Page 130 of Devil's Deal

He said once he hated watching his friends bleed out.

“But if you left, will they be fine?” I ask. “Your people.”

A low growl reverberates in his chest, vibrating against my cheek.

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking care.”

His vehemence makes me shiver and curl against him. He releases a long breath through clenched teeth. His arms, which tightened around me in his anger, loosen by a fraction. He still holds me, though. He doesn’t have to. I can sit on my own. I could probably walk.

“I called for you,” I whisper.

Another long breath. Another tightening of his hands, his claws denting my bare flesh, and another conscious moment of release.

“I know. I should have realized you wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t your last resort. I should have come at once.”

I sigh, settling in. His heartbeat is slow and sure. It sounds like a drum, and I listen to it for some time while he simply holds me.

And I’m not angry. I should be. All this pain, the agony of dying and being brought back, and for what? Because we play this game. He sends a danger to make me scared, I fight the danger to prove I can, he sends another.

He comes and saves me. But when I break and call for him, he doesn’t come. It’s like a badly thought out dance, a horrible tale of mistakes and missed opportunities. What is even the point?

My body feels sensitive but aches less now. I settle into myself, breathing deeper, feeling more.

“How did you do it?” I ask, not really expecting a straight answer.

He huffs. His hand strokes up my arm, so gently, my skin covers in gooseflesh, and settles on the side of my head. He strokes my hair. It’s loose, my braids undone, my pins gone, just like my clothes.

It makes me wonder where they went, but maybe it’s only reasonable my body is completely bare. From what it felt like, he tore me into pieces and put me back together so many times. Clothes would only hinder that process, I think.

But how does he know he did it right? Do all my pieces really fit? Or maybe he was tempted to switch some things around.

“I am a god. I can do many things. This was nothing.”

I’m not disappointed by the evasive answer, because it’s exactly what I expected. Yet, a weak flame of anger and hope bursts to life in my chest.

“What else did you change?” I ask, my voice husky with emotion.

He is silent. I try to sit up straight, but he growls and presses me closer. Like a dog with a bone.

“What else?” I hiss, unable to stand that current of hope and trepidation.

“Nothing,” he finally answers. “You’re exactly as you were. Only unhurt.”

Unhurt. My fingers trail down my stomach, and I hold my breath, feeling, seeking…

The air rushes out of me, and I slump against him in defeat. The scar is still there, the skin dented and uneven, slightly tender to the touch. That means he only healed my fresh wounds, not the old ones.

It’s a strange mix of emotions, that relief and violent disappointment. I take in a too-fast breath, releasing it quickly. His hand stroking my hair stills.

“What’s wrong?”

But he won’t give me answers, and I don’t owe him any, either.

“Everything,” I answer simply. “All of it is wrong. I died.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement. “I know. Which is why we’ll do things differently from now on.”

He straightens, his hands sliding off me. I sit up, looking at his face. Before I understand what he’s doing, he gently holds my chin with his thumb and forefinger, tipping my head up, lowering his face to mine. I expect him to kiss me, and he does, but not on the mouth.

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