Page 68 of Demon Monster's Little Human

Heat.

It coils inside me, thick and unbearable.

I should be exhausted. I should be sleeping.

But I can’t.

Not when my skin burns like this. Not when my veins feel too full, too alive, too much.

And it’s his fault.

Dain.

I feel him before I see him, his presence pressing against my senses, dark and suffocating, inescapable.

I squeeze my eyes close. I try to pretend I don’t hear the shift of his weight in the doorway, don’t feel the way the air itself thickens around us, don’t acknowledge the pulse at the center of my body that only reacts to him.

But pretending is impossible when my heart stutters the moment he moves closer.

I don’t look at him.

I won’t.

But that doesn’t stop my body from reacting, my breath from hitching, my fingers from gripping the sheet tighter as if it will somehow ground me against the storm that is him.

Silence stretches between us, electric and unbearable.

The bed dips.

A shudder runs through me, hot and violent.

I should turn away. I should put as much distance as possible between us.

Instead, I stay still.

My breath is too quick, my pulse too loud. I feel exposed, hyper-aware of every inch of bare skin that the thin sheet can’t hide.

His fingers.

A single touch. A whisper of warmth against my cheek.

I break.

My eyes snap open, locking onto his under the glow of moonlight filtering through the broken walls.

Gods help me.

He looks like something I should be terrified of.

Golden eyes burn through the darkness, molten and unreadable. His features are sharp, carved from something more dangerous than stone, his lips slightly parted as if he’s fighting something inside himself.

He wants me.

I see it. I feel it. It should terrify me.

But it doesn’t.

It should make me push him away.

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