Nope. No way I’d fall for that.
Demons tempted. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just how they were made. People like me, logical people, reasonable people, always, always remembered that.
“What do we do now?” he practically crooned.
“You open the door. Or I barge through it without you.” I stepped forward, ready to shoulder the door, but he twisted the handle. The door swung inward just before I hit it.
I miscalculated the size of his unnecessarily huge foot and tripped over his unnecessarily huge boot.
The floor rushed toward my face. I swung my hands forward to stop my fall, sending my travel mug of tea clattering to the ground.
I angled so I’d hit hip first, aiming to keep the carriers intact.
Two strong hands, one tight against my stomach, the other flat against my chest, caught me.
“Easy,” Bathin breathed near my ear. “Easy now.”
His body was pressed behind me, legs straddling mine. Just like in the dream, he was heat and strength, hard and demanding. And so, so fine.
I closed my eyes for a second, my heart racing from the almost fall and from more—from his touch, from his voice, from his presence.
Someone cleared their throat.
I looked up.
Everyone, and I meaneveryonein the station was staring at us.
“Myra?” Delaney’s long brown hair was pulled back in a pony tail, except for the little stray tendrils she couldn’t ever tame. She had on jeans and her short-sleeve uniform shirt that looked good on her lean frame, the badge visible on her pocket. She held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a maple bar in the other, but she still looked like she was half a second from pulling her gun. “Everything okay there?”
“Oh, she’s fine,” Bathin said. “Tip-top shape.”
“Let. Go.” I got my feet under me and levered backward.
Bathin snatched his hands away like I’d just turned to ice. Good choice, because I wasn’t above accidentally-on-purpose mule-kicking him if needed.
Over at her desk, Jean, who had pink hair this week, handed Hogan, her baker boyfriend, her donut. He slid off the edge of her desk to get out of her way.
Jean was taller than me, but not as tall as Delaney. She had a way of being friendly and non-confrontational that made people think she never got angry.
They were dead wrong.
“My intent was pure,” Bathin lied like a liar-McDemon-face.
Both sisters walked toward me, eyes flicking over my shoulder from the demon to me, gauging my anger.
I shook my head. “I tripped over his stupid foot.”
“Did he push you?” Delaney asked.
“No.”
“You okay?” Jean asked.
“I’m fine.”
She nodded, her loose, rose-colored hair shifting with the movement. “Do I smell cinnamon? Homemade, Myra? Really?”
“Made them last night. Dad’s recipe.”
