Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 122

**OZ**

I hear Tarish arrive, even if I don’t actually see him. His voice carries low and steady through the house, a sound that instantly sharpens my senses. It pulls me down the hall until I’m standing outside Kacia’s door, my steps light as I approach. I want to knock. I want to open the door, to see her, to make sure she’s okay. But she did ask me to wait out here. And she hasn’t called for me. She doesn’t need me barging in like some overprotective babysitter catching her sneaking a friend over after lights out. She can handle herself. And from the sound of it, she’s doing more than handling herself. She’s having a magic lesson. If I barged in now, I’d only distract her. Or worse, get in the way. So instead, I sink down against the wall, settling with my back pressed to the cool plaster just outside her room. From here I can catch the rhythm of Tarish’s voice, calm and deliberate, and the sharper sounds of Kacia’s, her muttered sighs when she’s frustrated, the grit of determination in her tone when she tries again. Eventually, I hear Tarish’s farewell, that formal note he never quite loses, no matter how casually he dresses, for a fae at least. Then I hear the faint hum of a portal, and the house falls quiet again. A moment later, I hear the scrape of Kacia’s chair. The thud of her pen against the dresser. Her voice, low and focused, whispering descriptions under her breath as if saying them aloud makes them sharper. Size, colour, the tiny scratches, the way the metal catches light. Over and over, steady as a drumbeat. And always, woven between her words, that mantra Tarish gave her, ‘focus like hell.’ It makes me smile. Here’s the thing about Kacia,she’s obsessive. Her house is perfectly tidy and organized, so much so that even a brownie refused to stay here for too long. Everything has a place, and she’ll put it back whether you like it or not. Most days, that perfectionism drives her crazy. But right now? It’s going to make her unstoppable. Tarish couldn’t have chosen a better kind of magic for her to start with. If anyone can catalogue every reflection, every imperfection, every detail until it’s perfect, it’s her. And I love that about her. I love that she refuses to do things halfway, even when it costs her sleep and peace of mind. I love that she mutters to herself when she’s working, as if her brain is moving too fast to contain it. I love that even her stubborn streak, the part of her that would rather die than give up, it’s what’s going to make her brilliant at this. Damn it, I even love the sound of her voice drifting through the door right now, soft and determined. I could sit here all night, listening to her practice, and I wouldn’t be bored for a second. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes closed, and let her voice wash over me. She doesn’t know it, but every word steadies me, anchors me. I don’t need to watch her practice to know she’ll succeed. She always does. And even if she doesn’t want me in there right now, I’m still here, close enough that if she needs me, she only has to say my name. Because that’s all I ever want. To be close. To keep her safe. To never let her go. It’s what I’ve wanted since almost the first moment I met her. I stay where I am, back against the wall, eyes closed, letting the sound of her voice seep through the cracks of the door. It’s steady now, quieter than before, but I catch pieces, her muttered descriptions, the occasional huff when she loses focus, the repetition of Tarish’s words like a litany. Focus like hell. It should feel strange, sitting out here listening like this. But it doesn’t. It feels right. Comforting. Like keeping watch at the edge of her world. And yet… Part of me can’t help daydreaming. I think about home. About the demon realm. About my siblings. My brother, sharp-witted, always quick to mock me, but beneath it all, protective. I can already picture him rolling his eyes when I walk back through the door, pretending not to care, though he’ll hover close for days after just to make sure I’m really there. My sister will be the opposite, bounding toward me, fierce and warm, her arms around my neck before I can brace for it. She’ll fuss over me endlessly, try to feed me until I’m ready to burst, scold me for vanishing so long. They’re my family. My anchor. I SHOULD want nothing more than to be back with them. But I already know how empty it will feel without her. Because when I sit down at the table, there won’t be a mug of coffee shoved into my hands with a sarcastic comment about how I take it. No citrus and honey scent lingering in the kitchen. Just silence. When my sister talks my ear off, I’ll catch myself wanting to glance at Kacia to share a look, half fond, half exasperated, but she won’t be there rolling her eyes beside me. When my brother pushes too hard, I’ll wait for her sharp tongue to cut in, for her to side with me just to needle him, but she won’t be there, smirking with that little tilt of her head that says she’s already figured out the ending before the fight even begins. At night, no steady warmth pressed against me, no gentle breathing against my skin. Just space. Just silence. Everywhere, little absences. Tiny missing pieces that add up to something unbearable. And it’s the little things I’ll miss. The thousands of small details that add up to Kacia. And it’ll be unbearable knowing those moments will keep happening, but without me there to see them. I’ll go back, and I’ll belong there. I’ll still be a complete person, and I’ll be happy most of the time. But I’ll ache for this. I’ll ache for her. The thought sits heavy in my chest, pressing down until it feels like my ribs might crack. No matter how much I try to tell myself this, us, was never meant to last, I already know what it’s going to feel like when I’m gone. I’m getting a taste of that feeling now. It will be like standing outside a door that’s been slammed and locked, knowing she’s on the other side, and knowing I can’t go inside. So I stay where I am, silent, listening to her mutters and sighs. Because for now, at least, she’s still here. And I can still hear her.

The steady murmur of her voice works on me like a lullaby. I let my head tip back against the wall, eyes sliding shut. I’m not asleep, but I hover somewhere in between, drowsy and comfortable, her voice threading through the quiet house like the only sound that matters. The scrape of her chair. The faint thud of her pen against wood. The sharp sigh when something slips away again. It all blurs together, a rhythm that soothes the edge of my restless thoughts. I’m drifting deeper when the rhythm shifts. A sudden clatter, the chair scraping back too fast. A sharp inhale. Then a muffled laugh, soft and breathless, slipping through the door. The sound is quick, triumphant, unguarded. My lips curve into a smile before I even open my eyes. I don’t need to see it to know what just happened. She just succeeded at something. I can picture her as clearly as if I were in the room. Standing there with her shoulders tense, eyes wide, mouth half open in disbelief. The little crease between her brows that always appears when she’s trying to decide if she should celebrate or criticize herself first. The way she’d clutch the object in her hand a little too tight, like she’s afraid letting go might undo everything. Then that flicker of a grin, bright, genuine, the kind that slips out before she can stop it. She’d try to push it down immediately, of course, pretending it wasn’t enough, that it didn’t count because it wasn’t perfect. But I know her. That laugh, that quick sound of wonder, that was victory. I let out a long breath, the knot in my chest easing. She’ll figure it out. She always does. And as much as I’ll miss her. She is going to be just fine without me. My head tips back against the wall again, and I let my eyes close, listening as her voice resumes inside the room. Determined, focused, chasing the next success. I wonder how many successes I will get to see before I have to go.