But it’s his face that unsettles me the most. He’s beautiful, in a way that’s completely inhuman. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, a jaw carved like he was born from storm and stone. He has pointed ears that poke out of his long black hair, which sits at shoulder length. Power radiates off of him, humming like a wire stretched too tight, ready to snap.
He’s wearing a tight black shirt, which is rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscled forearms that are intricately tattooed in swirls and patterns. His hands are huge, veinsprotruding from them, showing the strength behind what I imagine is a lethal grip. His black pants hug his legs in a way that makes them look like solid stone, ending tucked into black combat boots. Good god, he’s death incarnate.
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly, still frozen by the door. “But did you just say you’ve come to collect from a deal?”
The man—creature—whatever he is, lifts one eyebrow, like I’d just asked if the sky was blue.
“Yes, from your dad. Keep up.” He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. “I’d say offer me a drink, but your fridge is a shrine to sadness and expired dairy.”
“My dad wouldn’t,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“He would. He did. And frankly, you should be flattered. He could’ve offered up his rotten soul, but no, he went with you, his ‘precious girl.’” He sneers the words with a mocking undertone.
My legs remember how to move, barely, and I stumble toward the kitchen counter, gripping onto it for some sense of stability.
“This is some kind of joke.”
“If only.” The demon sits back down, leaning back against the couch, his wings shifting with a leathery rustle. “Do I look like I do jokes?”
He has a point. He looks like he does wars, or plagues, or poetry slams where the poems are just death threats.
“This is a dream,” I whisper. “A very weird, stress-induced, demon-laced dream, brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, because your subconscious definitely knows how to sculpt such perfection. Sit down, Daisy.”
I don’t sit, instead opting to pace. Although there isn’t much room to pace in here, it’s more like taking two steps forward, turning on the spot, then repeating the process the other way.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Your father gave it to me.” His tone changes, just a fraction. “Along with your soul.”
And just like that, my body feels like ice. I know my dad’s bad with money. I know about the gambling, the drinking, the times rent wasn’t paid. I’d scraped coins from couch cushions just to keep food in my belly. But this? This was worse than anything I’d imagined.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he says. “And I’m bored now. So, unless you’d like me to start packing your things for the trip to Hell, I suggest you get a grip.” He stands, crossing his arms across his broad chest.
“Trip to Hell?” I repeat, voice rising with panic.
“Figuratively speaking. For now.” He smiles like he’s enjoying watching me short-circuit. “You’ve been claimed, sweetheart. That means a few things, one of which involves me keeping close until I’m ready to collect.”
I blink. “So... what? You’re like, haunting me now?”
“No. More like, babysitting what’s mine.”
The rage hits before the fear, and I slam my hands on the counter before marching toward him and jabbing a finger at his chest. Well… his torso, because this man is a damn skyscraper.
“I don’t care who or what you are,” I snap. “You don’t get to waltz in here, insult my fridge, and act like I’m some kind of possession.”
He looks down at my finger, then back at me with an arched brow. “You touch me again, sunshine, and I’m turning your bathroom into a portal that leads to a screaming abyss, and I’m fucking pushing you through it.”
I drop my hand, but refuse to back down.
He sighs like I’m giving him a migraine. “You’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I’m pretty sure was a curse word, and sits back down with the wariness of a demon realising he’s been assigned to the worst possible human going.
