The first time my father brought me to the house, I was five, and Daemon was thirteen. I remember standing there in the entryway, my small hand clutching the fabric of my father's coat, the world around me feeling big and intimidating. My father's voice echoed in the grand hall as he called for Daemon, the name sounding foreign on my tongue, but I repeated it silently, liking the way it felt.
"Daemon!" My father called again, his voice a mix of authority and a kind of forced warmth. "Come and meet your sister."
It didn't take long for Daemon to appear at the top of the staircase, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, his expression closed off. Even then, at five years old, I could feel that something wasn't right. His gaze lingered on me, his lips pressed in a thin line as if I was something he couldn't quite figure out.
I gave him a small wave, my tiny fingers moving hesitantly. "Hi, Daemon."
He said nothing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at me, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. My father, oblivious to the tension, clapped a hand on Daemon's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Look after your sister, son. She's part of our family now."
The words hung in the air, echoing off the walls, and I watched as Daemon's expression hardened, his eyes flicking to my father before coming back to me. He didn't smile, didn't move. He just nodded once, a tight, forced motion, before turning away, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he walked away without a word.
---
From that day on, Daemon and I lived under the same roof, but we might as well have been on opposite sides of the world. I adored him instantly, for reasons I couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the way he moved, with such confidence, or the way everyone seemed to admire him. He was older, cooler, everything a little sister could look up to. But to him, I was nothing but an inconvenience, an intrusion in his world—a living reminder of our father's betrayal.
Despite the resentment that rolled off him in waves, I loved to follow Daemon around. He was my brother, and I wanted to be close to him. I would peek around corners, watching as he played basketball in the driveway, his movements fluid and precise. I would sit on the stairs, my chin resting on my small hands as I watched him do his homework, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pencil moving quickly across the paper.
"Why do you keep following me?" he asked one day, his voice cold, his eyes flicking to me with annoyance. I was sitting on the floor of his room, my legs crossed, a book clutched to my chest.
I blinked up at him, my small face puzzled. "Because you're my brother," I said simply, as if that explained everything.
Daemon's jaw clenched, his expression hardening. He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine, and for a second, I thought he might soften, that maybe he might understand. But then he shook his head, his lips curling into a sneer. "Get out," he said, his voice quiet but filled with venom. "I don't want you here."
The words stung, but I nodded, my small heart aching as I stood up. I walked out of his room, the book still clutched tightly to my chest, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. I didn't understand why he hated me, why he looked at me like I was something he wanted to erase. But I knew one thing—I wasn't going to give up. He was my brother, and I was determined to make him see me, to make him care.
---
As the years passed, Daemon's resentment never seemed to fade. He grew taller, stronger, more confident, while I remained the little girl who trailed behind, desperate for his attention. I followed him everywhere, my small footsteps echoing his, my eyes always on him. He ignored me most of the time, his expression always cold, always indifferent.
There were times when I thought I saw something else—a flicker of softness, a hesitation—but it was always gone before I could grasp it, replaced by the familiar hardness, the wall he had built between us.
Once, when I was eight, I remember falling while running after him in the backyard. I tripped over a root, my knees scraping against the ground, the pain sharp and immediate. I sat there, tears streaming down my face, my hands trembling as I tried to stand. Daemon was ahead of me, his back to me, but he must have heard my cry, must have sensed my pain.
He paused, his shoulders stiffening, his head turning slightly as if he was going to look back at me. My heart leaped in my chest, hope blooming, thinking maybe, just maybe, he would help me.
But he didn't. He turned away, continuing down the path, leaving me there alone, my heart breaking a little more with each step he took away from me.
---
Daemon wasn't content with just ignoring me. There were times when his resentment came out in more direct ways—ways that made it clear how much he wished I wasn't there. He would find ways to leave me behind, hoping I'd just disappear. Once, he had taken me out to the park, our father's idea of bonding time. We had walked in silence, Daemon's face expressionless, his steps brisk, and I tried my best to keep up, my small legs struggling to match his pace.
When we reached the park, he stopped, his eyes flicking down to me. "Wait here," he said, his voice cold, his eyes never meeting mine.
I looked up at him, confused. "Where are you going?"
He didn't answer. He just turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, the wind tugging at my hair, my heart sinking in my chest. I waited, my eyes fixed on the spot where he had disappeared, my small hands clenching into fists. The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity, the fear settling deep in my bones.
But I waited. I always waited. Because I knew—no matter how much he hated me, no matter how much he wanted me gone—Daemon would come back.
And he did. After what felt like forever, I saw him walking toward me, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. He didn't say anything as he approached, just nodded toward the path, a silent command for me to follow.
I did. I always did.