Chapter 7: The Demon’s Door

Marcus lives in a gated community out in the suburbs, all the way across town from me—pretty far.

It was a forty-minute drive, even with no traffic. The streetlights blurred past, headlights shining on endless rows of identical lawns. I’d never felt so far from home.

I started to wonder, what was he feeling when he crossed the city to come see me before?

Maybe he’d felt just as lost, just as desperate. The thought made my chest ache.

After nearly two hours, I finally arrived.

I watched the sun start to lighten the sky, birds waking up as I stepped out of the car. I hadn’t realized how late—or how early—it had gotten.

Surprisingly, the Grant family’s house was brightly lit, and the staff were all still up.

The place looked like a beacon in the dark. Someone must have been watching for me, because the front gate buzzed open as soon as I rang.

When they saw me, it was like they’d seen a lifeline.

A frazzled woman in an apron actually grabbed my hand. “Thank God you’re here, Rachel,” she whispered. “He won’t let anyone help.”

"Miss Rachel, please go see the young master."

She hustled me inside, past a row of anxious faces. Someone handed me a cup of coffee, which I nearly spilled as I climbed the stairs.

"He’s finally hit adulthood, but it’s bad. He locked himself in his room and won’t let anyone in…"

There was real panic in her voice. It made everything I’d heard at the bar come crashing back—this was serious. Life and death serious.

I rushed upstairs, stood in front of Marcus’s door, and knocked hard.

My fists thudded against the heavy oak. I could hear ragged breathing on the other side.

"Marcus, open up."

I tried to sound steady, but my voice shook. For a long moment, nothing happened. I was about to try again when—

I knocked, waited. Nothing. My heart pounded. Then, just as I was about to give up, the door swung open.

He filled the doorway—taller than I remembered, shoulders tense, his face a mask of exhaustion and pain.

Marcus stood there, eyes bloodshot, wearing only a shirt with the buttons undone.

The shirt hung off his frame, half-open, skin glistening with sweat. His horns were showing, dark and sharp.

A strong, intoxicating scent drifted out.

It hit me all at once—a smoky, electric tang that made my knees weak. My head spun; my heart thudded.

Just one breath made me dizzy.

I gripped the doorframe to steady myself. The sensation was overwhelming, equal parts fear and something dangerously close to attraction.

He looked wrecked—shirt half-open, sweat beading on his collarbone, horns catching the hallway light. But when our eyes met, something electric passed between us. I couldn’t look away.

Before, whenever I saw him, he always kept his head down, never looking at me.

He’d always been the outsider, hiding in shadows, his hair falling over his eyes. But now, he met my gaze, unflinching.

His long bangs hid his eyes.

Not anymore. He’d pushed them back, revealing high cheekbones, dark irises swirling with gold.

Like a gloomy bat, he’d just hide in the corner staring at me, which made it impossible for me to like him.

I used to resent that attention, but now I understood: it was longing. He’d been waiting for me.

Now, his hair was messy, his sharp features fully revealed, his face still flushed—a wild, haunted beauty that made me stare.

He looked like he’d survived a storm. There was something vulnerable in the way he gripped the doorframe, fingers white-knuckled.

At this moment, he was gripping the doorframe, staring at me, but still spoke as carefully as ever.

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. But it was steady, deliberate.

"…Why did you come?"

He looked straight at me—no hiding, no flinching. I felt like I was seeing him for the first time.

Wasn’t it him who texted me for help?

My mind reeled. He’d been the one to call out. Now, why the cold welcome?

Why is he asking me now?

A thousand unspoken questions passed between us, hanging in the air like static.

Whenever I face Marcus, I always seem to get mad for no reason.

He frustrated me—always so quiet, always waiting for me to make the first move. It was easier to be annoyed than to admit I was scared.

I shoved him, annoyed. "Didn’t you text me, asking me to come?"

I put a hand on his chest, pushing gently, trying to break the tension. He staggered but didn’t resist.

"What, am I not allowed to be a little late, coming from the east side of town to your place out west?"

My voice rose, more defensive than I meant. I was tired, scared, still reeling from Derek’s betrayal.

"Without me, you can’t get through adulthood?"

I didn’t mean it to sound cruel, but the words came out sharp. I was trying to protect myself, even now.