My Demon Mate

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

William’s POV

The courthouse smells of polish, disinfectant, and paper. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, too bright and too sharp, washing everything in pale glare. The benches are hard beneath me, and my folder rests heavy on my lap, edges digging into my thighs. My fingers ache from holding it so tightly, but I can’t let it go. If I do, it might slip away. Bella swings her legs beside me, too short to reach the floor, her braid crooked from my rushed attempt this morning. She leans against me, her green eyes restless as they flick around the room.

“Case of Artemis Credence,” the bailiff calls, his voice echoing against the high ceiling. “Guardianship petition.”

My chest tightens. I stand, pulling Bella with me. Her small hand squeezes mine with surprising strength. Together we walk to the front, the sound of our footsteps loud against the tile. The judge waits behind his bench, glasses low on his nose, black robe loose across his shoulders. He looks older than I expected, lined around the eyes, his expression neutral as he shuffles through papers.

“Miss Credence,” he begins, voice clipped, formal. “You are twenty years old?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Currently enrolled at the university full-time?”

“Yes.” My throat feels dry. The words scrape coming out.

“And you are employed part-time as well?”

“Yes.”

The judge studies me over the rims of his glasses. “That is a significant workload for someone of your age. You’re barely out of adolescence. How do you propose to balance all of this?”

My stomach twists, but I force myself to keep my voice steady. “I’ve already been balancing it, sir. Bella’s cared for. Her grades are good. She has meals, clothes, a routine. I take shifts at work and I study at night. I’ve been doing it since—since our parents passed.”

His brow furrows faintly. “And you believe this arrangement is sustainable long term?”

“Yes.” I tighten my grip on Bella’s hand. “I don’t just believe it. I know it.”

The judge flips another page. A man in a suit at the side table—the state representative, maybe a lawyer—clears his throat. “If I may, Your Honor. We have concerns regarding Miss Credence’s age and limited support network. She is twenty. Statistically, guardianships granted at such a young age face higher rates of difficulty—”

I cut in before I can stop myself. “Statistics don’t raise Bella. I do.” My voice rings louder than I intended, but I hold my ground. “I’ve already kept her safe, already made sure she has what she needs. No statistic changes that.”

The judge raises a hand for quiet. His gaze settles on Bella. “Young lady, do you have anything you’d like to say?”

Bella blinks, caught off guard. She glances at me, then looks up at him, her voice clear. “Artemis already takes care of me. I don’t want anybody else.”

The courtroom hushes. My heart lurches. Leave it to Bella to cut through everything with blunt truth.

The judge clears his throat, eyes softening just slightly. He flips through the last of the papers. “The court did review other possible guardians. Your maternal grandmother was considered, but she was deemed unfit due to recent widowhood. That leaves you.”

His gaze fixes back on me. “Do you understand, fully, the responsibility you are assuming today?”

“I do.” My voice trembles, then steadies. “I’ve been doing it already. This just makes it official.”

Silence hangs. Then the judge lifts the heavy stamp and presses it down with a firm thud. The sound reverberates through me. “Guardianship is granted.”

Air rushes from my lungs. Relief floods me, tangled with something heavier, almost crushing. It’s done. Bella is mine—on paper, by law. Permanent. Binding. No one can challenge it now. No one can take her. The thought makes me want to laugh and cry at once.

Bella beams, her gap-toothed grin lighting her whole face. “Told you they’d say yes,” she whispers, pride bright in her voice.

I crouch to hug her tightly, tears pricking my eyes. “Yeah. You did.”

The bailiff calls the next case, motioning us aside. I tuck the folder deep into my bag, zipping it closed like it contains my entire heart. Maybe it does.

Outside, the air is cooler, damp with drizzle. The city smells of wet asphalt, exhaust, and roasted chestnuts from a cart on the corner. Bella skips ahead, humming, her shoes splashing lightly in puddles. “Pancakes later?” she asks, spinning on her toes. “To celebrate?”

I laugh softly, pulling her close. “Pancakes. As many as you want.”

Her smile steadies me. Her trust is an anchor. I walk her toward the elementary school, where she peels away with a quick hug before running inside. I watch until the doors swallow her, then turn toward campus, my bag heavier with every step, the guardianship folder pressing into my spine like a brand. Victory and fear, all at once.

The lecture hall is crowded when I slip inside. Students chatter in clusters, laptops open, the hum of conversation echoing against the walls. The smell of coffee lingers, coats drape over chairs, the old wooden seats squeak as people shift. I slide into a spot midway up, my notebook open in front of me, pen poised. My hands still shake from the morning. I tell myself class will distract me.

The professor shuffles papers at the front. “Before we begin, a brief announcement. Dean Carter has permitted an audit student to join this course. Please welcome William Carter.”

The room stirs instantly. “Dean’s son?” someone whispers. “Didn’t know he had one.” “Explains the special treatment.”

The door at the back opens. He walks in, and silence falls.

William Carter looks nothing like a student. His black shirt is buttoned crisp, tucked neatly into dark slacks. His hair is dark, close-cropped but slightly mussed as if he doesn’t care to tame it. His skin is pale, his features sharply cut, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones severe. His eyes—so light they almost look silver from this distance—scan the room once before settling forward. There’s a weight to him, a presence that doesn’t belong here. He moves like someone used to command, not classrooms.

He takes a seat two rows ahead of me. Whispers spike behind hands. “He’s older, right?” “Weird vibe.” “Looks like he’s here to interrogate someone, not study.”

The professor begins the lecture, chalk scratching against the board. I try to focus, scribbling notes, but my eyes keep drifting to William’s shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his posture. He sits like a statue, every line of him held tight. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t adjust. He doesn’t belong here, and we all know it.

“Mr. Carter?” the professor calls, pointing with his chalk. “Your thoughts on the material?”

William lifts his head slightly, and when he speaks, the air stills. His voice is smooth, deep, measured, carrying authority that doesn’t fit this room. His answer is exact, layered, cutting deeper than the question required. Too exact. The professor blinks, unsettled, before nodding.

Students stir. “Did you hear that?” “That’s not normal.” “He talks like he’s on trial.”

I press harder into my notebook. Heat crawls up my chest, my pulse racing. The tip of my pen darkens, a curl of smoke rising before a black scorch line mars the page. I jerk back, snapping the notebook shut, blowing on it as panic seizes me. No one notices. No one except him.

When I lift my eyes, William is no longer watching the professor. His pale eyes are locked on me.

The look pins me to my seat, sharp and unyielding. A predator’s gaze. My breath stutters, my skin prickles hot and cold at once. I force myself to look down, staring at the board, but I feel it—his attention pressing against me like a hand at the back of my neck.

The professor calls on him again, maybe hoping to pull focus. William’s second answer is clipped, sharper, but just as exacting. Whispers rise louder. “Dean’s son, makes sense.” “Still creepy.” “Doesn’t even blink.”

A girl beside me leans closer, muttering, “What’s with him? He’s acting like he’s here to watch us, not learn.”

I don’t answer. My hand clenches over the scorch mark hidden under my notebook cover. My pen creaks as if it might snap.

Finally, the lecture ends. Students scramble for the aisles, noise erupting as bodies jostle and chatter swells. I pack slowly, trying to lose myself in the tide, but when I glance up, William hasn’t moved. His bag is still at his feet, untouched. His eyes are on me. Waiting.

My throat tightens. I shove my notebook into my bag, zip it closed, and force my way through the crowd, head down. Whispers trail after me into the hallway. “Dean’s son.” “So strange.”

The guardianship folder digs against my back as I walk faster, weaving through the stream of students. Bella is mine. Stamped, secure, untouchable. Yet William’s gaze lingers in my mind, sharp as a blade, and nothing feels safe at all.