“Even with Gary’s influence,” Malphas continued, his voice thoughtful, “I shouldn’t be capable of… of feeling this way. Demons don’t form attachments like humans do. We’re beings of power and purpose, not… not love.”
The word hung in the air between us, neither of us quite ready to claim it directly.
“Maybe you’re evolving,” I suggested, echoing what I’d told his lieutenants. “Becoming something new.”
“Maybe,” he agreed softly. “Or maybe this was always possible, and I just never found the right catalyst.” His hand came up to tilt my face toward his. “The right person.”
The tenderness in his eyes—red slowly giving way to that unique hazel blend—made my heart skip. I leaned up to kisshim, a soft, sweet gesture so different from our earlier passion but no less meaningful.
When we parted, Malphas smiled—not the predatory grin of the demon prince but the warm smile of the man who loved his garden and built bookshelves for his boyfriend.
“We should probably continue unpacking,” he said, making no move to get up. “Your books won’t arrange themselves.”
“They can wait,” I decided, settling more comfortably against him. “I’m pretty content right where I am.”
“As am I,” he murmured, his arms encircling me protectively. “Though perhaps we should move to the bedroom. The neighbors have been scandalized enough for one day.”
I laughed, picturing Mrs. Deleon across the street, probably sensing our “energies” or whatever she called them. “Fine, but I’m not walking. You exhausted me with your demonic sex powers.”
Without warning, Malphas stood, lifting me effortlessly in his arms. “Your wish is my command,” he said, carrying me toward the stairs.
As he navigated the hallway, I noticed the photos again—ordinary moments captured in frames. Us at the lake, at a local festival, in the garden he tended so carefully. Snippets of a life being built together, one ordinary day at a time.
Except nothing about our life was ordinary, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter 15
“Sam, have you seen my pruning shears?” Malphas called from the garage, his voice tinged with the mild irritation of someone whose tools aren’t where they’re supposed to be.
I looked up from my laptop, where I was finalizing a design for a client. “Check the shed! You were trimming the roses yesterday!”
A moment of silence followed, then: “You’re right. Thank you!”
I smiled to myself, returning to my work. Two months into officially living together, we’d fallen into a comfortable domestic routine. I worked from home on my graphic design projects while Malphas split his time between mysterious “infernal business” and an ever-expanding list of home improvement projects.
It was disgustingly domestic, utterly bizarre, and surprisingly perfect.
The doorbell rang, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced at the clock—2:30 PM on a Tuesday, not our usual time for visitors.
“I’ll get it!” I called, saving my work and heading to the front door.
I opened it to find Eden from our support group standing on the porch, looking uncharacteristically nervous. She clutched her crystal pendant with one hand and a large cloth bag with the other.
“Eden!” I said, surprised. “This is unexpected. Come in.”
“Thanks, Sam,” she said, stepping inside. Her eyes darted around as if searching for something. “Is Malphas here? I need to speak with both of you.”
“He’s out back. Let me get him,” I offered, suddenly concerned by her serious demeanor. “Everything okay?”
“Not exactly,” she said cryptically. “But it will be soon.”
I went to fetch Malphas, finding him kneeling beside the rose bushes that lined our back fence, pruning shears in hand. He looked up as I approached, his expression shifting from contentment to concern as he read my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately rising to his full height.
“Eden’s here,” I explained. “She seems… intense. Says she needs to talk to both of us.”
Malphas frowned, setting aside his shears with meticulous care. “Eden from the support group? Has something happened?”
