9. Callista

9

CALLISTA

T agar is still lingering around the mansion, provoking Dagon. His presence makes me uneasy. Despite this, I'm finding my attention drawn more and more to Dagon as the days pass. After the other night, I'm starting to see beyond the outbursts of anger. I've never been scared of him, but there was a chaotic element to the way the anger simmered readily beneath the surface.

My hand absently comes to my neck, thinking about the physicality of his anger. I've been thrown up against the wall with his hand around my throat more times than I can count in my short time being taken by him. I should probably fear him, fear the tightly wound sense of control knowing it will inevitably snap. His rages haven't changed in intensity, and while I'm strangely more compassionate, I still don't shy away from his verbal abuse, giving it right back to him as good as I take it.

"You just going to stand there and glare?" I taunt him as he towers over me after yet another outburst, his eyes burning with a storm.

"I could ask you the same fucking thing," he snaps back, his tone laced with irritation and something akin to admiration.

I know that my defiance, my readiness to stand toe-to-toe with him, acts as a necessary release for Dagon. This isn't just about proving my strength. It's about providing him an outlet that I secretly know he craves.

Admittedly, it's fucking thrilling, making my heart race and my skin tingle with adrenaline. In these moments, where I match Dagon's intensity, I discover a fierce part of myself that thrives in toxicity. Facing Dagon's fury, I not only confront his darkness but also embrace my own.

"Does this make you feel alive?" I challenge him, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

"It's what keeps me fucking sane," he admits, his voice a low growl. The admission, raw and honest, cements the brutal truth of our connection. He glares as he stalks away, leaving me reeling from the conflict.

But everything considered, it's the late nights that reveal the most to me. When sleep eludes us, we find ourselves in the kitchen, our battle wounds laid bare in the flickering candlelight. At first, our encounters are tense and silent, neither of us willing to speak or make the first move towards a semblance of camaraderie.

The stillness hangs heavy, filled with the echoes of our earlier clashes. The only sounds are the soft crackles from the candle and the occasional shift of our feet on the cold tile floor. We're like two generals, momentarily off the battlefield, unsure of how to interact without the familiar backdrop of war.

One day, the silence begins to thaw as we start to seek each other out. It starts with a shared glance, a mutual sigh, and an involuntary shift toward each other. There's a tacit acknowledgment in these small gestures, a recognition of the exhaustion and raw emotion that our fiery exchanges often mask.

The first words are forced, each syllable heavy with the effort of civility. "Still standing, then?" I ask, my voice low, the words slicing through the quiet.

"Seems so," Dagon replies curtly, his eyes not quite meeting mine. "Not for lack of trying, on either side."

The tension lingers, but slowly, the conversation begins to flow—still measured, still cautious, but gaining a reluctant momentum. We dance around deeper topics, instead discussing the mundane, the safe. And yet, each exchange is laced with an undercurrent of something more, a hesitant probing of boundaries and a testing of waters.

These late-night kitchen sessions become our unspoken truce, a sanctuary from the rage and fervor of the day. Here, in the quiet intimacy of forced politeness and shared vulnerabilities, we start to see each other not just as adversaries, but as complex individuals

The kitchen becomes our reluctant meeting ground, night after night, each encounter marked not by warmth, but by a cold mutual acknowledgment of each other's presence. Here we're stripped of our defenses and illuminated by the soft candlelight, that we begin to truly understand each other.

The space is dimly lit, the only light flickering inconsistently overhead, casting long, dancing shadows that seem almost sinister. We sit across from each other, the table between us laden with the invisible weight of our silent battles and unspoken histories.

Tonight, the silence feels especially charged, dense with the residual tension of our past interactions. I break it, not out of a desire for conversation but more from a restless discomfort that demands some sort of vocal acknowledgment.

"Can't sleep either?" The words come out more accusatory than I intend, reflecting my own irritation more than curiosity about his state.

Dagon shifts in his seat, his chair scraping slightly against the tile floor, a sound that grates in the quiet. He looks up, eyes narrowing slightly, clearly annoyed by the disturbance. "Does it look like I'm sleeping?"

His tone is edged, conveying more than just sleeplessness—there's a deeper, raw irritation there, perhaps with the situation, or maybe just with the fact that we are forced into this shared inconvenience of the night.

I let the question and its barbed delivery hang in the air, unanswered. Instead, I tear at the edge of a napkin, the repetitive action a small outlet for my own frustrations. The tearing sound seems overly loud in the tense silence that follows his retort.

A few moments pass before he speaks again, his voice softer but still carrying an undercurrent of that earlier annoyance. "Do you think it'll ever get better?" It's almost as if he's speaking to himself, the question rhetorical, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the kitchen window.

I consider his words, the heaviness of their implication, and my response is equally subdued. "Maybe it will, or maybe we'll just become better at pretending it has."

He nods, almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something like understanding—or perhaps resignation—in his eyes.

We lapse back into silence, each retreating into our own thoughts. The conversation, if it can be called that, is strained and awkward, a reflection of the complex and uneasy dynamic between us. It's clear that while the night forces us into proximity, the day's resentments linger, unresolved and potent.

Tonight's exchange, though brief and fraught with tension, marks a slight shift. It's not warmth or a breakthrough in our relationship, but rather an acknowledgment of our shared reality, uncomfortable and unwelcome as it may be.

The recognition is there, unspoken but palpable, that we are both trapped in this cycle of restless nights and uneasy interactions, each grappling with our own demons in the oppressive quiet of the kitchen.