Page 30 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

The sound of Sam pacing across the living room, mumbling indistinct words with each step, greets me when I make it to the first floor.

As I make my way into the room, I have a vivid moment of clarity that freezes me in my tracks.

The path he’s taking across the rug—from the wall of windows at the front of the house, towards the hallway leading to the kitchen, a turn, and back again—is identical to the one I took that very first night he brought me home all those months ago.

Except everything is different now.

I know Sam. And I’m not afraid of him. I’m not sure I ever was, but, after weeks of him slowly but surely becoming the most important person in my life, I know who he is now. The things that make him who he is. Who his father is plays zero role in that calculus.

I’m moving across the room as his pacing brings him back towards me; we meet in the middle, stopping inches away from each other.

He looks wrecked, his hair sticking straight up where his hands have raked through it.

He’s putting most of his weight onto the left side of his body: a tell that he has been wearing his prosthesis for too long.

My skin tingles with the need to sit him down and get him comfortable.

Make sure he gets sleep after almost 48 hours of waking.

The look on his face tells me that’s not what he needs, though.

He needs to process these feelings, whatever that looks like.

So I don’t say anything. I wait for him to take that step.

We stand there in silence, Sam’s heavy breathing loud in the room as the clock in the hallway hits each new second with a heavy clang. I’m preparing myself to stay here for the long haul when he whispers, “Why would she lie to me?”

“Maybe she was afraid?” I muse as I rub my hand along his forearm.

“I get that.” He drops his head back to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before straightening it again to look down at me. “But my mom and I are close. We tell each other everything—”

“Like you told her who I am?” I ask gently.

Sam blinks, his mouth parted on words that don’t make it past his lips. He’s quiet for a few seconds before dragging his hand through his hair another time. The curly strands stand out around his head in a disheveled halo.

“I… I didn’t know how to tell her. The last time I brought you up, I got committed.

Twice. And now—” He bites off the remainder of the sentence.

“Now I don’t technically even know what you are, and I honestly don’t care, but I couldn’t have explained to my mom why Arthur would have taken you, and she would have thought I was spiraling out—”

“Sam.” I press my fingertips against his mouth. The final syllables of his rambling peter out against my skin. “You’re not spiraling out. I’m real, and I—”

It’s time. Inhaling deeply, I brace myself, knowing I have to tell him who I am. “The muse of epic poetry.”

“What?” Sam blinks rapidly at me.

“I’m the muse of epic poetry,” I repeat, this time in a complete sentence. “That’s why your father took me. I’m the goddess who grants inspiration to authors.”

“How?”

“Traditionally, I inspire through speech and proximity.” I bite the inside of my cheek in an attempt to keep my lips from trembling.

I know who he is. Sam would rather die than hurt me.

It doesn't make it any easier to roll over and expose this vulnerability to the world and…

just have faith that he won't hurt me with it.

“T-there are more… more forceful ways to do it, though, all of which involve physical touch.”

“That’s why he—”

“Yes.”

Sam’s muscles tighten before his body curls down and around mine, his arms encircling my waist as his cheek comes to rest on my hair. Like he wants to give me sweetness and loving physical touch to make up for what Arthur did. Or it may just be Sam needing to give me another piece of himself.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you just heard information that rocked your world.” I stroke the hand resting on his lips down over his chin and up to cup his face. “And the first thing you did after finding out about it was to defend me.”

His eyelids fall partially closed as he presses his cheek into my palm. “He blamed—”

“I know,” I interrupt him. “But that doesn’t matter.”

“It does. He blames you for everything he did.”

“And he can do that, my darling. Like you’ve told me so many times, it doesn’t change that he’s the one who did those things.

His actions. His choice. His fault.” I rub my thumb over his cheek.

“That’s not what’s important tonight. We’ve spent months going over the ways Arthur hurt me.

Those will be here tomorrow. How about we focus on you. ”

“He’s not my father.”

“Yes.”

“Then who is?”

“Apparently Lucifer Morningstar, although I think that’s a question for your mother to answer.” His half laugh puffs against my forearm.

“All of these years, I’ve defined myself by being ‘not like him.’ I was my mom’s kid and nothing like my father. I was so proud of that fact.”

I hum in agreement. “You not being Arthur’s biological son doesn’t change the importance of you not being like him. More men should add ‘not being like Arthur Francis’ to their life goals. I’ll be honest: the world would be a lot better for it if they did.”

He grunts in disagreement. “But if I’m not like him because he’s not my father—”

“Then you’re still nothing like him, and that’s what matters. You don’t have to be a good person to get back at anybody,” I snap. “In fact, that’s the last reason you should be a good person, and you know it.”

For all that his responding flinch is minimal, it hits my palm like a slap. “You’re right. That was such a shitty thing to say. I definitely didn’t mean that.”

“I know, my darling.” I soften my tone. “I know.”

“I just… I don’t know who I am if I’m not defining myself by who I’m not,” he stammers.

“I do.”

His eyes go wide at my emphatic statement.

“You’re Sam Eaton. A doctor and loving son to a mother who did the best she could for you, even though she had no idea how to make that happen.

” My thumb makes another sweep across his cheek.

“You’re the sweet man who didn’t turn me in to law enforcement when you found me standing in a room full of bodies and blood.

You helped me burn down your childhood home and transported your maimed father through Chicago in the trunk of your car.

You gave me my first ever nickname and a home and a torture chamber—”

A watery chuckle emerges from him.

“You’re the man who eats my awful food—”

“It’s not aw—”

“No, my darling, it is.” I smile up at him.

“It’s not good, but I adore you for trying to make me feel like it is.

You’re selfless and loving, and you care with your whole heart.

You skipped Christmas with your mother, so you could spend the holiday with me and spoil me.

” I tap his cheekbone with my thumb. “That’s who you are.

It doesn’t matter who your father is or who you’re not like or that your mother may have lied to you.

You’re still—and listen to me well when I say this, okay? ”

He nods.

“You’re still my Sam.” I speak over his sharp inhale, bracing his other cheek with my free hand, so he can’t look away from me. “It’s okay. It’s okay, my darling. Who your parents are or aren’t doesn't change who you are.”

He twists his head until his chin is resting on the fleshy part of my right hand. And then… then there’s a soft press of his lips against my palm, fleeting and gentle, before he straightens to look at me again.

Somehow, in spite of his height, his face is only millimeters away from mine.

I don’t know when we closed the distance or how, but he’s so close now, his eyes somehow both sincere and heated.

Despite the quick beat thud of my heart telling me I haven’t been physical with a man since Arthur, panic at the idea of touching another person like this stirring loosely in my stomach, I can’t help but draw him in, down, rising onto my tiptoes to meet him in the middle until we’re breathing each other’s air.

Until my mouth is pressed against his.

His lips are soft against mine, his fingers tender where they rest against my back. He’s still against me, unmoving, until he huffs out a muffled groan, so low I might have missed it if it weren’t for the vibration of it across my lip, and finally—finally—kisses me back.

The quiet sound of need sends me into a hungry tailspin, my hands slipping into his hair to drag him closer, devouring him with hungry noises of my own.

His arms are taut around my waist, tugging me in as he lifts me against him, my feet coming off the floor as he straightens with my body held only by his strength.

We’re a clash of lips and tongues, months of desperation and lust coming together in one chaotic, magical kiss.

Although it has been eons since I’ve been kissed, I know without a shadow of a doubt that it has never felt like this before. This isn’t just desire. It’s a need. I need Sam—to taste him, to be with him, to share my life with him—and I’ve never needed anyone before.

That realization is what has me pulling away, my lips raw, pulses of desire radiating through my body, fighting with the dregs of panic lingering in my muscles at being held so closely. At being touched like this. Even though I know it's Sam.

Despite knowing I’m safe, being blatantly aware of who’s holding me and wanting more, I can’t get air in. My heart is racing. I don’t want Sam to put me down—his arms are my safe place—but I can’t breathe. The world is closing in around me, my eyesight narrowing to tiny pinpricks of light.

My feet land on the ground; the warm arms wrapped around me vanish. A single elegant hand comes to rest against my back.

“I need you to breathe for me.” Sam’s voice is tinny like it’s coming from a distance, but the warmth of his breath puffing against the shell of my ear, smelling like spearmint, tells me how close he is.

Sam is here. He’s always here for me. “C’mon, sweetness, follow my lead, okay?

We’re gonna breathe in—” He inhales deeply and holds, modeling what he wants me to do.

I take a short, sharp breath that’s not nearly enough. It’s more air than I was getting before, so I’ll consider it a win.

“Now exhale.”

I follow his lead. My vision is slowly coming back, my field of view expanding. The first thing I see is Sam’s caramel gaze locked on mine.

“You’re doing amazing.” His big hand rubs across my back.

Breathing comes easier.

“That’s right,” he murmurs in my ear. “Keep on breathing, sweetness.”

My arm is pressed against his chest; although we’re as close as we were before, I don’t feel crowded.

What I do feel is furious. I want to control my response to him.

Be able to be everything he needs from me.

Everything I want to be for him. More so than any time the dark voice has whispered to me, demanding revenge and sex, I feel the disconnect between my heart and my body.

I—my heart—wants my Sam. In all ways. In every way.

My trauma isn't ready to let him in yet.

But I want my Sam.

The war between what I want and what my experience won't let me have has tears gathering at the corners of my eye, my vision blurring as one slips out and down my cheek. Then another. And then there’s a flood of tears pouring down my face, and I’m curling into Sam, pressing against his chest, needing the safety and warmth of him as I fall apart for the first time since he brought me home with him.

Through it all, he soothes me, pressing soft kisses into my hair, his lower body angled away, so his hard cock isn’t pressed into my stomach.

When the tears finally stop, I look up at him, not sure what I’ll see. Afraid I’ll see judgment. Anger. Pity. Regret.

Instead, I see something that looks a lot like love.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I babble.

“For what?”

“This was supposed to be about you, but I… I ruined everything.”

“Nope. You didn’t ruin anything, sweetness. You comforted me when I needed it. You pulled me out of my own head. Gave me the best first kiss of my life.” A warm smile crosses his face. “The crying is a little concerning…”

“That had nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, needing him to believe me. “I-I-I wanted that. You. So fucking badly. I want you.”

“I know.” He kisses my forehead gently. “We take this at your pace, Lila. I’ll never pressure you to give me anything more than what you’re ready for.”

“Just in case you were wondering.” I drop my gaze, resting my head against his chest, so I can hear the steady beat of his heart. “This—your kindness, your sweetness, your endless patience with me—all of this is how I know who you are, Sam Eaton.”