Page 23 of The Demon and the Broken Girl

Silas lowers the crossbow, tension still radiating off him. I sense he wants to demand more details, but out of respect for me or fear of picking a fight with Daeva, he stays quiet. Instead, he exhales, gesturing at a spot near the lean-to. “Try to get some sleep, Calla. We’ll keep watch.”

My shoulders sag with gratitude and a twinge of guilt. “Thank you.”

I move to the low space under the branches, wringing the damp ends of my hair. Daeva lingers near the edge of camp. Before I duck under the makeshift cover, I glance over at him. He meets my eyes for a moment—a silent exchange that makes my heart trip—and then he resumes his patrol.

I settle onto a patch of soft moss, pulling my tattered cloak around me for warmth. The silence presses in, interrupted only by the faint crackle of dying embers and the whisper of the river behind us. Exhaustion weighs on my eyelids, but my mind churns with too many thoughts: the memory of being caught naked in the river, the haunting sadness in Daeva’s voice when he talked about losing his humanity, the flicker of unmistakable desire I saw in his eyes.

Slowly, I drift into an uneasy doze. My dreams swirl with half-formed images of House Vaerathis, echoing corridors, andmirrors dripping black ink. Then I see Daeva, ghostlike in the catacombs, his face wreathed in shadows, reaching out a hand to me. I wake with a start, my pulse hammering.

It’s still night—or perhaps early morning. The moon has shifted, bathing the camp in a pale glow. Silas is on watch, arms folded, gaze trained on the horizon. I rub the sleep from my eyes, pushing myself up.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Silas murmurs, noticing my movement.

I shrug. “Nightmares, I guess.”

He nods in sympathy, then lowers his voice. “That demon… Daeva,” he corrects, as if the name tastes strange on his tongue, “he’s not normal, is he?”

“None of this is normal,” I reply with a weary sigh.

Silas shifts, conflict evident in his eyes. “I see how you look at him, Calla. Like you’re… curious. Or something else.”

My face heats. “He’s saved our lives. Of course I’m curious about who or what he is.”

Silas gives me a knowing look, but says nothing further. He simply rests a hand on me. “Just be careful.”

I’m too tired to protest, and maybe a little grateful for his concern. “I will,” I murmur, forcing a small smile.

I lie back down, letting my thoughts drift. The evening’s awkwardness glows in my mind like a half-buried ember, both embarrassing and oddly thrilling. I’ve never had time or reason to think about romance or desire, not in the life House Vaerathis forced on me. Now I’m not sure what to do with the possibility of either.

Daeva’s image flickers in my mind: those swirling black markings, that unwavering gaze, the gentle way he carried Jenna as if she weighed nothing. The memory of the river laps at my consciousness, tangling with the memory of his breath catching when he realized how exposed I was.So he does notice me… but do I want that?

I’m not certain. My pulse quickens, and I shut my eyes, willing my body to relax. We have bigger concerns than whether a demon finds me alluring. We have to survive. But even as I tell myself that, I can’t shake the warmth that spreads through me.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. I slip into sleep, cradling the fragile hope that we’ll see another sunrise without incident.

Morning arrives in a reluctant wash of gray light, filtering through the pines overhead. The river’s steady murmur greets me, along with the faint rustle of someone moving around camp. My body aches from lying on the hard ground, but at least the rest gave me a bit of clarity.

Ryn busies himself with stirring the remaining embers. Cole crouches by Jenna, checking her brow. Silas stands near the lean-to, crossbow slung over his shoulder, scanning the tree line. I don’t see Daeva immediately, but I sense his presence in the hush—like a watchful phantom on the periphery.

I shuffle over to check on Jenna. She cracks an eye open, wincing as she shifts. “Morning,” she mumbles, voice strained.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask, touching her forehead. She’s still warm, but not scalding.

“Better,” she whispers, though the weakness in her tone suggests otherwise. “That silverleaf brew helped, I think.”

Cole stands, stretching. “Ryn and I found a few more mushrooms, but not much else for breakfast,” he says apologetically. “I wish we had real food.”

I press my lips together, glancing at the river. “We can try to fish. Maybe set a simple net or trap— if we can weave something from branches.”

Silas drops down onto his haunches, picking up the cloth I used last night to wash bandages. “I’ll see what I can do. If we could at least catch a few small fish…”

He leaves to gather materials, and I head toward the place where we found water the night before. As I approach, I spotDaeva standing on the riverbank. He’s wearing his usual dark attire—ripped in places from the battles—and that bandage on his upper arm, now a bit discolored.

He must sense me coming. His gaze turns, capturing me in a quiet moment that makes my heart stutter. Memories of last night flash between us, unspoken. I force myself to push them aside, focusing on the present.

“How’s your wound?” I ask, gesturing to his arm.

He shrugs, rolling the shoulder experimentally. “Sore, but healing.”

---