Canal Street was a place seldom tread by girls such as I. Lined with numerous boutiques, high-end cafes, and spa parlors - the latest fashion amongst well-to-do ladies - Canal Street boasted a pricetag that was well out of reach for most. The main drag featured shops three floors tall, with faux balconies adorned with vines and doors with tiny, unusable knockers. The window displays even had geared mannequins, that spun slowly upon their platforms or raised their wooden arms as if to wave at passersby. Well-dressed ladies were chauffeured about by bicyclists pulling pastel, doll-like carriage behind them. The scents of freshly roasted coffee and warm cinnamon pastry wafted through the air from the many cafes. Loudspeakers on the streetlamps played the sultry voice of a French singer, accompanied by violins and trumpets. The canal itself stretched down the middle of the wide roadway, partially obscured by tall trees whose branches were adorned with golden orange leaves.

I was utterly overwhelmed. Damian had Jacobi park the carriage under a long low roof constructed near the final port at the very head of the canal, so he and I walked together down the street. I could not remember a time I felt more self-conscious than I did then, walking amongst such high-fashion folk in such a plain dress and cheap shoes, my hair still in its simple braid. I should not have cared - but I knew how it looked: Damian was obviously not my husband, so he could occupy only one place in the minds of those who glanced at us: my master, my owner.

I shuddered at the thought, and tried to keep my head high. But I could scarcely even bear the thought of looking in the shop windows. These items were far more expensive than my purse could ever hope to cover. The thought of looking, desiring...trying such things on...the thought of Damian buying such things for me... it prickled my pride unbearably, and so too did it rouse my shame.

Still the same little girl who can't care for herself. Always the whore for something aren't you? Your mother never could have worn such finery, yet here you are: rewarded for being a slut.

I hissed, stopping still in my tracks and clutching my head in my hands. The urge to scream at them to stop was growing in me. I was vaguely aware of Damian moving his body to shield me from the looks of passersby, and his hand touched gently upon my back.

"Talk to me, Samara," he said. "Don't be afraid. I'm right here."

His voice made my feet feel a little firmer in reality. I sucked in a breath, and said softly, "They're talking again. Shaming me. Telling me I should not be here."

"Do you feel the things they say are true?"

"Yes," I whimpered, though my voice became angry as I continued speaking. "I don't deserve these things. This is a place for fine ladies, not for...for whores."

"Is that you speaking, or your father?"

I was curious why he had said "my father" rather than the demons. I raised my head slowly, taking measured breathes as I met his calm and steady gaze. But of course, it had been my father's words they echoed. "The heavenly gates do not part for whores," he had told me, after catching me with the stable boy that fateful day - it felt like a lifetime ago. It also felt like yesterday.

"They dredge up words from so long ago," I said. "Words that shouldn't hurt anymore. Yet somehow it takes me straight back, and I feel small again."

Damian nodded in understanding, and looped his arm through mine. It was such a familiar gesture, and although we had certainly shared far more intimate positions, I felt my face redden all the same. How was it possible that I had seen men in every compromising position one could imagine, had laid eyes upon an endless stream of genitalia and sweaty bodies without batting an eye over the past ten months, yet something so simple as walking side by side with Damian Hearst made my lungs suddenly feel inadequate?

"Do you like coffee?" he said, as I struggled to ignore the stares of passersby.

They see it as a gentleman walking with his slave. They look at you and laugh. They know you don't belong.

"Samara," Damian's voice was gentle, but firm. "Do you like coffee? Or would you prefer tea?"

"Coffee," I said vaguely. A young woman of about my own age walked past us, and her eyes went over us with a long hard gaze. She was beautiful: her face soft, her hair silky and trimmed just to her shoulders in the latest fashion, delicate embroidery upon her dress. I suddenly hated the thought of my own face-

"I'll never forget how you looked when I first laid eyes on you," Damian said suddenly, the unusual statement and his soft chuckle forcing me back to reality. "You looked so guilty - I knew you'd been snooping through my things. But you looked angry too, as if you were prepared to admit your guilt and fight me in the same breath." He shook his head, smiling as if recalling a fond memory. "I had seldom found myself so intimidated by a woman."

"You can't have been intimidated by me," I said with a sniff, for surely he was lying. "You, an exorcist, intimidated by a whore? I think not."

"Demons are predictable," he said. "You were not. And you were so proud. Immovable. Even as we played." He paused before the doorway of a little cafe, where inside gleamed the brassy cauldrons of massive coffee percolators. It was painted eggshell white, a little corner building that looked like a tiny castle tower, even including the pointed tile roof. A waiter stood smiling by the front doors, motioning to us.

"Sir? Madam? May I seat you?" he said. He was too polite to let his eyes linger overly long. Damian and I followed him within, swiftly enveloped in the rich, dark scent of the brewing beverages. We were given a private booth, tucked into the corner of the little shop, where we could peer out the window into the street below and watch all the folk passing by with their bags of new things. Damian ordered coffee for both of us, pressing me to answer aloud if I wanted cream, sugar, or anything to eat. Slowly, the voices began to fade. I concentrated on the sweet smells around me, on the faint sound of the music playing outdoors, the clink of porcelain cups behind the counter. When Damian reach across the table and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, I focused on the brush of his fingers over my skin and the warm sensation it left behind.

"How do you feel?" he asked, as casually as if he had inquired regarding the weather.

"Better," I said softly. "They're not so loud now."

His smile brought out that same fluttering feeling in my chest that I had felt earlier when he had taken my arm. What in hell was wrong with me? Why could I not simply look at him like just another man, as I did with so many others? It was infuriating.

"That's good," he said. "Please tell me when you're struggling. I can tell on my own, sometimes, but I will not always be able to. Tell me, so I can help you. Finding ways to control them will be the best we can do for now."

I nodded, relief settling in place of panic. "I'll tell you." The waiter brought out our coffee, along with a egg-y souffle I had not noticed Damian order. The souffle was mine, apparently, but I was not about to argue. The man was certainly determined to keep me well-fed.

"I know you're ashamed to be seen like this," he said, after a few minutes of sitting in silence as I ate and sipped my coffee. "I apologize for the clothes. I didn't have much of a plan when I...took you."

I scraped the last of the souffle from the little dish. I thought back to the night of Halloween festival again, which was still a gaping black hole in my memory, punctuated only by flashing images and brief sensations. "That was the first time Krahia took control of me," I said. "I don't really think one could have planned for it. Don't apologize anymore. Please. I think I'm done being angry at you for kidnapping me." I smiled, letting him know I was only gently teasing. Then I frowned, and said, "Krahia...that demon...he was one of the Upper Echelon kind that you've spoken of, wasn't he?"

Damian nodded grimly. "Indeed. They have a very different feel to them in the midst of exorcism, or when encountering them in a possession. I suspected it when I found you Halloween night."

"How did you find me?" I said. "You were following me weren't you? You and Kiiji, the reaper?"

He looked guilty. "After I saw your scars, I knew I had to see what you were about. I didn't suspect you would talk to me again very easily. Kiiji followed you, mostly. It's easier for him to get around. So he was watching you that night. He alerted me to what was happening, in his usual round-about way."

"Round-about?" I giggled. "Does he speak in riddles?"

"He may as well. There's something in his precious reaper's handbook...treatise...whatever it is...that forbids him from disclosing information about other reapers or demons. He came into my study that night insisting that I should go to the festival because I "needed excitement" in my life." He rolled his eyes, having put on a mocking tone for Kiiji's voice.

"Well you certainly got excitement," I said, certain he had gotten more than enough excitement for a lifetime in just a few short days.

"More than I ever imagined," he said, and we toasted our coffee cups.

We sat in companionable silence until our cups were emptied. Before long we were making our way down the street once more, with Damian encouraging me to point out anything I liked.

"I know there's a lot to look at," he said. "I felt the same way the first time I came here."

A window display caught my eye, beneath a sign that read William's & Burke Threadery, and I paused to admire it. The dress was a deep violet, its skirt full and buoyant with layers draped and secured with little brass buttons. The off-the-shoulder sleeves were black lace, and the bodice was tightened via brass hooks. The neckline dipped low...dangerously low, low enough that my scars would show if I wore it.

"Shall we go in?" Damian was already holding open the door for me. I tried to refuse - the dress was surely expensive, I could never show my scars so blatantly, it was much too fine - but my words just came out garbled. Of course I wanted to try it on. I doubted I had ever touched such fine fabric.

The interior smelled like fresh lavender and wood wax. The seamstress greeted us quickly, hurrying down from the ladder where she was tucking folded garments into a row of shelving that extended nearly to the ceiling. She was a tiny woman, her hair styled into numerous tiny braids that were held back from her face with a bright yellow scarf. Her black trousers and sleeveless white blouse were daring, the kind of fashion that still made heads turn in alarm. She took my measurements, then ushered us back to a fitting room - which Damian was offered a seat just outside of. I lingered outside the curtains as the woman left to bustle about and collect various garments for me to try, shouting back at me inquiring as to colors and fabrics I preferred.

"Don't be frightened," Damian said gently. The woman was out of sight, and he got up to move behind me as I hesitated before the fitting room's thick velvet curtain. His hands moved very gently up my spine, to rest possessively against the nape of my neck. The heaviness of his hand pressing there was like a collar, reminding me where I was and who I was with. His voice was low as he said, "I see it on your face. I promise no harm will come to you for showing your scars. Do not be ashamed. I'm here."

He's lying to you. They'll all know what you are. You know he'll take advantage the first chance he gets.

I closed my eyes, and sucked in my breath. "You're not lying, are you?"

"No. The last thing I wish to do is decieve you, Samara. And regardless of me -" He reached around, and turned my head so that I could peer at myself in the floor length mirror beside me. "You are strong. Far stronger than I. Never forget that."

I looked so small compared to him, standing there before him in that mirror. I would have expected to feel disgust at the sight of a man standing so possessively over me...but I did not. His posture was not leering, it was not aggressive. It was my own face he remained watching, not our reflection. His attention, rapt. I had never...seen such a look on a man's face.

It was protective. It was...

"Here you are, darling!" the seamstress had returned, laden down with multiple dresses draped over her shoulders. "Ah, now, now, enough of the bedroom talk! That's for later!"

She ushered me into the fitting room, though I spotted her giving Damian a wink as she did. I had to shake myself back to reality as she swiftly undressed me, but my head was still high enough in the clouds that when my chest was bared and my scars visible, I only felt a tiny pang of fear. But the woman did not even flinch. Either she was far better at hiding her thoughts than I expected, or she had truly seen some unusual things on the ladies who came through her fitting room.

How could Damian possibly think of me as strong? He had faced innumerable demons and dared call me stronger than him? It was nonsense, surely...but, for the sake of believing him, I did try to think of my own actions - any of them - that I could accept as strong. It was a struggle. I did not even need the voices of demons to tell me that I was weak, weak, weak. But I forced it. I truly tried.

I had journeyed to a city I did not know. I had left my family and home for freedom. I had taken the job that pleased me, I had done work that fulfilled me. And I...I had fought off the first of my demons. I had faced Krahia and his frightening illusions.

That...that was strong. No matter what lies those voices - and my own mind - told me, I had been strong.

"A final touch!" The seamstress pinned a cap into my hair, covered in elaborate beadwork with a crowning black feather. I could scarcely believe the sight of myself in the mirror. The violet dress I had admired in the window was heavy, my waist secured tightly, my breasts pushed up by the corset and the plunging neckline nestled between them. I could see the ragged red lines of my scars and my face reddened.

"Shall we show your husband?" the woman inquired.

"He's not my husband!" I said quickly, more sharply than I intended. But...Damian was the one who would be purchasing these things after all. I even found myself eager to see his expression. Despite my embarrassment over my scars, I was certainly aware of the alluring figure I had in that dress. It was exactly what my father had warned of, and exactly why I had always been drawn to bold fashion - even when I couldn't have it.

More gently, I said, "He's not my husband... but, yes. We should show him."

The seamstress did not even flinch. She was better than I thought. She pulled aside the curtain as I stepped out, my skirts swishing around my legs. I straightened my shoulders and, unbidden, I thought of Damian pulling up this fine dress to smack my backside. No. No, don't think of that, or my face would redden again.

Damian looked up from the thread he'd been plucking on his trousers. I had never seen a man's mouth drop open and snap shut again so quickly. He visibly shook himself, cleared his throat, and said, "Lovely. It suits you well. Do you like it?"

How hard he tried to remain stoic. The smile that spread over my face could not have been more pleased. It was his turn to go red in the face. 

A/N: Hi again guys! Wow, you're still reading this far?? Ya' know what, you're awesome! Thank you for reading this and being there for the updates, it means the world to me ♡
I've struggled a little bit to get things written this week, amd to LIKE my own writing. Regardless, I'm glad I pushed through and got this chapter written :) Next update will be Friday!
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