Page 59 of Just One Little Bargain

“And what did you determine?”

That you’re more dangerous than anything with horns has a right to be. That having you take care of me is making it very hard to think about soul contracts, supernatural deadlines, and all the reasons I should be terrified. Instead, I keep noticing the exact shape of your mouth and wondering if your lower lip is as soft as it looks.

“Moderate,” I say.

Milo’s cheeks go pink, the color spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. I follow its path with embarrassing focus.

“Am I doing something wrong?” His thumb stills against my ankle. “I can stop if you want.”

“No.” I answer too fast and far too honestly, so I overcorrect by staring at the refrigerator magnets arranged in careful rows on the freezer door. “You’re fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” My heart flutters erratically in my chest.

“For the record, you’re in my compartment, too.” His fingers shift, and the callused pad of his index finger brushes the sensitive skin on my leg.

I look down at him, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What compartment?”

“The one I don’t have a label for yet.” His gaze lifts to mine. “But it takes up the most space. It’s taking up the whole filing cabinet, honestly, and becoming a storage problem.”

“You need a bigger cabinet.”

“I need a warehouse.” Apparently, this is the practical takeaway. Not the fact that I’ve colonized an unreasonable amount of real estate inside whatever passes for a demon’s emotional infrastructure.

That irritating little rush is enough to switch the analytical part of my brain back on.

He can’t lie. But he told me himself that demons bend truth, twist wording, and imply things that aren’t accurate. He also demonstrated that he can influence objects into doing what he wants through pure persuasion. What if every soft word, earnest look, and perfectly timed vulnerability is just the demon equivalent of turning an ignition without keys?

“What are you going to do when I kick you out?” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Where do you go?”

His brow creases. “Nowhere.”

“Nowhere meaning . . .”

“Meaning nowhere, Evie. There’s no secondary location.” He gives a small shrug. “I slept on a park bench last night.”

Horror creeps up my spine. “Outside?”

“Sleep is generous. More like . . . horizontal waiting.” His attempt at humor does little to mask the harsh reality of his situation.

I wait for the guilt to come. It gathers at the edges with that familiar undertow of responsibility, the one that drags me toward every problem within a ten-mile radius. But suspicion is louder now, sitting right behind my teeth, and I swallow both.

He’s a demon.

And he’s here because I accidentally summoned him.

His comfort isn’t my concern.

“Then I suggest you find a better bench.” I pull my foot from his grip. “You should go.”

He sits back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs, and regards me with a steadiness that makes my skin itch.

“Where, exactly?”

“Anywhere that isn’t my kitchen.”

He nods. His fingers find the zipper of his jacket and start worrying it between his thumb and forefinger.