I tried to extract myself without waking him, a doomed effort. His grip tightened, claws prickling lightly against my hip, and he made a noise in his chest—a rumble that sounded more like a cat than a hellbeast. I stilled, heart hammering, and waited to see if he’d open his eyes. He didn’t. Instead, he nuzzled deeper into the crook of my neck, tail snaking up the length of my thigh and looping possessively around my knee. The forked tip twitched against the back of my leg, a lazy, reflexive motion that made me shiver despite the sheets. For a second, I let him holdme, let myself enjoy the safety of being wanted this much, the gravity of another body keeping me affixed to the planet. But eventually the reality of a full bladder and muscles sore from use—deliciously, profoundly sore—made it impossible to stay pinned.
“Sam,” I whispered, trying to pry the tail loose.
He muttered something unintelligible, the vibrations traveling through his chest into mine. The tail only tightened.
I tried again, this time with a gentle twist, and he made a grumpy, guttural noise—a sound that might have been “no” or “mine” or just a growl at the interruption. I snorted, then wiggled harder, finally dislodging myself from the demon octopus. The tail unwrapped with a reluctant spiral, and Samiel’s claws retracted, but his face contorted into a scowl of pure, petulant loss. I braced for him to wake, but all he did was burrow into the tangle of sheets and let out a monumental sigh, like it was the last breath he’d ever take until I returned.
I padded to the bathroom, bare feet sinking into the plush pink carpet. The master bath was the size of my last apartment, with a soaking tub in one corner and a shower big enough for a five-person bachelorette party. Everything was tile and glass and chrome, but instead of feeling like a hotel, it had a weird warmth to it—a tray of little succulents by the window, stacks of mismatched bath towels rolled into a pyramid, a basket of sample-size bath bombs next to the tub. I wondered if this was Sam’s doing, or if it had been staged by the town’s infernal hospitality committee. Part of me hoped this was what Sam liked—soft things, good light, small comforts in a world that was otherwise engineered for disappointment. I wondered what his actual house was like.
I stepped into the shower and cranked the handle, expecting standard-issue lukewarm, maybe with a sulfur edge. Instead, the spray was perfect. Tropical hot, thunderstorm pressure. Thekind of water you’d want to live in. I let it hammer my skin, watching the bruises and bite marks bloom purple and rise across my chest and hips. I touched the one on my neck, traced the line of teeth with my finger. It wasn’t an accident. He’d marked me, and I’d let him.
I pressed my forehead to the tile and let the steam erase the last traces of doubt. I wanted this—wanted him, wanted the town, wanted the possibility of waking up every day to the kind of hunger that made you feel alive in the marrow.
The water scalded in all the right ways, waking up muscles that had gone soft and lazy overnight. I let the needles of heat work the ache from my thighs, the ghost of Samiel’s hands lingering at every seam and hollow. My hair was a disaster; I lathered it twice with the house-brand shampoo, which smelled faintly like cinnamon and something more feral, maybe clove or patchouli. I wondered if Samiel had picked it out himself.
When I finally shut off the water, my skin was flushed and alive, my brain clearer than it’d been in months. I toweled off, wrapped my hair up in a twist, and padded back into the bedroom.
Samiel was exactly where I'd left him, except the scowl had resolved into a look of half-conscious satisfaction, his face mashed into the pillow like he was dreaming of something that agreed with him. One wing hung off the side of the bed, the other arched protectively over the spot where my body had been. The sight of him—sprawled, enormous, totally vulnerable—squeezed something unfamiliar in my chest.
I realized abruptly that I had nothing to wear. My skirt and shirt from yesterday were in a heap by the kitchen, and my duffel—if it had even made it off the bus—was a total mystery. I wrapped the giant towel more tightly around me and tiptoed out to the living room.
My duffel was waiting just inside the front door, upright and prim like it had been delivered by a very considerate poltergeist. The sight made me weirdly happy; it meant the town’s infernal hospitality program was at least as efficient as Amazon Prime, and possibly more so. I dragged it to the sunken living room and unzipped it, taking inventory. All the clothes I’d packed for three days in Hell: black mesh tanks, a denim vest with “Feral but Friendly” embroidered on the back, ripped shorts, five pairs of fishnets, a black bikini, a bottle of sunscreen, and—because I never learned—a spare umbrella. There was also my makeup bag, a folding travel mirror, and two hardcover books I’d already read.
I dressed without ceremony, picking out the threadbare shorts and a mesh top, then layering on the vest for good measure. My hair, still wet, hung in two-tone strings along my face; I pulled out my blow-dryer and makeup bag, deciding to finish getting ready in the guest bathroom. I didn’t know how much longer Sam would sleep, it was still early. I opted for minimal makeup, not feeling like I needed my full armor of face makeup, and then headed to the kitchen to find breakfast, and, more importantly, coffee.
The fridge yielded oat milk and a suspiciously artisanal espresso blend. I hunted through the drawers for a tamper, found one shaped like a demon’s fist (which I appreciated), and set to work. The hiss and spit of the machine, the clatter of mugs, the comfortingly human monotony of making coffee—these were the rhythms I understood. I could almost pretend I wasn’t in an architectural fever dream on the edge of a haunted lake, waiting for a demon to wake up and decide whether to eat me or just make me pancakes.
I heard the creak of the hallway floorboards before I saw him. Samiel appeared in the kitchen, utterly naked, sleep still dragging at his features. His hair was tangled and wild, and therewere pillow lines pressed into his cheek. He looked softer than last night—less like a demon and more like a giant, confused postgrad who’d woken up in the wrong dorm.
He blinked twice, registering the daylight and the smell of coffee. “You left,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I had to pee,” I said, filling the mugs. “And then I had to shower, because I had sex with a biohazard and wasn’t sure if I was going to turn red in the wash.”
He padded over, picked up the mug I’d already poured for him, and took a careful sip. His eyes rolled back in pleasure, the veins at his temples glowing momentarily. “You make coffee like a god,” he said, “which is ironic.”
He set the mug down and looked at me, really looked, and for a second, I saw the demon stripped away, just a man left holding the memory of something he thought he’d lost. “Thank you,” he said, and I could tell he meant more than the coffee. “I… didn’t like waking up alone. I thought maybe—” He paused, mouth twisting, uncertain how to finish. “Never mind.”
I let the silence ride for a beat, then filled it. “You thought I’d bail after two rounds? Please. You think I’d pass up another shot at that knot?” I grinned, but his face didn’t smooth. The uncertainty in his eyes felt older than the desert.
I closed the space between us and pressed my lips to his bicep, just above the angry blue print my nails had left the night before. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for three days, at least. You’re stuck with me.” I looked up at him, found the right words. “Promise.”
His eyes flickered, and the tension in his shoulders melted—not all the way, but enough that I could see the relief under it.
“Good,” he said, his voice soft but anchored with a ridiculous seriousness. “Because if you left, I’d be forced to hunt you down. It’s against protocol, but I’d do it anyway.” His tail curled around my ankle, a little shackle of warmth.
“Is that a threat, Samiel?” I raised both brows, letting a playful chill creep into my voice.
“No,” he said, entirely grave. “It’s a plea bargain.” He stepped closer and anchored his arms around me, careful with the claws, careful with everything.
I let him hold me for a long minute, coffee warming our hands, steam pooling around our faces. The silence had weight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable; it was the shared hush of two people who’d survived something and were waiting to see what came next. His chin rested on the top of my head, the horns framing me in a weird, cathedral-like way that I found more comforting than I’d ever admit. When I finally pulled back, I kept my hands pressed to his ribs, felt the heat and the steady drum of his pulse.
“You need a shower,” I said, tilting up to look at him. “You’re still covered in—” I gestured, then let my hand drop. “Well. Me.”
He grinned, but there was a hint of shyness, like he’d only just realized he was naked. He didn’t cover himself, though. Just straightened his spine and stepped back, arms loose at his sides, utterly unselfconscious. “You’re not going to run?” he asked, tilting his head. “You’ll wait?”
I pretended to consider it, sipping my coffee with the slow deliberation of a contract negotiator. “If you’re gone more than ten minutes, I get to eat all the pastries in the fridge and pick the music for the rest of the day.”
He grinned, showing the crooked canine. “Deal.” Then—because some instincts died hard—he hesitated in the doorway, eyes locked on me. “Promise?” The word was so naked, it almost hurt.
