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Veraxia’s face on the screen shifts instantly, the bureaucratic rage replaced by a look of narrow-eyed suspicion. “Was that a mortal?” she whisper-shouts. “Malachi, tell me you are in a hotel. Tell me that was a particularly loud chambermaid.”

“You think I'd pay for a hotel that looks like this?” I gesture vaguely at the sagging couch and the floral-on-floral tragedy of the living room. “Come on, Vee, give me some credit. This is 'low-budget domestic' at best. The towels don't even match.”

“So you’re staying with a mortal?” The static on the screen flickers with angry lines of green and purple. “In her actual residence? Have you lost what little remains of your mind?”

“What? She’s my host.” I shrug.

“Please do not tell me she saw you before you were in this shell,” she says, her voice trembling with the kind of dread usually reserved for accidental holy-water spills. “Tell me you didn't expose your true form to a meat-sack.”

“No,” I say, my face a mask of perfect, silver-tongued innocence. “She didn’t see me before I was in the shell. I was very discreet.”

“Listen to me, you arrogant prick,” she whispers. “You have twenty-four hours. That’s it. If you aren't back at your desk by your next shift, I have no choice but to send the Wardens. They’ll tear the door off the hinges, drag you back in chains, and I’ll have to spend a week’s worth of energy performing a total memory wipe on that mortal just to stop her brain from leaking out of her ears.”

I reach out, my fingers curling around the remote. “You won't do shit. You'd have to get out of your chair first. And we both know you haven't seen the sun since the Renaissance. You’re all bark and spreadsheets.”

“Malachi, I am warning you—if you are not through the Veil in twenty-four hours, the girl is collateral, I will⁠—”

“Yeah, yeah. Riveting stuff.” I yawn, my thumb hovering over the power button. “You're starting to sound like a broken record, and frankly, you're ruining the vibe of the room.”

“Don't you dare⁠—”

The screen swallows her face into a single, disappearing dot of white light before going black. I toss the remote onto the cushion and let out a long breath, the silence of the apartment rushing back in to fill the space where her annoying-as-fuck voice had been.

I snatch the stupid romance book from the coffee table and fall back onto the couch, yanking the blanket over myself.

If I’m going to theoretically be hunted, I’m going to do it while catching up on the literary requirements of being a fortress. And I’m certainly not doing it without making sure Eden knows exactly how much of a prick I can be when my grand gestures go unappreciated.

Chapter 22

Eden

“Excuse me,” I mutter as I wait for the water to come to a boil. “I need the milk.”

Malachi lets out a long, theatrical sigh from where he’s leaning against the fridge door, arms folded tight across his chest, staring at the wall with a look of profound, aggressive boredom.

“No,” he says flatly.

“Malachi, I’m serious. I’m tired, I have a headache, and I need tea. Move.”

He continues to stare at a spot on the wall behind me as if he’s trying to set the drywall on fire with his mind.

I plant my hands on my hips. “You're being a child.”

He tilts his head just a fraction, those round, deceptive pupils catching the morning light. “I am being a demon, Eden. I am an entity of the abyss. We are not known for our flexibility.”

Realizing he isn't going to play nice, I step into his space and hip-bump him—hard—and the contact sends an unwanted spark through my flesh that makes me want to scream.

My stolen fluffy socks scuff softly against the linoleum as he finally shuffles away, letting out a dramatic huff. He sags onto a kitchen chair and scoops a reluctant Vesper up into his lap. She lets out a confused meow but doesn't struggle, settling against his chest as if he’s just another piece of furniture.

“At least you like me, huh, House-Beast?” he mutters into her fur. “You’re the only one in this hovel with an ounce of taste. The rest of the inhabitants are... fickle.”

I let out a frustrated groan, wrenching the fridge open to grab the carton of milk. I can practically feel his golden gaze tracking my every move, heavy and expectant, like he's waiting for me to apologize for existing. I splash the milk into my mug, and then I yank open the cutlery drawer with so much force the metal runners screech. I expect the usual rattle of silver alongside it, but there is none.

Empty.

I check the sink, my eyes darting over the drying rack. Nothing. Not even a stray teaspoon.

“Looking for something?” he muses.