The Demon's Half

Chapter 23

"Let it out, let it out." Alexander's voice was annoyingly soothing as his hand pressed against my back, the warmth helping through the absolute train wreck of my puta existencia.

By the time the horror show was over, I turned to him, wheezing as if I'd just run a for hours in a swamp. Unluckily for me, he still didn't have a fucking shirt on.

"What did you mean by not having a leash? And what was that thing about mortals having power?"

"So many questions." He leaned against the door crossing his arms over his chest. So. Many. Muscles.

"I thought we agreed to trust each other."

When he lifted his gaze, it was like staring into a man's eyes instead of a demon's. "You trust me?"

"Trying." I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand for the fifth time today and straightened, even though my insides still felt like they'd been put through a blender.

"When I said I don't have a leash, it's because demons serve."

"Which means?"

"We were made."

"I thought evil people became demons when they died," I admitted, immediately regretting how stupid that sounded.

He raised a brow. "Is that what your smelly friends say?"

"No," I said. "Well... maybe. They also said demons were created with witchcraft."

"At least they got that part right. Witches make demons. For power. For control."

"So were you—"

"I was made by a witch, yes," his voice was almost absent, like he was pulling the memory from some dusty corner of his mind. "But she didn't know she had to claim me. So, no leash for me."

I tried to focus. Really, I did.
But his ridiculously perfect chest was still right there.

"Demons serve witches..."

"And mortals serve demons once they lose their soul. Yes." His tone was so casual it made my nostrils flare. "Power is power, Little Morgue."

"And you don't care who you hurt or kill for it."

His smirk was slow. "Exactly."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"And yet, it was still correct," he said. And I wanted to punch him. "Love, I lost my humanity a long time ago. Don't expect me to feel bad about it. I am unable to."

Maybe it was the fact that I'd almost died tonight. Or maybe it was the ache in my chest, but... "I wish I could do that."

Alexander's brows lifted. His too blue eyes locked onto mine. "Do what?"

"Stop the feelings." I pressed my back to the back of the couch, stomach shaking. "I wish I couldn't feel anything," I whispered. "Since my mom walked out, grief has been constant in my life. And every time I think of Mia," I swallowed. "I see her smile, the one that showed her crooked front tooth, and then she's gone."

A hot tear threatened the corner of my eye. I swallowed it back. The ache between my shoulders was a permanent guest, a sack of gravel strapped to my bones.

"My anger... I don't know how to stop it," I continued. "My dad drained every ounce of me until I was hollow. I've spent my whole life trying not to be him... so busy staying alive I forgot how to live. How to be myself." I clenched my fists. "And I'm tired. So goddamn tired of carrying it all. Of pretending I'm fine when I'm this close to shattering."