Page 14 of Eat, Slay, Love

A corner of his mouth lifts as if my sudden unease is amusing. It emphasizes that right dimple, and with a jolt, I realize why it’s so notable—it’s a hint of human asymmetry on what is otherwise a supernaturally symmetrical face. “I have a mix. I can sense other demons, and I can read humans’ souls. I’m abnormally strong and fast. I’m also harder to kill than the average person.” He pauses. “But I’m not immortal. I heal quickly, but I still feel pain.”

I tilt my head, remembering. “You bleed.”

He nods—and then reaches for the hem of his sweatshirt.

My mouth goes dry as he lifts it, taking the t-shirt underneath with it, revealing smooth skin and defined muscle that have absolutely nothing to do with the conversation. “You’re stripping because…?”

“Like what you see, Nightmare?”

“N—” I start automatically, then stop. My shoulders drop a fraction when I mutter an admission. “Yes.”

It’s been a while. A whole week! I’m not blind. And like I said, slayers only have one thing in common with demons.

He grins, delighted. “Relax. I’m showing you my arm.” He tugs one sleeve down and pulls his arm free, and I almost resent the way his t-shirt falls back into place.

Massive cloth bandages wrap around his bicep and his forearm. They’re both stained through, the middle damp with reddish-brown.

I wince despite myself. “You’re still bleeding.”

“You did real damage,” he says, and there’s something dangerously close to admiration in his tone.

I lift my chin, trying to recover some dignity. “Not my best work.”

Warm, intent eyes travel across my face, slow enough that my magic tingles everywhere they pass. He’s reading me. “No,” he says slowly. “I think that was your best work.”

I blink at him, not about to out myself as the world’s worst demon slayer.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth, the heat of him through the air between us. My magic vibrates, restless and curious now, instead of erratic.

“And that,” he continues softly, “might be why I don’t feel the urge to feed from you.”

My pulse stutters.

“I should,” he says, gaze dipping briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “Standing this close, I should feel something. Hunger. Instinct. The pull.” His voice lowers another shade. “But I don’t.”

My grip tightens on the dagger, though I’m no longer sure whether it’s defense or something else entirely.

“You don’t have rot in you, Mayari,” he says, like it’s a discovery. Like it surprises him. Almost like it pleases him. “At least, not the kind that calls to me.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “And what kind calls to you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His mouth curves slowly. “The kind that tastes like cruelty,” he says. “Not…” His gaze flicks over me again, unhurried. “This. This is different,” he says, almost to himself.

The silence between us stretches, thick and charged. There is no more air in this room, and I’m acutely aware of the pulse pounding in my neck, the flush creeping up my chest. Of the dark, satisfied smile of a predator that’s just identified its prey.

“That’s very convenient for you,” I say, though my voice comes out a little strangled.

“For both of us,” he replies.

Am I thralled again? What is a thrall, anyway?

“There’s another rather inconvenient demonic biological trait I’ve inherited,” Jonah continues, his eyes still studying my face. Dipping down to my neck, flashing—annoyed—at the high collar of my catsuit. “Something else that I’m hungry for, all the time.”

I squeak.

He beams, toothy and feral, at the noise. He licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, and I track the movement of his tongue. “Like what you see, Slayer?”

The word hits me like cold water.