Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 75

**KACIA**

What. The. Actual. Hell. Did I just get dumped? No, scratch that, did I just get the supernatural equivalent of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ from a guy whose tail was literally halfway up my leg less than five minutes ago? Because it feels like I just got dumped. And frankly? I’m not having it. Oz is sitting there looking like someone just kicked his puppy, all guilt and tragedy and noble suffering. But he hasn’t been ACTING like someone planning to walk out of my life forever. He’s been sweet. Flirty. Present. He’s been curled up beside me, making jokes, comforting me, getting possessive over blanket space and microwaved popcorn. There was one bad incident, ONE! And yeah, it sucked. I genuinely thought I was going to die, and I would really like to never experience that level of fear again. But it was magical. It wasn’t him. And he’s just going to give up? Not even try? Absolutely not. So, I make a decision.

“No.” I say bluntly. Oz frowns. Blinks. He looks genuinely confused. 

“What do you mean ‘no’?” He asks. 

“I mean no.” I cross my arms over my chest and straighten my spine. 

“Your plan is stupid, and I don’t agree with it. I reject your rejection.” I tell him firmly. His eyebrows practically hit his hairline. 

“That… That’s not how it works!” He objects. 

“Says who, exactly?” I shoot back. 

“You think you can just show up, worm your way into my life, flirt and sweet talk your way through me, my friends, and even my MOTHER, and then just walk away? Absolutely not.” I tell him. Oz opens his mouth, probably to argue, but I cut him off with a glare that could level cities. 

“If you genuinely weren’t interested in me, MAYBE I’d understand. But you are. We both know you are. So don’t you DARE act like this is some noble act of self sacrifice. You made your bed, Ozraed. Now lie in it, preferably beside me, and take some damn responsibility for your actions!” My voice is sharp now, just a breath away from shouting, and I have to stop. Breathe. Breathe. Oz is staring at me like I’ve just kicked down the gates of hell. Completely stunned. 

“Kaci… That’s… You can’t just-” He stammers.

“Oh yes, I can.” I snap, cutting him off again. He frowns, digging in. 

“Once you’re safe, and the binding spell is broken, I’m going home.” He repeats. I nod slowly.

“I accept that you believe that’s true. For now.” I answer sweetly. He stares. 

“I… I don’t understand.” He admits. I shrug. 

“I accept that you intend to leave. That doesn’t mean I won’t change your mind.” I explain. His eyes go wide, and the look he gives me is something between overwhelmed and exasperated.

“Kacia, I-” He starts. I hold up a hand, palm to his face. 

“No. You don’t get to do this and then backpedal. YOU’RE the one who set the standard, Oz. YOU flirted with ME first. YOU got involved. YOU started this. Now YOU have to deal with the consequences.” I insist. I push myself to my feet, ignoring the stab of pain in my ribs. I refuse to let it show.

“I’m going to get dressed and then we’ve got some investigating to do. I suggest you eat breakfast.” I say crisply. Oz nods slowly, clearly still stunned into silence. As I walk toward the hallway, I hear him clear his throat behind me.

“You won’t change my mind.” He says stubbornly. I pause in the doorway and glance over my shoulder with a smirk.

“We’ll see,” I say sweetly. 

“Just be prepared, Oz… I fight dirty.” Then I wink at him and march down the hall without looking back.

I reach my room, shut the door behind me, and collapse dramatically onto the bed with all the flair of a woman in a tragic play. And immediately regret it. 

“Shit, ow!” I gasp, curling slightly and clutching my ribs. Right. Injured. Collapsing dramatically probably wasn’t the brightest idea. But I’m pissed off. And frustrated. And, okay, a little bit offended. The dramatic bed flop was a necessary mood reset, rib pain be damned. Because what the hell just happened? I rub at my side and stare at the ceiling, replaying the last five minutes in my head on a loop. Did I really just stand there and declare war on Oz’s plan to leave? Did I really tell him I was going to change his mind? Out loud? To his face? Yup. That happened. And now that I’m alone, the adrenaline and nervous energy is starting to fade, and underneath it is a familiar combination of panic and second guessing. I don’t have a plan. Not a real one, anyway. I mean, what if he really DOES want to leave? What if all that soft teasing and casual affection wasn’t a lead up to something real, but just… Him being Oz? Flirty. Playful. Aloof and charming and impossible to read. Shit, what if I just made a complete idiot of myself? But then again… He didn’t LOOK like someone excited to leave. He looked miserable. Guilty. Like he was punishing himself more than me. And I know he cares. I’ve seen it, heard it in the way he talks to me, felt it in the way he holds me. So no. I don’t think he actually wants to go. But if he does, if he really means it, then I don’t want to force him to stay. Not really. I want him here because he wants to be. Not because I guilted him into it. Not because he’s afraid I’ll fall apart if he leaves. Still… There’s no harm in making the advantages of staying abundantly clear. Right? I did say I fight dirty. And so begins… Phase One. Step One, wear something hot. Not because I think seduction is the key to everything. I’m not trying to manipulate him, well, okay, maybe a little. But if I’m going to be emotionally vulnerable, I might as well look amazing while I do it. Confidence is easier when I feel attractive, and besides… I suspect that Oz is very susceptible to distraction. I smirk to myself and roll carefully off the bed, already mentally flipping through my wardrobe. He wants to play the noble, tortured demon with the doomed future? Fine. I’ll just remind him what he’d be giving up.

I walk out of my room dressed in a pair of black jeans that fit like a second skin and a long sleeved, fitted top with a neckline that plunges a lot lower than my usual choices. Not indecent, just... Noticeable. It’s what I’d call a classy level of cleavage. Besides, my legs are fully covered, so it balances out. My mother always used to say, ‘If you’re showing cleavage, keep the legs covered. If you’re showing off the legs, keep the top modest.’ Some kind of mystical rule about balance and ‘leaving a little to the imagination.’ Obviously, the rule doesn’t always apply, fashion evolves, and frankly, if someone wants to show off both, good for them. No judgment. Flaunt what you’ve got. I’m a big fan of body autonomy. But still, that little rule stuck with me. A leftover scrap of childhood advice that lives rent free in the back of my mind and occasionally guides my wardrobe choices. So today? It’s boobs. I tug on my favourite black boots, the ones with just enough of a heel to make my walk more confident without totally destroying my ribs, and then turn to the mirror for the final inspection. Not bad. Not bad at all. The jeans make my butt look amazing, if I do say so myself. The top hugs everything in all the right places. My hair looks halfway decent. And for someone who’s still sporting half a dozen bruises and lingering internal damage, I’ve honestly pulled myself together pretty well. This is the best I’m going to get today, and it’s more than enough. I stare at my reflection, tilt my chin up slightly, and let a slow smile curl across my lips.

“Alright, Kacia. Time to remind a certain demon exactly what he’s planning to walk away from.” I murmur to myself. Because if Oz is going to be stubborn about this whole ‘noble self-sacrifice’ thing, he can do it while visibly suffering. I might not be able to change his mind today, but I can start making him question it. Game on.