“Of course, I had to agree to take the soul of a cheerleader. With the glitter and the unbearable sunshine aura.”
“Excuse me for not decorating in death and brimstone.”
He raises both of his eyebrows at me this time, and I just glare at him with as much hatred as my face can muster.
“I didn’t come to collect,” he says, after a moment. “Not yet. Just figured I’d meet the girl who was worth more than her father’s soul.”
“And?” I ask.
“And I’m disappointed.” His smirk sharpens. “You don’t look like much.”
The words hit me, but they don’t hurt like he probably intended. I cross my arms over my chest, chin lifted despite the tremble in my knees.
“Well, you’re not exactly the Prince Charming I imagined either,” I mutter. “Too many horns. And you tracked smoke onto my rug.”
Something flickers across his face, a noise threatening to leave his throat. A laugh, almost. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. He stands and takes a step toward me, making me push myself as far as I can against the door to recoil away from him. The closer he gets, the more heat I can feel radiating from his sun-kissed skin. He lifts my chin with a long finger, making my eyes meet his dark gaze. He grins, a smile worthy of dreams and nightmares.
He tilts his head again at me, “I’ll be seeing you, Daisy.”
And just like that—he’s gone. No flash. No sound. Just a ripple in the air where he stood, and the lingering scent of fireand musk. Even the smoke from my rug has vanished. How considerate of him.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. I don’t scream, I don’t cry. I just sit there, staring at the empty space where he was. And I wonder how many more things in my life are going to be taken from me before anyone ever thinks to ask me what I’m willing to give.
The room isdeathly quiet after he’s gone, like the walls are holding their breath. I sit there on the floor for what feels like hours, the imprint of his presence still pressed into the air around me, the feel of his finger on the underside of my chin still burning. I stare at the floor where my bag fell, its contents spilled all across the floor.
That didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened. Demons aren’t real. Fathers don’t sell their daughters’ souls. Except… mine might have.
I press my hands to my head, slowly dragging them down my face. They’re shaking, my breath stuttering in and out like my lungs have forgotten how to work.
“It wasn’t real,” I whisper. “It was just stress. You’re tired. You haven’t slept. You hallucinated. People under stress hallucinate all the time.”
Oh great, now I’m talking to myself too. This is normal. Everything’s absolutely fine.
I peel myself off the floor and move toward the kitchen on autopilot, stepping over the contents of my bag without bothering to clear it up. My throat feels tight, my head buzzing. My body is moving, but my mind is pacing in circles and screaming.
Denial:
It was a dream. A waking dream. You’ve been working too much. Not eating enough. You just imagined it; people imagine things. It happens.
Anger:
But why him? Why a demon? Why not a faceless shadow or a monster under the bed? Why a voice like thunder wrapped in silk? Why a man who looked like sin carved into something holy? And why did it feel so freaking real?
Bargaining:
Maybe you’re crazy. That’s better, right? That’s fixable. You can take meds, go to therapy. Maybe you’ve snapped, and you don’t know it yet. Maybe this is what losing your mind feels like.
I start moving through the kitchen to look for something to comfort me. I open the fridge and stare blankly inside. There’s nothing there. Nothing but a small piece of cardstock placed carefully on the middle shelf.
I freeze.
No. No, no, no.
I reach for it with trembling fingers, my breath catching in my throat. It’s smooth, black, and the edges are gilded in gold, catching the fridge light.
There’s only one line printed in silver ink:
Your soul now belongs to me.
