Chatper 11: Finding Refuge

Two years had passed since our father's death, and in that time, the distance between Daemon and me had settled into a delicate balance. The weight of our father's last request to him—to look after me—was a promise Daemon had tried to fulfill in his own way. His sense of duty was strong, and though we rarely spoke about it, I could feel that promise hanging over us in the quiet spaces we shared. He may not have wanted to take care of me, but he wouldn't abandon the responsibility, either.

Daemon's approach to "taking care" was never warm or openly protective. He was pragmatic, often cold, but the resentment that had once radiated from him had softened—just enough that I sensed there was more beneath his controlled surface. He had become more watchful, his quiet vigilance lingering in the edges of the room whenever we were together. Yet, any mention of my future, or hint of a life outside the walls of our family's estate, became a subtle tension between us.

One evening, that tension finally snapped.

It was late, and the glow from Daemon's office spilled into the dark hallway. I stood there a moment, hesitant, my hand hovering just above the door. We've been living like strangers, I thought, a pang of loneliness catching me off guard. I took a breath and tapped lightly on the door, waiting until his voice beckoned me in.

When I stepped inside, I could see he was deep into paperwork, the kind that seemed to consume all of his free time. Without looking up, he asked, "Is there something you need?" His tone was even, polite, but the edges of fatigue were clear.

"Nothing specific," I replied, hoping my voice didn't give away the apprehension I felt. "Just wanted to… check in, I guess."

He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine with a measured gaze. "Check in? You've never felt the need to 'check in' before."

There it is, I thought. That slight tension, the guardedness that he carried whenever our conversations took even the smallest personal turn. But tonight, I didn't want to back down.

"I've been thinking," I started, my fingers nervously tracing the edge of a nearby table. "It's been two years since… well, since we lost him. And I don't know, Daemon. Maybe it's time for me to start looking for a job, or something. Something beyond these walls."

For a moment, silence filled the room. Daemon's gaze was steady, but I noticed his grip on the pen tightened, just barely.

"You think you're ready for that?" he asked, his tone careful, as if he were gauging the words with each syllable. "Do you even have a plan? Or is this just another one of your whims?"

A spark of frustration flared inside me, but I tried to keep my voice calm. "It's not a whim, Daemon. I need to do something with my life, to—"

"To what?" He interrupted, his voice cold now. "Play at being independent for a few months before you get tired of it? Because, let me tell you, Nina, life doesn't care about your whims."

The words cut deeper than I'd expected, and I felt my cheeks flush. I had wanted a conversation, a discussion about my future, not this… whatever this was. "You don't think I can manage without you, is that it?" I shot back, unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone. "I'm not a child anymore, Daemon. I don't need you to tell me what I can or can't do."

He stood then, crossing the room in a few slow, deliberate steps. The air between us felt thick, charged, as if something unspoken had been waiting to erupt all along. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced with the tension I'd always felt simmering beneath the surface.

"I promised him, Nina," he said, each word carefully restrained. "I promised I would look after you. And so far, all I've seen is you acting like the same irresponsible child, expecting everything to be handed to you."

I took a step back, stung by the accusation in his words, the unspoken weight they carried. Does he really see me like that? The thought was sharp, painful. But I forced myself to stand my ground, my own frustration boiling over.

"Maybe I'd be more responsible if you'd let me make a single decision without treating me like I'm incapable," I replied, my voice wavering. "You're so busy 'taking care of me' that you don't even see me, Daemon. I don't want your pity. I don't want to be your burden."

Daemon's face tightened, and for a moment, something flashed in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or anger. But he quickly masked it, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

"Fine," he said quietly, his tone cold and final. "If that's what you want. If you're so eager to leave, then go. I won't stop you."

The words hung between us, colder than the winter air that seeped through the walls. He had never said it so plainly before, had never suggested that he wanted me gone. The reality of it settled heavily over me, and I felt a pang of sadness, of something that felt like betrayal.

"Is that really how you feel?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn't respond. Instead, he turned away, his back rigid, his silence an answer in itself.

I packed my things that night, not waiting for dawn to soften the hurt. My suitcase was small, filled only with the essentials—a few clothes, some books, and a handful of keepsakes from a life I was leaving behind. When I finally stepped out the door, the mansion stood quiet behind me, its grand walls as silent as Daemon's final words.

The apartment I rented in the city was small and bare, a world away from the cold elegance of the estate. The empty walls and narrow hallways felt foreign, but I told myself it was what I wanted—freedom, a fresh start, a chance to finally be my own person. And yet, as the days passed, I felt the loneliness settling in like dust in the corners of the empty rooms.

It was during one of those quiet, lonely evenings that Markus found me.