“Go make tea,” I growl while she gawks at me.
I pick up the instructions and squint at the tiny print. After she walks away, cussing me out as she goes, I toss them aside. They're indecipherable. Whoever wrote them clearly had no idea how to put a desk together. It takes me at least another five minutes to figure out which part is the leg and which is the top. My frustration grows with each passing second.
Clara sets down a mug next to me, the sweet aroma filling the air, and I grunt. I've forgotten most of the customs of witches, but demons don't thank them. Clara doesn't seem to care, though, as she sinks onto the couch with her own mug.
“Where the hell does this piece go?” I mutter more to myself than anything.
“Now do you understand why I was frustrated?”
“If you're going to make snide comments, go away.” I wave my hand at her before attempting to open a bag of tiny screws. They're probably not small for the little witch, but my fingers aremuch larger than hers. I can span her waist—hell, her hips—with both of mine. My wings quiver with the reminder and I struggle to get my shit together. This was a very bad idea.
“Would you like some help?”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
“You must really hate paperwork if you're willing to put a desk together without me asking,” she says behind the rim of her mug. Her eyes twinkle as she takes a sip.
“I'm missing a meeting as well. Does that help ease your mind?” The tool slips from my grasp as I attempt to fit everything together.
She hums and I work in silence until she clears her throat. “What's the meeting about?”
“Something about the veil thinning. It happens every year. I don't know why they feel the need to gather everyone and talk about it. The instructions don't change. I swear I've been to three thousand meetings and they all say the same thing.”
“Could've been an email, huh?” She laughs lightly, and I glance up at her.
“What's email?”
She shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. “It's like a note.”
When her tongue darts out to lick the bottom one, I tuck my chin to my chest. I really need to get laid. Preferably with someone who doesn't summon me every five seconds. If I sleep with my—thelittle witch, it'll end up being awkward. Unless I gave her another sigil so she could summon some other demon. The thought sends flames licking at my fingertips and I drop the piece of wood I'm holding.
“Shit, are you okay?” Clara rushes toward me, her hands hovering over my skin.
Her shoulder brushes my wing and I jolt. Dimitri won't stop expounding on how much he loves when someone touches hiswings. I am nothing like him. He uses that knowledge against me more often than I'd like. Clara touching me is nothing like him. What does it say about me that a mere skim of her flesh against my wings has my cock hardening? The shadows that make up my wings may be rooted in magic, but they're not as sensitive as my actual skin. I'm sure if they were actual wings, I'd be bending her over the couch and having my way with her.
“I'm fine,” I grunt. “I'm practically made of fire, Clara.” Her name rolls off my tongue with ease.
“Guess they wouldn't be able to burn you at the stake, huh?”
“Was that a joke, little witch?”
She snorts, settling across from me on the floor. “Did you laugh?”
“Touché. You know, there were witches burned at the stake. Just not by humans.”
“Excuse me?”
I shrug, not really wanting to give her a history lesson about her own people. I pick up one of the many tools she was using. Why she'd need a hammer when these are all screws is beyond me.
Clara huffs and rips it from my hands. “Explain.”
“Some witches got out of control. Their heads got a little too far up their asses, and they started dabbling in some shit they shouldn't have.”
She purses her lips, narrowing her eyes. “So, demons…burned them?”
I shrug again, wishing I would have kept my damn mouth shut. “It was necessary.”
“How the hell is that necessary?”
