As Wanda explained, Daimon listened solemnly, face set in a grim frown. Her possession didn't seem to exhibit anything out of the ordinary, as brutal as it was. Except for the reason that fueled it. That a powerful Hell-Lord like Mephisto needed every piece of Wanda's soul could have only been for a couple of reasons. It sure as hell wasn't because he needed a shiny new trophy. Daimon let go of her hand to rub his face, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and drew in a breath. He wondered about that place in her mind; everyone had their own personal Hell in some shape or form, a memory, a dream, and he wanted to know about hers. Why? He chided himself and shook away his thoughts. That wasn't a road he wanted to take with her. His only interest, he told himself, was her safety.
Fuck, he was drained. But he knew that was nothing compared to the mental, physical, emotional exhaustion Wanda was feeling. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." He met her gaze sidelong. "It takes a helluva person to endure what you did. To come out of something so dire and be alive to tell it." And she did it virtually soulless. Daimon had seen more people than he cared to count die at the hands of demons. Seen too many decent people break. That Wanda had been stripped down to utter hopelessness and still found the strength to fight was something. "Every possession is different. I don't know what that particular memory means to you, or if there'll come a time when you stop being your worst enemy. But in spite the things that fuckwit put in your head, whatever you're thinking now, the truth is, Wanda, you're not weak."