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“I’m not.” And it’s true. I’ve had more than a year to stew over what he did. To forgive. To move on. To realize that what I feel for him wasn’t caused by incubus magic, but by him and our thirteen years of friendship. “Thank you for taking care of him until I could get here.”

“Always.”

I give Minerva a quick hug before opening the door and heading downstairs. Never in my life would I have imagined becoming close to her, or any Septem witch, but she’s become more like a mother to me than mine ever was. I guess that comes with the territory of doing secret research together for someone we both love.

No longer does smoky incense fill the room, and no longer are the lights red, but a soft yellow. All of Daemon’s garbage is scooted off to the side and organized as neatly as possible, but I still cringe whenever I see the pile of miscellaneous dildos and sex toys Minerva and I had to sort through. If I’m being honest, I’m still a bit scarred from it.

Walking past them, my chest tightens when I see Daemon lying on the bed, surrounded by sheer red curtains with a doctor looming over him. The old man dresses in black scrubs, a stethoscope around his neck. Placing the chestpiece over Daemon’s heart, he listens for any irregularities before glancing up at me.

“He’ll be alright. Demons heal faster than us. Although I must admit, it’s going slower than I would like.”

The doctor hasn’t rolled Daemon over yet. If he had, he would have seen the brand that tethers us, and he would have already deduced why Daemon hasn’t finished healing.

From now on, we share one life. Although I’m not one-hundred percent certain what that entails, I know I’m as immortal as he is, and he’s as vulnerable as me. Right now, I hate that. It means all the pain he’s suffered will last longer, and there’s nothing I can do to help. It’s not like I’m friends with any light witches who could help out.

“Can you stitch him while he’s in that form, or would transforming rip them open?” I ask.

The old man looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Demons don’t need stitches.”

“He will.” Spinning around, I lift the back of my shirt up just high enough for him to see the tender brand. His eyes widen, his fingers twitching closer, like he’s wanting to inspect it for himself, but I have no desire to be poked or prodded. I let the shirt drop. “So, stitches or no?”

He shakes his head to clear it. “I’ll come back when he’s human again. Until the skin is healed, he shouldn’t switch back and forth between the two. We’ll want to ask Daemon which form he wants to be stuck in before I suture him.”

Retracting his stethoscope, the doctor rises from the bed and the curtains fall behind him. “Tell Minerva to call me once he’s awake again.”

I nod, my throat tightening when I step closer.

I wait until the doctor is gone before crawling into bed and inspecting Daemon for myself. Dark bruises mar most of his body, and his open wounds have stained the sheets with blood. It’s hard to tell where I can safely touch him without hurting him. Even though every instinct in me demands I wrap my arms around Daemon and pull him close, I know that’s selfish. He’s here. We’re together. Salios isn’t going to take him back. He can’t.

But knowing that and believing it are two very different things.

Part of me feels like the tighter I squeeze him, the harder it’ll be for anyone to hurt him again. But I force myself to lie a respectable distance away and keep my hands to myself. For a long while, I do nothing but watch the rise and fall of his chest, and listen to the sound of his breathing. And that’s enough.

Slowly, my eyelids drift, the weight of the day—Christ, the entire year and a half—dragging me down. I’m nearly asleep when I hear his raspy voice call out.

“Annie, is that you? Are you really here?” The bed squeaks as Daemon tries to roll over, then moans instead. “I’m sore everywhere.”

“Don’t move,” I tell him. On his bedside table, either the doctor or Minerva left a water bottle for him. I grab it and hold it to his lips. “Drink.”

His glowing red eyes stare up at me, brows pinching together as he guzzles the liquid down. When he’s finished, I screw the cap back on and place it between us, still keeping my distance so I don’t injure him further.

“Usually, Salios makes me hurt you by now,” he admits. “This is nice.”

“That’s because this is real.”

Turning around, I lift my shirt up again and ask him to touch my back. Gently, he traces every inch of the unholy, ancient glyph and puzzles together what it means.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I whisper. “It was the only way I knew how to save you.”

Daemon clears his throat. “Is this… what I think it is? You gave up your soul for me? After I…”

“You won’t be invulnerable anymore,” I warn him. “We’ll probably die eventually.”

Together. At the same time. We’ll never experience another day—hell, another second—without the other one in it. And God, that’s such a relief.

“I don’t understand,” he says, still processing. But he doesn’t seem angry that I took away his demon-y invincibility, so I guess that’s something. As he removes his hand, my shirt falls back down, and the sheets rustle as I turn to face him once more. Wordlessly, I find his fingers and curl them in my own, but his expression remains indecipherable.

“You won’t have an afterlife,” he realizes, breaking the silence between us.