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Swallowing my pride, I stick out my tongue and lick his fingers clean, shuddering at the taste. He pets my head like a dog. “Good girl.”
And then Daemon whirls me around again. “Isn’t she a good girl?” he asks the crowd, and they clap for me, the sound echoing throughout the lounge. My mortification knows no bounds. Face burning, Daemon grips my chin and forces me to look at every single person in the room—never once breaking character.
The stone never buzzes.
But that toy between my legs does.
I whimper when he finally lets go of me and tugs the toy free. All the blood rushes there in a painful gush, and I can only imagine how swollen I am.
“My other cock is a bit disappointed,” he admits. It’s clearly still erect, leaking precum from the tip. By now, I’ve scanned everyone here and none of them are the incubi who murdered Martha; I’m sure of it. There’s no reason to stay onstage anymore, and we both know it. “But I think my sweet pet here has had enough. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Sir.” And God, if it isn’t the truth. Every part of me aches. Daemon strokes my hair again and plants a gentle kiss on my forehead before snapping his fingers. All the locks click free, then vanish, and my traitorous muscles fail me. I collapse onto the table, moaning in pain.
No one snickers like last time.
And a moment later, I realize why.
I can’t open my eyes. I can’t even move. In the back of my mind, I hear Daemon curse, I feel him heft me over his shoulder just like the redhead. Then, nothing.
24
WALK OF SHAME
“You fed on my daughter, and you brought her here?” Dad’s voice is an angry hiss.
Dad?
That can’t be right. We’re supposed to be in Hell still, going through the rest of the club. As is, we’re only halfway done and running out of time.
I try to open my eyes, but can’t. It’s like they’ve been welded shut. God, why am I hurting everywhere?
“You’re the only light witch who likes me,” Daemon says.
“Liked you,” Dad clarifies. “That was before you brought my daughter to me dressed like that, barely able to move.” I feel him rather than see him kneel beside me. I’m on a cold, hard-tiled floor, but Dad’s hands are warm on my shoulders. “Annie?”
I can’t open my mouth to answer him. Each rise and fall of my chest is heavy, like there’s a cat lying on top of it. My lips throb—both sets of them—but I can’t bring myself to feel mortified about it. Maybe after a long nap.
“Annie?” Dad calls again, and I force out a groan.
If we’re not investigating the club anymore, why can’t they let me rest?
“You would have been better to send for Christopher,” Dad says. “The angels like him more, and healing magic requires channeling directly from them. Raphael isn’t known for that.”
“Try anyway,” Daemon hisses. “We’re not bringing her boyfriend into this.”
“Because you’re afraid he’ll punch you in the face?”
“Because I’m afraid he’ll leave Annie,” Daemon says. “Hearing about what we’re doing and seeing it are two very different things, and I don’t want to put her in that position right now. Not when she’s already like this.”
Dad whispers something—I think a curse in the Angelic tongue—then mutters, “You better hope Raphael likes me today.” He presses his fingers to my temples and begins chanting. A soft, featherlight vibration travels through my skull, and suddenly, that pressure on my chest wanes. My lips go from throbbing, to burning, to a gentle tingle that almost feels nice.
Then, my eyes flutter open.
For the first time, I’m fully aware of where I am—Dad’s accounting office—and what I’m wearing. Or rather, what I’m not wearing. I’m topless, braless, and covered only by the thin harem pants I left Daemon’s house in. Worse, I’m still wearing the cuffs. The collar.
God, I could die of shame.
I scramble to cover my breasts with my hands, relieved to find I can move them again. Scooting backward, I scurry out of Dad’s arms and up against the nearest wall instead. As if Daemon too is just realizing what I’m wearing, he shrugs his suit jacket off and drapes it over me, shielding whatever modesty I have left—which is exactly none.
