Page 26 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

I know enough paganism to know exactly where this is going. “So, Halloween.”

“Samhain,” he confirms.

My stomach drops. Early June. Halloween is nearly five months away. Five months. This isn’t a bizarre week anymore. This isn’t keep the demon alive tonight, figure out how to exorcise him tomorrow. I could have a seven-foot Duke of Hell attached to my life until the damn pumpkins rot.

And some completely inappropriate little part of me does not hate that nearly as much as it should.

“We can continue trying before then,” he adds. “But Samhain would offer the greatest possibility of success.”

“And until then?”

His gaze finally meets mine. “I remove myself from your dwelling.”

My stomach clenches. “How?”

“As far as this tether permits. Somewhere away from you. Away from the little beastie. If I am what this creature was hunting, distance may draw its attention with me.”

“You mean walk away until this thing starts hurting you?”

“If necessary.”

“No.”

“Vesper—”

“Not a chance.” I stand.

He watches me. I’ll give him that, his attention trained all on me. There is something there. I won’t acknowledge it right now because if I do, I will absolutely fall apart, and I do not have time for that.

“First,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel, “if I allow you to stay, it’s my responsibility. My house. My summons. My call.” I tick it on my fingers. “Second, we don’t know anything yet. Nothing is confirmed. That man could have been a tourist with a badly-behaved dog.” I almost believe that. I don’t stop. “Third, there are options. Protection sigils. Spells. Binding wards on the threshold. I’m a pagan, Vale, and there is no end to how much I can test or how far I’m willing to go to make this work.” Full-metal pagan now.

He opens his mouth.

“I’m not finished.”

He closes it.

I know this is insane. I know I don’t owe him anything—if we’re keeping score, the ledger runs the other way. I opened my home to him. I didn’t leave him to pain. My summons pulled him out of an execution. I know Bethie is my ultimate priority. I know that I sound desperate, a little panicked, and completely unhinged for a woman who is arguing to keep a demon in her bedroom.

I know all of this. I still meet him head-on.

His jaw is iron. There is a hellbent certainty in his features, like he has survived long enough to know when to cut his losses. And I am holding my breath, wondering if he’ll choose to walk out of this house and go back to hell as if nothing ever happened between us.

But too much has happened. Even if it’s just been a day.

A ripple of it moves through me without permission: the warmth of him reading to Bethie on the couch, her small hand fisting his arm. His voice in my kitchen, slow and careful: Would you like me to torture them? The way he had pressed his lips to my forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world and he’d been doing it for years. How he taught Bethie the word “precious.” How she patted the book, and something in his face had cracked open.

And how he conquered, in his adorable way, her normal tendency to throw food on the floor.

My fists are white-knuckled at my sides. I don’t want to lose him. If he can have this much impact in one day, what will it be like in a week? Two weeks? A month?

It’s a stupid thought for a Tuesday. I have it anyway.

The stalemate holds. His jaw set, my chin up, neither of us blinking. And then, between one breath and the next, his shoulders drop a fraction. His tail lifts, just slightly.

“If you command me to stay, Mistress,” he says, low, “I will. But on one condition.”

My fists begin to loosen. My fingers tremble.