Aidan didn't want to think about Damon.
Didn't want to think about the way those sharp, grey eyes lingered on him, tracking his every movement like a predator watching its prey. Every time Aidan stepped into that basement to deliver his food, he could feel that gaze burrowing into his skin—silent, unrelenting. He tried to ignore it, tried to pretend he didn't notice the way Damon's head tilted ever so slightly, the way his nose flared when Aidan drew near, like some part of him was resisting an urge Aidan didn't dare to name.
It was becoming harder to ignore.
Aidan told himself it was just fear. The knowledge that those eyes belonged to something that could rip him apart in seconds. He reminded himself, over and over again, that Damon wasn't human.
And yet...
Something about it didn't feel so simple.
At night, when Aidan lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind refused to let it go. Sleep had become an uphill battle. No matter how exhausted he felt, his thoughts always drifted back to the basement, back to those eyes, back to the unbearable silence that settled between them every time he entered.
The first few nights, his body was stiff with paranoia. He would wake up drenched in sweat, pulse hammering in his ears, convinced that Damon had broken free—that any second now, those chains would snap, and he'd hear heavy footsteps in the dark. That he'd open his eyes and see him standing in the doorway, watching.
But as time passed, the fear changed.
It didn't go away, not entirely, but it shifted.
Aidan stopped waking up in terror. Instead, he found himself lying awake, thinking about Damon's predicament.
Because the more he visited the basement, the more he saw beyond the fear.
Damon was a demon. A monster. A creature that had killed before.
But the way he sat there, curled in on himself, chains digging into his ankles, head bowed as if he were ashamed of his own existence... it didn't scream "beast." It didn't scream "predator."
It screamed trapped.
Aidan's stomach twisted uncomfortably every time he imagined it. Years. He had been down bound like this for years. Like a rabid animal, forced to relieve himself in a hole in the corner of the room, nothing but scraps to keep him alive. No friends. No Family. No freedom.
Aidan knew what Mr. Albu had said—that Damon hadn't killed those people voluntarily, that it was instinct. He probably hadn't even had control over it. And yet, the punishment was absolute.
Aidan tried not to care.
He wanted not to care.
But every time he walked down those stairs, every time he placed the plate of food just within reach, every time Damon's fingers hesitated before picking it up—
It got harder.
Aidan grunted, rolling onto his side, then onto his back, then onto his stomach—only to groan and shove his face into the pillow in frustration. This was ridiculous.
He needed to sleep.
There was no point in dwelling on things he couldn't change. One more week—just one more week—and Mr. Albu would be back from wherever the hell he'd gone. After that, Aidan could finally put all of this behind him. No more basement. No more paper-bag meals. No more Damon.
And yet... even as he tried to convince himself of that, he knew it wasn't true.
Damon had settled into his mind, into his routine, as easily as breathing. And no matter how much Aidan told himself he was just fulfilling an obligation, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was now responsible for Damon's well-being.
It was Sunday morning when he found himself standing outside Mr. Albu's house again. The floorboard creaked beneath his shoes as he walked, the familiar weight of the plate in his hands grounding him.
By now, the routine was second nature.
Unlock the door. Step inside. Walk past the antique furniture and the scent of dust. Make his way down into the dark belly of the house, where Damon waited.
Damon didn't try to lunge at him after that first time. Aidan had a feeling he had never intended to attack him.
He descended the basement stairs, the cold air wrapping around his skin like a damp, heavy mist. The tungsten light overhead flickered faintly, buzzing in the silence.
With steady hands, he placed the plate on the edge of the chalk-drawn circle—just like always. But today, he did something different.
Today, he didn't immediately leave.
Instead, Aidan sat down.
Not too close—he still kept a cautious distance, his back leaning against a wooden support beam. But he stayed, legs folded loosely in front of him, arms resting on his knees.
Damon noticed immediately.
The demon's head tilted ever so slightly, those sharp, silver-grey eyes flicking up from the food to settle on Aidan with silent curiosity. But he didn't move to question it. Instead, he reached for the fish.
His fingers were long and elegant, moving with deliberate care as he rolled the small slice of fish between them, almost playfully, before sliding the entire thing into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring it, his throat shifting slightly as he swallowed.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he licked his fingers.
Aidan should have looked away.
He should have left right then, gone back upstairs and reminded himself not to get too comfortable. But something kept him rooted to the spot.
Damon's fingers slipped past his lips, tongue flicking against the tips before they pulled away. But this time, his gaze didn't drop.
He was watching Aidan.
Unblinking.
Aidan's breath caught in his throat.
He knew he was supposed to avoid eye contact, to follow Mr. Albu's instructions to the letter, so he kept his own gaze carefully fixed on the far wall but stayed, even as he felt Damon's attention pressing against him like a physical weight.
Minutes passed. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.
Then, finally, Aidan let himself breathe again.
Slowly—casually—he turned his head, just enough to check if Damon had shifted back to his usual spot.
He had.
Aidan exhaled.
The demon sat curled in on himself, his back turned, chains resting limply around his ankle. From this angle, he looked smaller somehow, as if trying to make himself take up less space.
Aidan swallowed, an unfamiliar weight pressing at his ribs.
As Aidan sat there, his gaze drifting cautiously over Damon's frame, he realized something.
He looked... human.
At least, more human than Aidan had initially thought.
If it weren't for the long, bony tail curled loosely around his legs—and if he wasn't so malnourished—he might have even been considered... handsome.
The thought was absurd, considering how wrinkled and skeletal Damon appeared now, his skin stretched taut over his bones, lacking both fat and muscle. Lacking warmth. He was still a wretched thing—wild and raw, stripped of any dignity by starvation and chains. But for some reason, he didn't seem as fragile as he had before.
Aidan narrowed his eyes.
There was a faint difference—a subtle shift he couldn't quite place. Damon's back, once nothing more than a ridged outline of bone beneath thin, dry skin, now showed some definition. His muscles, though still meager, no longer seemed as shriveled.
He looked... better.
Which was impossible.
Aidan had only been feeding him scraps of meat—barely enough to sustain someone, let alone nourish them. And yet, something had changed.
His gaze trailed lower, scanning Damon's form absently—until it landed somewhere it definitely shouldn't have.
Shit.
Aidan's eyes snapped away so fast his neck almost cramped.
Guilt prickled at his skin. That was not intentional. It wasn't like he had meant to look at his ass—Damon had been completely naked since the moment Aidan first saw him, after all. It was an unavoidable fact. But still, he felt like an intruder.
Like he had invaded something deeply private.
Being exposed like that at all times... It had to be humiliating. Aidan wondered if Damon even cared anymore, or if he had long since given up on things like modesty and shame.
He shouldn't have to live like this.
Aidan swallowed and shifted on the spot, suddenly uneasy.
Look at me again, he found himself thinking.
Even though he knew he'd have to avert his gaze if Damon did.
But the demon didn't move.
Didn't so much as stir.
He remained turned away, his back still facing Aidan, as if he hadn't even noticed his presence anymore.
Aidan hesitated.
Should he say something?
Instead, he stepped forward, retrieving the empty plate from where it rested near the chalk-drawn circle. He lingered for a moment, waiting, wondering if his movement would prompt some kind of reaction.
It didn't.
Damon didn't acknowledge him at all.
Aidan sighed, shifting his weight as he slid the plate under his arm. Out of habit, his hand slipped into his pants pocket—only to brush against something unexpected.
A soft, crinkling sound broke the silence.
Both Aidan and Damon tensed at the noise.
Damon's shoulders stiffened, his muscles visibly coiling beneath his thin skin. Aidan saw the slight flicker of his tail—reactive, alert.
Aidan blinked, momentarily confused—until his fingers brushed against the plastic wrapper again.
Oh.
He had completely forgotten.
Earlier, when he was still on campus, he had grabbed a cupcake from the vending machine—an impulsive decision since he'd been starving after class. But then, distracted by the thought of coming here, he had stuffed it in his pocket and never ate it.
Now, he held it absentmindedly in his hand, feeling at the cheap, mass-produced pastry.
The sound of crinkling plastic shattered the silence.
Damon turned.
The movement was slow, deliberate—like a predator responding to a stimulus it didn't fully understand yet. His sharp, grey eyes zoned in on Aidan's hand still buried in his pocket.
Aidan swallowed. He felt...sympathy. The poor thing was still hungry.
Aidan's chest tightened at the sight, a dull ache forming in his ribs. His fingers clenched around the object in his pocket before he pulled it out. The small, plastic-wrapped cupcake sat in his palm, and Damon's entire body went still.
He was watching. Waiting.
Aidan could feel the weight of that gaze, studying his every movement with a sharp, animalistic focus. It wasn't caution. It wasn't even aching hunger.
Aidan peeled open the wrapper before placing the cupcake down at the edge of the chalk-drawn circle.
Damon didn't move.
He only stared.
Seconds stretched into eternity as his glowing grey eyes flickered between Aidan and the small, unassuming treat.
Why the hesitation?
Aidan frowned, puzzled. He expected Damon to lunge for it, devour it the way he did with everything else. But instead, the demon just stared at it. Like he didn't quite believe it was real.
Annoyance flared in Aidan's chest.
What was he waiting for? Permission?
"Come on, take it," Aidan muttered, his voice breaking the stillness.
Damon's head snapped up.
Their eyes met.
And suddenly, everything stopped.
Aidan froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Something deep settled in his stomach, twisting into a sharp ache—the kind of feeling that only surfaced in the quiet of his bedroom when he was alone with impure thoughts.
His limbs felt too heavy to move.
He tried to look away. Tried to break the gaze.
But he couldn't.
His heart slammed against his ribs, panic rising as those grey eyes held him there, trapping him in their intensity.
He had never seen eyes like those before.
Not just because of their color, but because of their weight—the way they consumed him, stripped him down to something raw and vulnerable.
Something was happening.
Something Aidan had no control over.
Then—
"Bring it to me."
The demon's voice boomed through the basement, shattering the silence like a physical force.
It wasn't weak. It wasn't fragile.
It was commanding.
It was deep.
It was the voice of something far too powerful to be bound in chains.
Aidan gasped.
His body jolted as if something invisible had just shoved him backward.
The connection snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Without thinking, without hesitating, he turned and ran.
His shoes scrambled against the concrete as he bolted up the stairs, chest heaving, hands trembling.
He didn't stop until he was out of the basement.
Didn't stop until he was out of the house.