When I was a child, I suffered from night terrors.

I sigh as I splash cool water on my face. It's been at least a good ten years since they've haunted me—why come back now?

Because you know you can't deny yourself the truth anymore, something inside of me whispers. You know you're falling for the kind of monster you've spent years killing in cold blood. Convincing yourself that it's okay because you're doing the world a favor.

I startle as a sharp knock raps against the bathroom door.

"Let me in," Sin rumbles from the other side.

My feet don't move an inch as I stare up at the pale girl in the mirror. Her eyes are too wide, dark hair tangled, lips swollen like she's nervously gnawed at them for far too long.

"Calliope," Sin says darkly.

I don't even blink as the door swings open beside me. The raw flesh of my hands burn as I brace them against the cool porcelain of the sink.

I can feel him looking at me. Taking in my disheveled state.

"Tell me what's wrong," he says.

I sigh. "I told you. Bad dream."

He makes a sound of dissatisfaction but doesn't press any further.

"What time is it?" I try to wipe some of the bleariness from my eyes. Despite sleeping for a few hours, exhaustion still weighs heavily at the back of my head.

"Still early," he says softly. "Come back to bed."

At that, I turn my head and look at him. My fingers curl into my throbbing palms. "No."

"I'll stay with you." His large hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me back into the bedroom. "Just for a few more hours. You look like you need it."

I don't fight him. Despite the sweat clamming my forehead and the way my lungs tighten with dread, my eyelids feel so heavy that I know in a few hours it'll be nearly impossible to keep them pried open. "You promise you won't leave this time?"

His grip tightens slightly. "I promise."

Begrudgingly, I crawl back into the sheets, grimacing as the damp blankets cling to my skin.

Sin nods dismissively at Oliver and Theo, climbing into the space next to me.

"Might want to rethink that," I wince. "It's kinda...sweaty."

Regardless of my warning, he tugs me against him so that my head lays over his chest and his arm wraps around my waist. "I've been covered in far worse things than sweat," he says, then presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. "I'll be fine. I'll be here for as long as you need me. Sleep now, angel."

A small smile curls my lips at the endearment. My eyes shutter closed and darkness pulls me back under before I have a chance to prepare myself for what might be to come.

...

"Up," Delia says, her large hands dwarfing my much smaller ones as she pulls them back up so my arms remain straight. "Up, Calli. Never below your shoulders."

"But it's heavy," I say, but keep them upright despite the way my muscles tremble with effort.

"Hush," she says, her large brown eyes deceivingly kind-looking despite the impressive frown she sports. "No complaints. I thought you said you were big enough now. Unless you want to wait another—"

"No," I say quickly. "I'm ready. I'm sorry." I don't really know what Delia and the rest of them go at night and why they always come back in dirt and blood, but Catherine told me it's because they're doing God's work. Fulfilling the duty that comes with having divinity flowing through our veins. Whatever that means.

It doesn't explain why some of us never come home. Why our family keeps decreasing despite the children Delia brings back.

She's always told me I'm too young when I ask questions, but I just turned ten yesterday. I'm ready now.

"Okay," she says, stepping back as she takes in the sight of me. "Shoulders back. Do you remember the rules?"

My fingers clench around the rough handle of the gun so it doesn't slip from the sweat coating my palms. "Posture first, then aim. Only shoot with intention."

She makes a sound of approval. "And?"

"Never put down your gun."

The corners of her lips tilt up. It lights up her face, making her smile lines crinkle in the most warm way. "Good girl," she says. "You're ready. Wait here for me."

I keep the weapon raised even as she shuts the door behind her. It only wavers when the sound of a muffled cry erupts from the room beside me.

Delia makes a peeved sound as she nudges the door open with her foot, something heavy causing her to laboriously tug at the large object that falls in line behind her.

First I spot the fingers purple with lack of oxygen. The rope that Delia pulls at wrapped tightly around their bleeding wrists. Then my eyes settle upon the swollen and blood-splattered face.

The woman doesn't make a sound as she sees me, but her eyes still narrow as she takes in the gun poised in my hand. She barely even acknowledges the fact that it's aimed directly at her head.

I take a shuddering breath. "Delia?"

Delia drops the woman's wrist so she lays flat against the floor, letting her struggle to curl into a ball over her bound limbs and glare weakly at us. "Yes, little one?"

My arms weakly drop back to my side as I avoid the murderous look upon the beaten woman's face. "What's going on?"

"Arms back up," Delia snaps. When I don't follow suit, she impatiently strides forward and grabs my wrists, forcing them back in line with my shoulders.

I wince as her long nails bite into my skin. "I don't—"

"This isn't about what you want," she says, then adjusts my finger so it lays across the trigger again. My heart beats so fast it feels like it's going to explode from my chest. "This is about what you were born to do." She clicks off the safety. "Shoot."

I try to take a step back but her grip holds me firmly in place. The woman glares steadily at the weapon in my tiny hands, tears cutting through the dried rust-colored liquid upon her cheeks.

"Please," she whispers.

The gun trembles in my hand. Blood roils in my ears, my lungs squeezing as if I'm drowning with every inhale.

"Now," Delia murmurs lowly.

I shake my head. For a moment, the woman looks nearly relieved, but then Delia's finger settles back upon mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut as she presses down. The shot rings in my ears, the warm splattering of liquid across my face telling that my bullet has hit true.

I swallow the sob that rises in my throat as Delia takes my chin in her fingers and tilts my head in line with hers. I crack a hesitate eye, feeling the tickle of tears rolling down my cheeks as she smiles at me.

Her smile lines crinkle again, making her warm brown eyes something close to comforting. I try not to focus on the droplets of crimson that dot her sunshine-colored hair, letting her stroke my small cheek in her gentle hand as she whispers soft praises in my ear.

"Good," she says, her voice taking an oddly gentle note. "Very good. And tomorrow I'm sure you'll be able to do it all by yourself."

...

Hands grip my shoulder, shaking me gently. "Angel."

"Hm?" My heart still shudders in my chest. I crack my eyes, shoving away the griping hands before I recognize the concerned grey eyes that gaze down at me.

"Christ," he says, uncurling my tightly balled fingers from my palm. I wince at the sharp sting of my nails pulling from my flesh, a slow stream of red weeping from my skin.

I grimace as he wipes it away with the satin blanket. "I don't think that's very sanitary."

"Blankets can be washed," he says, then rubs down my other palm for good measure. "And you have the blood of an immortal flowing through your veins. I'm sure you'll be fine."

I sigh, keeping my eyes pried open even though they droop with drowsiness. I know if I shut them again I'll see that familiar flash of blood-thirsty umber eyes and feel the warm splash of bodily fluids splattering over my face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he says, tugging me closer to his chest.

I shake my head. Maybe if I don't talk about it the memories will fade away again. It used to work for me just fine.

Then again, I've since learned: being a creature born from Hell doesn't make you evil, just as being created by the hands of God doesn't make you inherently good. Contrary to my prior beliefs, the lives I've taken hasn't made the world a better place.

I sigh as the itching feeling of guilt tightens in my gut, fitting my head into the crook of Sin's neck. A part of me wonders how many innocent lives have I've taken.

I know Sin is more similar to me than I admit. He knows what it's like to carry the weight of lives taken across your back and pretend like it's nothing.

I desperately need someone to understand the ugly emotions writhing inside my chest. I always have. Maybe that's why we go so well together—Sin has always seemed to understand me without trying.

"Tell me about the first person you ever killed," I murmur into his neck. He tenses against me and I realize I must have hit a sore spot. "Sorry, you don't have to—"

"It's fine," he says, forcing himself to relax as he wraps his arm around my waist. "I was seventeen. It was my father."

Oh. It finally clicks in my brain—the familial ties he ended with his own hand. "God, I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

He sighs, the sound thick with weariness. "It's fine. I did what was necessary." His fingers trace circles over my hip absentmindedly. "The world is far better off without him in it."

I search his face but the only emotion I can make out is a distant coldness. "What happened?"

"My brother picked a fight with him," he says. "My dad was a piece of shit. Deserved to have his ass handed to him. But things went south when he beat my brother to an inch of his life. Probably would have killed him if I hadn't put a bullet in his head."

My heart feels heavy in my chest. As much as he speaks the words unflinchingly, I know the feeling that comes after taking taking your first life. Nothing makes the task an easy qualm, not even in such a dire circumstance.

It all feels so unfair—the fact that the blood staining our hands started so young.

If I didn't have divinity flowing through my veins, there's no way I would believe in a God. Surely nothing so righteous and good would ever sentence such innocent souls to live such a life.

I don't realize I'm crying until Sin wipes the wetness from my face.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's okay."

I want to throttle him. How can he say that? "It's not okay. A boy should never have to take the life of his own father."

He's silent for a moment, then says, "You're angry for me."

I stare at him. "Of course I am." I turn my head so he can't see another furious tear streak down my cheek. "We were just kids. It's not fair."

Sin doesn't need me to explain. He knows that familiar ache more than anyone: the suffocating one that sometimes feels so intense I fear I might drown in it.

"I know," he says simply. He doesn't try and tilt my head back to look at him; doesn't try and make me speak the painful truth of my past. Instead, his fingers settle in my hair, stroking gently through the tangled strands.

He doesn't say anything after that, not even as I softly cry into the pillow. His fingers just keep stroking their steady pace, reminding me of his presence. Reminding me that I'll never have to face the loneliness of such a burden again.

It doesn't make the overbearing guilt go away—doesn't erase the shame and pain. But somehow, just the knowledge of having him by my side makes it all a little more bearable.

—

a/n

Oh boy. Trauma. Our girl definitely has her fair share of it despite pretending that it doesn't exist.

Feel free to tell me what you thought of this chapter or if you have any questions of the sort.

Things are going to speed up from here! Sorry if this bit of the story feels a bit slow (:

ps- an embarrassing but necessary update. I just realized that in the first draft of this chapter, I wrote "Dina" instead of Delia (a quick explanation: her name *before* I changed it and I somehow keep getting them mixed up). So anyway, if you see any mistakes that I haven't caught, that's why. We're just gonna move on with our lives and pretend like that didn't happen. Oopsies.