Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 124

**KACIA**

What the actual hell am I supposed to do here?! Oz has basically been magically roofied, and I know the decent, responsible, morally upstanding thing to do is keep my hands, and everything else, entirely to myself. No matter how much he’s practically draping himself over me like a demon shaped weighted blanket. And it would be easier if he weren’t… Him. If he were some random cute guy under a spell, fine, lock him in a closet or something until it wears off. But no. Of course it has to be Oz, hot, sweet, annoyingly funny Oz. The guy I am definitely more than a little in love with. The universe really said, ‘Here, Kacia, have your dream guy desperate for your attention, and oh, by the way, you’re not allowed to touch him. Good luck!’ To be fair, it’s not as bad as it was earlier. The spell’s clearly loosening its grip. His eyes aren’t so glazed, and there’s this flicker, like he knows something’s off, like he’s fighting to act normal again. Hell, he even let me go without me having to bark a command like some kind of bad dog trainer. (Down Oz. Good boy.) That has to be progress, right? But I know how this ends. The second his head clears, he’ll shove all those messy feelings back into whatever emotional lockbox he keeps them in, slap on that calm demon façade, and act like nothing happened. And then I’ll be left with… Well, this moment. The memory of how close he was. The bitter knowledge that under different circumstances, he meant it. Yay. Fantastic. So glad I signed up for this emotional rollercoaster. Tarish said he’d make Raylah find a solution, and I want to believe that. I want to hold on to optimism with both hands. But then there was Oz’s voice earlier, when he cracked, when he sounded like he was seconds away from falling apart. That broke something in me. He doesn’t get like that. He doesn’t allow himself to. So if even he’s fraying at the edges, how am I supposed to keep pretending this is just a little hiccup we’ll laugh about later? I’m tired. Bone deep, soul tired. My emotions are strung tighter than a bowstring, and if one more thing goes wrong today, I might actually scream loud enough to shatter glass. So here’s my brilliant plan. I’m going to take a nap. A real, honest, blanket over my head nap. When I wake up, I’m going to be calm, refreshed, and determined to fix this. Because I said so. Because I have to be. Because if I don’t keep fighting for us, who will?

I dream of Oz. Not some fractured nonsense dream, no flying cows or impossible staircases. This one is clear, detailed. Too pleasant. The kind of dream that doesn’t leave me screaming when I wake, but worse. It leaves claw marks because it feels so good that reality slaps me in the face by comparison. We’re in my home, but it’s not really mine anymore, not entirely. His boots are by the door, one tipped over like he’s kicked it off mid- tride, dirt smudged on the floorboards. I kneel to fix it with a grumble, and he leans against the wall smirking like he’s won something. It should be irritating. Instead, I laugh. And he looks so ridiculously pleased at that laugh that my chest aches even inside the dream. The kitchen tells the same story. My counters are cluttered with his touch, pans hanging from hooks that shouldn’t exist, herbs growing in jars on the sill, something rich simmering on the stove. My knives lie out on the bench beside a half chopped pile of vegetables, as though he’s only just stepped away. The air smells alive in a way my cooking never makes it. It feels less like my kitchen now, and more like ours. And then he’s sitting at the table with my mother. My mother, cool as ever, is teasing him. And he’s laughing, actually laughing, as though they’ve done this a hundred times before. The sight of them like that makes my throat tighten. It looks natural. Worse, it feels natural. Like he belongs. People crowd the dream after that. His family. I don’t know their faces, so my mind stitches them together, his sister, all quick words and sharp laughter, talking with me so fast even he can’t keep up, his brother, blurred around the edges but solid enough to banter with, annoyed one second, smiling the next. They aren’t real, not really, but here, it doesn’t matter. It feels like family. I imagine Mikey and Sarah there with their baby too, tiny, fragile, bundled up in blankets, and Oz holding it, the way I’ve seen him with Ulric’s boys. Gentle, careful, so sweet it makes something inside me splinter. I picture a life full of that. Chaos and weapons left lying around, ridiculous days that somehow end in peace. Mundane in its own strange way. And damn it, I want it. That quiet, ordinary but extraordinary life. Then the dream fractures. Oz says goodbye, that he has to go home and won’t be back. His voice cracks, raw, the way it did earlier, and the picture tears like wet paper. I jolt awake. Not soothed. Not reset. Angry. Aching. Pissed off that even sleep isn’t safe, that even dreams can’t let me rest without dangling something I can’t have. Damn Oz for putting the pictures into my mind in the first place with his stupid honesty. And Damn Raylah for starting it all in the first place! I sit up and rub my face. That’s when his voice comes through the door, deep, steady, unbothered, like none of this is happening.

“Princess. Dinner’s ready.” He calls out gently. I freeze for a beat. My hand hovers halfway to the doorknob. I want to scream at him. I want to crawl back into bed. I want a hundred things I can’t have. But what I do is breathe. Straighten. Push the ache down into a hard, sharp knot I can carry. Well, that nap wasn’t restful, but it sure was motivating. 

I straighten my clothes and step out of my room, wary. My chest feels tight, half dread and half hope, because I have no idea what kind of mood Oz is in. If he’ll still be sad the way he was earlier. If he’ll still be spelled and painfully, agonisingly, heartbreakingly honest.

“Hey Oz.” I greet him softly. He looks up and smiles at me, that sweet, careful smile that always seems to crack my armour. Then he sweeps a hand toward the table. My eyes follow, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The meal looks incredible, rich, warm, something fragrant that makes my stomach rumble in spite of the storm of emotions twisting through me. But it isn’t the food that catches me. It’s the candles. The glasses of wine. The way the whole table glows with a kind of intimacy that doesn’t belong here. It looks romantic. Too romantic.

“Oz…” I trail off, my voice caught between a laugh and a warning. Part of me wants to step closer, sit down, pretend it’s normal. The other part of me wants to spin on my heel, lock myself back in my room, and wait until the universe stops screwing with me. I am fairly sure that he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t spelled. He tilts his head, watching me 

“I’m fairly sure the spell has worn off.” He says carefully, accurately reading my reaction. I arch an eyebrow, sceptical, my heart thundering anyway. He gives me a smile that’s both sad and reassuring, like he knows exactly how close I am to bolting.

“Then what’s all this about?” I ask, trying to sound steady. He sighs, shoulders lowering a little, and his voice is soft when he answers. 

“It’s… An apology, of sorts. I just wanted to do something nice for you. To thank you for… For dealing with me today. I know it wasn’t easy. Or comfortable.” He says sincerely. I frown, because sincerity doesn’t match the candlelight. 

“Oz, this doesn’t look like an apology. It looks like a date.” I point out bluntly. His mouth twitches, halfway between a shrug and a grimace. 

“I know. But… After a whole day of unfiltered honesty, I wanted to show you a little sincerity too. Even when it isn’t being forced out of me.” His gaze drops to the table, then back to me, searching. 

“This… This is what I want to be able to give you. And I know it’s probably a bad idea. That it’ll probably lead to heartbreak. But you still deserve it, all of this. So… I thought…” He trails off, shoulders hunching, guilt flickering across his face. 

“Maybe it was a bad idea.” He says doubtfully. Tears burn the back of my throat. He thinks this is a mistake. He thinks giving me this, giving himself like this, is wrong. And still, he’s trying. I swallow hard, fighting to keep my voice steady. 

“It wasn’t a bad idea.” I whisper. Then, stronger I continue.

“I love it. Let’s sit and eat.”