Page 19 of Eat, Slay, Love

A very large four-poster bed.

The mattress feels like a cloud with a demon trust fund. The sheets are cool and impossibly soft, a whispered slide against my skin when I shift. The room around me is dim and masculine in a curated sort of way—dark wood paneling, heavy navy drapes, a fireplace at the far end with a low marble surround worn smooth at the edges. Books are everywhere, stacked on the mantle, lining built-in shelves, rising in careful, precarious towers on the floor like he ran out of space decades ago yet never stopped acquiring them.

A record player from the seventies rests in the corner beside a milk crate of vinyl and, incongruously, a sleek modern speaker balanced on top. On the nightstand sits a brass alarm clock with glowing red numbers next to a phone charger and a ceramic dish filled with loose coins from currencies that no longer exist.

The clock reads 11:10. Given the darkness outside, I’m going to assume that’s p.m.

My catsuit is draped neatly over a chair.

Alarmed, I look down at myself. I’m wearing a massive, soft, worn-in T-shirt. And nothing else. I lift the hem carefully and inspect my abdomen.

The claw marks are gone, and only faint, pink lines that look like they’ll disappear by morning cross my stomach in a claw-like pattern. I press experimentally, twisting and stretching all my joints. There’s no pain. I feel… great. Suspiciously great.

How long was I out for?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, bracing myself for dizziness or wobbliness, but I’m shockingly steady on my feet. I pad across the room toward my catsuit, force of habit guiding me toward the dagger hidden in the thigh holster due to the unfamiliar territory. While I may not be the best slayer at the moment, I may not be the worst. I did just kill a demon. A powerful one.

But then my magic hums again, not warning or screaming. Calm and aware, like the gentle buzz of a bee. It feels him somewhere in the house. It feels that I am healed, that I am cared for. I stop, and I decide that I don’t need the dagger after all.

I move towards the door instead.

A delightfully rumpled form shoots up from a leather couch in the middle of the room. “Mayari?” Jonah rasps.

“Hi,” I whisper. I fiddle with the hem of my sleeve.

I hear an exhale, a noise of relief, perhaps, that sounds like he’s been holding it for a very long time. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” I say honestly. “Actually… great.” I glance around. “How long was I out?”

Jonah squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “Three days.”

“Three—” I wince. “Yikes. That’s excessive.” I shift my weight. “I’ve never taken that long to heal.”

His expression flickers. “Heal,” he parrots.

“Oh.” I wave a hand vaguely between us. “I should’ve mentioned I’m… similar. Not immortal. But accelerated recovery.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“I’ve been checking your wounds,” he says evenly. “They were closing. I could see the tissue knitting together. The way mine does.”

My hand flies to my stomach, at the wounds he’s been inspecting, above an area that has not been covered by underwear. “Did you like what you saw?” I ask playfully.

His face does not change. “No, Mayari,” he says flatly. “I did not like what I saw.”

I feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. “Well, okay then.” I back away, back towards the safety of my catsuit, suddenly very aware of my bare legs and the fact that I am in a demon’s house at eleven at night and have actually been here, in his bed, for 72 hours, for fuck’s sake! And speaking of which⁠—

“Why didn’t you bring me to a hospital? Why did you bring me here? To your demon lair?”

He buries his face in his hands for a long moment before letting out another aggrandized sigh. Finally, he drags a hand down his face and pushes to his feet. Even rumpled in the middle of the night—barefoot, his hair a curly, disastrous mop, dressed in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants—he’s handsome and imposing. “You must be starving,” he says, entirely ignoring my questions.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. My stomach betrays me with a humiliating growl as I try to inch away.

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. Instead, he moves toward me with purpose. “Stop,” he orders.

I do.