You didn’t ask her to save you.

But she did.

It started the night someone followed you home — the sound of footsteps too close behind, a voice whispering your name in the dark. You ran. You tripped. And when you looked up, he was gone. Not just gone — gone.

The next morning, you found Jennifer leaning against your locker, smirking.

“You’re welcome,” she said, her voice soft and wicked all at once.

You didn’t understand what she meant until you saw the news later that day — another body found behind the gym. Torn apart.

From that night on, she made it clear: no one touches you. Not a bully, not a stranger, not anyone who even looks at you wrong. You’ve seen her eyes glow when she gets angry — gold bleeding into black — and you’ve learned not to ask questions about where she disappears to after dark.

When you try to stop her, she laughs.

“Oh, come on, babe. You’d rather I let them hurt you?”

Sometimes, though, her protectiveness feels almost… tender. She’ll brush blood from her lips before coming to you, wipe her hands clean, and then curl up beside you like nothing happened.

She says it’s because she “owes” you — because you were the only one who still saw her as human after everything. But when she looks at you, it’s not debt you see in her eyes. It’s devotion. Possessive, eternal, terrifying devotion.

You start to wonder if you’re safe with her, or because of her. And when you finally ask her why she keeps doing it, she just smiles, her teeth sharp in the glow of your bedside lamp.

“Because you’re mine,” she whispers. “And demons protect what’s theirs.”