Page 12 of How Not to Date a Demon

A shiver went up her spine as she listened a moment longer, the cadence of his voice akin to a chant.

Backing away, Maeve tried to stay silent as she shut the door behind her and tiptoed back to the bed.

It seemed colder than ever as she crawled beneath the cover and pulled it up to her chin.

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck—

As her own chant echoed in her mind, she slammed her eyes shut and willed it all to go away.

That didn’t happen, of course, but in the moment, she just needed to believe this was all just a dream and that she would wake up and everything would be normal, and she wouldn’t have all these thoughts about her boyfriend and—

Maeve was asleep before she could even finish the thought.

But not for long, as consciousness swam at the edges of sleep once again by a shuffling in the bed.

She rolled over, coming face-to-face with Galen, who was wiping sleep away.

“I’m twisted like a pretzel over here,” he groaned, and it was only then Maeve felt the warmth against her calf.

Glancing down the length of the bed, she spied three blobs of shadow snoring away peacefully.

“Galen!” she hissed, barely awake. They weren’t supposed to be on the bed, and he knew it!

“What?” The word came out a half whine, half sleepy grumble. “You said keep them from being destructive. Can’t destruct if they’re asleep.”

One’s ear was flopped over his head, and she sighed. “Fine, but only because they’re keeping me warm.”

She didn’t even recall the weird chanting until the next morning, when she’d snuck out of bed to get ready for work. The hottest coffee warmed her throat and soul as she drank it down, preparing to answer phone calls all day in tech support.

Thrilling.

But with caffeine came clarity, and her smile faded as she remembered Galen sitting in the living room, heard the eerie chants, saw the shadows cast by glowing eyes all over again.

Her eye twitched.

Like, what the fuck?

Maeve didn’t even know what to think of it. What sense did it make?

Routine was her coping mechanism, so like always, she sat her mug down to empty the coffee grounds from her brew into the trash. Was Galen just some weirdo, and she’d only recently been able to see it? Surely her glasses weren’t that rose colored, were they?

With a huff, she stepped on the pedal to snap the trash can lid open—and froze.

Galen had taken the trash out last night. So why was there a black shirt in the bin?

Her bullshit meter went off as she pinched the shirt with two fingers and slowly lifted it from the trash. She dumped the coffee grounds and spread the shirt out, looking for the same—

Yep.

Two gashes parallel to each other, inches apart, were ripped into the fabric.

“Why is there another one?” she murmured.

It was another one, right?

Maeve peeled the neck down and eyed the brand, trying to remember if the other shirt was the exact same. But why would he have dug it out of the trash when Maeve had tossed it, only to put it back in? The only way it made sense is if it was a different shirt. With the same tears.

What would tear a shirt in that spot?