The Demon's Obsession

Episode 7

I know I screamed, but I couldn’t hear my own voice. I know I tried to run but was held in place by a hand from the shadows.

Then, as if in slow motion, the hand that gripped mine—the one that up until that moment I could only feel, not see—reached further from the shadow, crossing slightly into the sunlight.

It was then that I saw it was indeed a hand—seemingly human. I was unable to move, partly because of the hold on me, partly because I was frozen in terror.

First, the hand crossed into the dim sunlight, exiting the shadow it had cowered in for months. Then, as I pulled back with what effort I could muster through my fear, more of the entity emerged.

Hand… forearm… shoulder… body.

The most beautiful—and broadest—man I had ever seen stood before me.

He was danger wrapped in sin, a body built from shadows and fire. His broad shoulders were stretched taut with muscle, every line of him carved like temptation itself. The tattoo across his chest, like molten cracks that pulsed with heat, glowing like they were begging me to touch, daring me to burn. His dark hair fell loose around his sharp, unforgiving face, but it was his eyes—black as onyx and endless—that held me captive.

I should have run. I should have screamed. Instead, my thighs clenched, my breath hitched, and I wanted. All I could think about was how close he was, how the scent of smoke and spice clung to him, how the raw power rolling off his body made my skin ache. He was an obsession with flesh, a demon with a smirk that promised I would break, and when he stepped from the shadows, I knew there was no saving myself. I wanted every sinful inch of him, even if it meant losing my soul.

I opened my mouth, but still no words came out. What the hell was I supposed to do anyway—scream? Little good that would do, considering the assailant in my bedroom had just appeared out of thin air—or rather, the f*****g shadows.

Wanting to run, I couldn’t force myself to do it. Instead, my entire body cramped up with tension and fear, and in fight-or-flight mode, I suddenly chose fight.

And that’s when I swung as hard as I could.

I always did have a mean right hook.

Granted, the shadow man was at least six-foot-five as he towered over me; he was shadow incarnate. When my fist hit his face, I expected him to evaporate into mist and disappear like the figment of my imagination he was.

But he didn’t disappear.

The second my fist made contact with his cheek, it felt like I had eviscerated my hand into a million pieces. Surely I’d broken every single bone with that single punch.

Screaming in pain, I recoiled my hand and clutched it to my chest. Instantly, in a continuous blur that made my stomach drop like a crazy roller coaster, I was gently placed on the bed by the man who was kneeling beside me, his hands over mine.

“Are you f*****g crazy?” he snapped.

His voice—f**k, that voice—was both familiar and haunting, the kind of sound that slithered under my skin and set every nerve on fire. It didn’t just send chills down my spine; it curled low in my belly, a dangerous mix of fear and desire that left me trembling before I even realized I was leaning into him.

I had heard that voice before. More than once.

It was the voice from the bookstore, the one that had scared me out of the attic and into Eli’s arms. It was also the voice I swore whispered in my ear randomly at night and that drifted in and out of my recurring nightmares.

“You…” I snapped as I pulled my hand back defiantly. The pain was only intensified.

“Don’t,” the entity ordered, pulling me back into his grasp.

Instantly, the pain was gone.

It was his touch—he was taking away the pain in my hand. No, he was healing my hand.

After a few moments, he released me. He released my hand once the pain subsided, and I hurried to get as far away from the monster as I could.

He had to be a monster of some kind. What else could he be? He’d appeared out of the f*****g shadows, for goodness’ sake, and had seemingly healed my mangled hand with nothing more than his touch.

“What the f**k are you?” I yelled once I was far enough away and within running distance of the front door. Trying to think quickly, I noted the hunting knife I kept in a drawer near the coat rack.

What the f**k is that going to do, Ellie? He’s made of f*****g shadows.

Waiting for a response, I caught the stranger’s gaze raking over me, slow and deliberate, as if he were memorizing every curve and flaw. Heat pooled in my chest under the weight of it. Then, with a fluid motion far too graceful for something born of shadows, he rose from where he’d been kneeling beside my bed, towering over me like he already owned the room—and me with it.

Taller and broader than he’d seemed in the shadow, I got a better look at him. He was tall, yes, but also strong. His eyes were deep like onyx, his hair dark like smoke. Long tendrils fell across his face and to his shoulders, and his clothes were all black. Wearing black jeans and a black button-up, his black boots made him nearly transparent in the darkness.

“I asked you a question,” I said—more like stuttered. By then, the stranger had crossed the room entirely and was mere inches away from me.