Chapter 4

RYKER

Fuck.

Tonight hasn't gone to plan in the slightest. For years, I have followed her, my little sister, the girl who walked through my father's front door all those years ago with black mascara running down her flushed cheeks. Her mother knew what kind of a man my father was, his depravity not wasted on the waif of a woman before she was able to obtain custody. I saw the marks, the slashes, her tear-soaked eyes as she made her morning coffee, popping a handful of prescription meds. Yet she allowed her only child to be hauled into the darkness in her place, the innocent girl's spark snuffed out by the man despite my efforts. I wasn't enough to protect her back then, and it killed me.

I hadn't been all that careful at the start, barely knowing myself in my new and improved form. The primal need to be close to her won out more often than I would like to admit, but I got better, more careful. I ensured I was in a right enough state to be close to her, trailing just out of her range of vision, visiting in her sleep when I could keep her in a dream-like state, touching her skin when she had no chance of waking.

Lyra isn't supposed to know about me at all, my existence all but wiped from the planes of this Earth years ago. I've been forced into a life of damnation, reaping souls and guiding them back to the gates of Hell to be sorted. Lyra checks on me, though, her search history an array of darkness and depravity, searching for big, black wolves she'll never find.

If anyone else called me that, I would take offense, with no relation to the mangey creatures roaming the Earth, galivanting through the woods like scared little scavengers, fighting for scraps. My kind has a purpose, a job to do—one I'm apparently not doing all that well, considering the girl is standing before me, wrapped decadently in my t-shirt. Our scents warping into one has my eyes rolling back, my teeth sinking into the inside of my cheek to keep the feral growl in my chest from breaking free.

She drops her white-knuckled grip from the blanket she clings to, letting it pool around her feet, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her delicate hand reaches out, splaying her fingers across the tight muscles of my pec, forcing it to twitch under her touch. It's soft, gentle, just as I remember it.

Fire pulses through my veins, willing my demon side to surface. My control isn't the best around her on a good day, so this is pure torture. Usually, she's asleep, unable to see or feel me. My shadows, however, are a different story. She has seen those more than once, her soul reaching for the depths of darkness, willing death to take her. But it isn't her fucking time. She deserves more time—a life free from the filth that gravitates toward her, siphoning her happiness when that should be me.

My kind feeds on emotions, the strong kind. Happiness. Sadness. Lust. Fear. It keeps our forms alive, both demon and human. We are built from nightmares, laced with fire and ash, a sight that has most grown men running away or pissing themselves, knowing death is knocking at their proverbial door. Interestingly, it's not something that scares her as much as it should.

Tears begin to flow down her cheeks in a steady stream, landing on my black tee stretched across her ample chest. Her body fills out my shirt to goddamn perfection. Curved thighs peek from the bottom, the sides grazing her hips, begging me to take the bite I have craved since she walked through my door all those years ago.

Her glassy eyes roam over my body from head to toe, illuminated by the fireplace to the side of us. She lingers at my cheek, staring at the scars marking my skin, pain tainting her features. The process of becoming a hellhound leaves very few unscathed, with most of us covered in scars by the end of it.

"Ryks?" she whispers, the sound barely audible despite the silence, her light breaths thundering through my ears.

"Miss me?" I grin, trying to play off the intensity of this moment. She looks at me like I hung the fucking moon, when in reality, I tore two men to shreds in the woods and choked her until she passed out. A literal demon, reborn from the depths of hell, and this girl looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. Not that she will have connected those dots just yet; hopefully, she never will.

Lyra leaps at me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her head slamming into my chest. Sharp nails claw into the skin along my ribs, holding me as though her life depends on it, tears soaking the front of my tee. This is the first time she has been this close to me in my more human form since that night, and things have certainly changed since then. I am much taller than her short frame. Her head only just reaches my lower chest as she nuzzles herself into me, inhaling my scent. The comfort washing over her almost chokes me, the emotion so fucking strong, it's painful.

My control is slowly slipping, ripping at my skin like a rabid beast. She has no idea what being close to her does to me, how hard it is to avoid tearing into her soul and taking it for myself. It has crossed my mind on occasion, on nights when I watch her at work or while she sleeps. Maybe it would be easier on both of us if she was to join me, but her soul is too pure, not tarnished enough to be sent to the depths. If she died, she would be lost to me forever.

I always knew there was something pulling me toward her, even before my death—an invisible tether luring me in, willing me to protect a girl I barely knew. The moment my hellhound side took over, though, the obsession became something much more. It became physically painful to stay too far away. The reaper who took me in explained it as being fated, something innate within me knowing she was meant to be mine.

My body fights when there's too much distance, pulling me closer to her, putting me back in her path regardless of what I want. If I let myself get close to her and give in to my primal side, she will end up dead. I will fucking consume her soul while my knot rips her to pieces, her delicate human life not built to take someone like me. If I had hundreds of years to hone my control, it may be a different story.

It's why I live between this cabin and the apartment beside hers. The cabin is my place for silence and solitude, away from the temptation of her as well as the chaos of Hell. It's close enough that I can see her daily, check in between reaping souls, but far enough that her scent doesn't envelop my entire being and make me do dumb shit that would land me in the bad books down below.

Her legs begin to tremble, her fingers wringing the fabric of my shirt as she slides down, forcing me to hold her up. My grip will likely leave marks, but she doesn't flinch or move away. If anything, she curls in closer, not registering the danger she's in. Blinded by the man she knew me as eight years ago. The man who no longer exists on this plane or the next.

A rumble tears through the sobs filling the room, her stomach chiming in to remind me she needs to eat. Luckily, I keep this place stocked with things that have a decent shelf life. Sometimes, I still like to taste things from my past, particularly those with memories connected to her.

"Alright, that's enough of that. Get out there and sit on the sofa," I whisper into her hair, her scent infiltrating my senses. She smells like home; not the physical place made of nightmares, but the feeling of it. I need to get her out of here before I change my fucking mind and kill her myself just to keep her.

Pulling her body from mine, I storm out of the room, getting as much distance from her as I can. The space is cozy, enough for the small amount of time I spend here. Skulls adorn the walls, each with its own story to tell. Shrouded by the surrounding woods, my demon form can unleash, running and hunting as much as my heart desires. It's something to let off the steam from the intense restraint it takes being in her presence, albeit from a distance most of the time.

She slowly steps through the doorway, her eyes wide as she takes it all in, darting from one place to the next before settling back on me. She looks sad, with her whole fucking being. It seeps through the very marrow of her bones, poisoning her soul from the inside out, from the dark purple bags under her eyes down to the scars marring her thighs.

The girl was gifted life, traded, if you will. Given the opportunity to exist while I perished. Our parents ensured it was a slow and drawn-out process, my death. Framed as the boy who just couldn't take it anymore, they waited until my body was free from bruising before forcing fistfuls of medication down my throat.

The people who mourned me were there for them, not for me—not to say goodbye to the Ryker they knew and loved, but to earn brownie points with the most prominent lawyer the town has ever produced. What a poor soul, losing his stepdaughter and his son within months of each other. Must have been so hard for the family.

Lyra's plush lips open and close, willing words to fall, but nothing comes out, her eyes drifting to the floor as she picks at the hem of my shirt. Something she does when she's anxious, even when alone. Usually, she wears my hoodie from the night she left, the threadbare jumper now covered in blood on the floor of my room. She can take whatever she wants from here before she leaves, as swiftly as fucking possible.

I get back to work, mixing the packets with the cooked noodles. Not a Michelin star meal, but it will fix the pang of hunger for her enough to have a decent conversation. Her eyes barely leave me, as if I'll disappear into thin air if she looks away. Not completely untrue, I guess, but still. My skin heats under her gaze, every piece of me conflicted between giving into temptation and doing what's best for her. She doesn't understand it yet, but it sure as fuck isn't me.

Even if it was, we would be torn apart, her heart ripped from the cavity that keeps it safe. If any of the reapers found out me keeping an eye on her was this close, I would be hauled into the depths, my presence here conditional at best. I'm addicted to the fragile little being before me. Watching over her. Keeping her close. Praying something taints her enough so that when her time is up, she's mine, bound to me for the rest of fucking time.

"Here. Eat this, and I will take you home."

Her hands tremble as she takes the bowl, moving the fork around but not actually eating anything, despite the vicious growl rumbling from her stomach. She has to be hungry, having been out all night without a thing to eat.

"Can I… Can I ask you something?" she whispers, her eyes cast low. "I will eat, I promise. I just need to know. Can I stay? Even just for a few days. I..."

She has no idea who I am anymore; eight whole years have passed. I look every bit as dangerous as I am, and yet, she wants to stay. This conversation isn't something well thought through, much like bringing her into my home in the first place. She has no idea how she got here, how I ‘found' her, yet her question is something that has me more stumped than any of those topics would have.

"Ryks?"

Her emotions are laced with anxiety and concern, and not the kind that is all that pleasant to feed on. I can't stay here with her, and the woods are too dangerous for her to be in alone. Demons will be drawn to her like moths to a flame. Her emotions are intense, addictive, filled with the things we crave. She needs to be back at her home, with Void in her apartment and me watching over her from afar. Getting my fill while she sleeps, intertwining myself with her nightmares.

"You are not supposed to be here in the first place. The groundskeeper found your bag abandoned there. He has seen me there a few times, had my number and gave me a call. Couldn't leave you to die, so I brought you back here to make sure you're okay. You need to leave, though; it's a rental, and to be honest, I don't really want you here."

The words taste sour on my tongue, the venom in my tone not something I want her to bear witness to, but she has to. She has to hate me for now, to fear me enough to not want to come back or search for me until it's her time. Considering I have her laptop bugged and often filter through her search history, that's unlikely.

She says nothing, silent tears falling down her cheeks and into her noodles. I focus on her breathing, the panic bubbling at the surface, moments from tearing free. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly, regardless of her attempts to use breathing techniques. Nothing quite dampens the feelings starting to overcome her completely.

"Tonight. You have tonight. Stay here, rest, clean yourself up, I don't care. But you are going home in the morning. Do you understand?"

Nodding, she twirls her fork in circles, loading it up with more than her mouth can possibly take. Small, barely audible moans slip from her lips at the taste, her favorite noodles still a win. Her eyes roll back slightly, the visual mixed with those little noises going straight to my fucking dick. How the hell am I going to survive until tomorrow?