip from my mouth. He’s never rough in the night.
He passes his hands over me gently. Presses me into the mattress as he whispers praise in my ear. And I take him. I take all of him because I can feel that he needs me. That he wants to feel grounded in me.
I think, distantly, that this must be what aftercare looks like for men like him. Not softness. Not words. Just contact. Just proof that the world hasn’t taken everything.
I don’t mind being that proof.
In the mornings, he’s back to himself. Sharp. Controlled. Fully dressed before I even open my eyes. He presses a kiss to my temple like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t undo me every time, and tells me to sleep in.
I do.
I’m learning his rhythms. The way he holds his coffee mug. The way he goes quiet before a bad day. The way his thumb strokes my wrist when he thinks I’m asleep.
I make myself at home in his room because he’s already made himself at home in me.
I know better than to think this means safety. Or permanence. Or love.
But at night, when the Devil comes home smelling like blood and fear and buries his face against my chest like a sinner begging for absolution, I let myself believe—just a little—that I am something good he doesn’t want to lose.
??? ??? ???
The kitchen is warm in a way the rest of the house never quite is.
Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching on the polished counters and turning the dust motes into something almost soft. It smells like bread and coffee and whatever Mara has simmering on the stove. Normal smells. Domestic ones. The kind that make it easy to forget where I am.
Mara stands at the island, dark hair pulled into a loose braid, sleeves rolled up as she kneads dough with practiced ease. She’s humming under her breath, something old and familiar, and I sit on one of the stools nearby with my chin in my hands, watching her work.
This is how most of our mornings go when Lucian is out.
When he’s gone, the house exhales. Not because it’s afraid of him—if anything, it’s built around his presence—but because everything feels…paused. Like the world beyond the gates can’t quite reach us here.
Mara glances up and catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, amused. “Is your coffee burnt? I ordered new beans from this place in Seattle, but I hadn’t tried it myself.”
“No, no it’s great actually,” I say quickly. “Nothings on my mind.”
Then, because she knows me too well to let that slide, I sigh. “Okay, fine. Something.”
She arches a brow. “And what is that?”
I smile despite myself. “How long have you worked for Lucian?”
Her hands slow, just a little.
It’s subtle. If I didn’t spend most of my life watching people for signs of danger, I might’ve missed it. She looks down at the dough, folding it over itself with care, like she’s choosing how much to give me.
“Long time,” she says eventually.
“That’s not an answer,” I point out.
She snorts. “You’re picking up bad habits.”
“Living with Lucian does that.”
That earns me a quiet laugh. She wipes her hands on a towel and leans back against the counter, studying me in that calm, assessing way she has. Not suspicious. Just…present.
