Page 50 of Demon Monster's Little Human

“You need rest.”

“I am fine,” I mutter.

His low growl vibrates through the air, through me. I open my eyes to find him watching me, expression unreadable, gaze heavy, dark.

I try to hold it.

I fail.

The exhaustion creeps in, slow and insidious, dragging me toward sleep, toward him beside me, toward the storm raging inside me.

I fight it.

But, in the end, I lose.

21

DAIN

She sleeps, but I do not.

The storm outside rages, a beast tearing through the mountains, wind clawing at the entrance of the cave. The fire flickers, casting her in shadow, painting her too soft, too fragile against the harsh stone.

My hands flex at my sides, restless.

I should not be here.

I should not be watching her.

Yet, I cannot look away.

She is curled beneath the furs I threw at her earlier, her breath slow, steady, the lingering scent of the spring still clinging to her skin. There is no filth left, no trace of the blood and grime from before. Only her. Clean. Warm. Bare beneath that pathetic scrap of cloth she calls clothing.

Heat coils in my gut, sharp, unwanted.

She is human. A weakness wrapped in trembling flesh.

My hand moves, hovering just above the curve of her cheek. I should not touch her. But I do.

My fingers trail the edge of her jaw, a slow, lazy path that should not feel like a brand against my own skin. The warmth of her seeps into me, something treacherous, something that burrows deeper than I would like.

Her lips part slightly, a whisper of sound escaping her.

I jerk my hand back, exhaling sharply.

What am I doing?

I clench my fists, pressing them against my thighs, forcing my body into stillness, forcing my mind away from her. Away from the pull, from the thing between us that refuses to die.

She shifts in her sleep, her face softening, her body pressing deeper into the furs. I should be disgusted by the sight of her. I should want her dead.

But all I feel is reminded.

The memories come unbidden, slipping through the cracks of my mind, like blood seeping from a wound.

Another woman. Another lifetime.

A past buried beneath centuries of stone and silence.

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