Page 122 of Demon Monster's Little Human

Just ours.

I take a step toward him. He looks up at me, something unreadable in his expression.

He reaches for me.

His hand curls around my wrist, and he tugs me forward, his forehead pressing against mine.

"Liora," he breathes.

I close my eyes.

It’s over.

But we are not.

51

DAIN

The world has finally stopped trembling.

The ruins are silent, bathed in the moonlight overhead. The battle is over. The artifact is gone. The presence, the thing that has haunted me for centuries, whispered in my mind, turned my hate into something sharp and endless—is nothing but ash and echoes.

But my hands still shake.

Liora stands before me, alive, whole, her magic no longer a force tearing her apart but something that has become hers. Not Amara’s. Not the artifact’s. Just hers.

I can barely breathe.

I should say something. I should tell her that she was reckless, that she was stupid for nearly dying in front of me again. That I shouldn’t have had to drag her back from the abyss because she should have never thrown herself into it in the first place.

But I don’t.

Because all I can think about is the way she looked at me in the final moment before she shattered the artifact—like she had already chosen me. Like she had always chosen me.

I don’t deserve it.

I want to tell her that too. That she should hate me for every cruel thing I said, for every time I almost killed her, for every time I let my rage consume me instead of reaching for her.

But she doesn’t give me the chance.

She moves toward me, slow, deliberate, her bare feet silent on the cracked stone. I expect her to stop, to hesitate, to give me time to put my walls back up.

She doesn’t.

She crashes into me.

Her hands grip my jaw, fingers digging into my skin like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on tight enough. She pulls me down, and her lips slam into mine—no hesitation, no waiting.

Just need.

I don’t think. I break.

I grab her, hard, bruising, my fingers tangling into her hair as I crush her against me. Her gasp is swallowed by my mouth, her body pressed to mine, and there’s nothing gentle about the way I take her lips, devouring, claiming, demanding.

This isn’t like before.

This isn’t rage.

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