Page 70 of Just One Little Bargain

Whatever’s on my face must be more transparent than I’d like, because Evie pauses and looks me over. Whatever she notices, she keeps to herself.

“New toothbrushes are under the sink,” she says. “Take whichever.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“And I’m guessing the commute from Hell doesn’t include a checked bag.”

I almost laugh. “Not standard, no.”

“Hang on.” She’s already limping toward a closet, bad ankle and all. She reappears less than a minute later with a folded stack tucked under her arm. “Lost-and-found bin. Guests leave clothes constantly. These are clean.”

“Evie, you don’t have to—”

“Already done.” She smooths the top of the heap once. “Shower’s all yours.”

I stand there holding clothes and a stack of feelings I’ve got no idea what to do with. There’s no category for someone noticing a problem I couldn’t bring myself to say out loud, then fixing it without making me ask. I’m starting to think Evie does that a lot.

Which is a problem for a demon who’s supposed to take her soul.

Evie moves toward the kitchen, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. My attention catches on her waist, right where I held her.

I’ve been alive for three decades and not once—not fucking once—have I felt this kind of pull toward anyone. This bone-deep need to close the distance. To put my hands back where they were and see if she lets me keep them there.

Chapter 19

Milo

Ishut the door behind me and face the shower with misplaced confidence.

It’s a bath-shower combo. Gleaming white porcelain, a curved rod holding up a fabric curtain covered in tiny botanical prints, and two knobs I’m ninety percent sure control temperature. This is fine; I’ve got this.

In Hell, bathing happens in communal pools carved into volcanic rock, heated by thermal vents until the water hovers somewhere between uncomfortably hot and legitimately dangerous. Privacy doesn’t exist. You wade in with a dozen other demons, ignore the fact that several of them are actively fucking in the corner, and scrub off whatever needs scrubbing before someone decides your personal space is up for debate.

Actively fucking isn’t an exaggeration. Demons aren’t exactly a prudish species. Sex in Hell is recreational, transactional, and about as emotionally significant as a firm handshake. I lost my virginity at a post-quota celebration, to a demoness who forgot my name before we’d even finished, and honestly seemed annoyed I tried to make conversation afterward. The experience lasted roughly seven minutes and left me deeply confused about what all the fuss was about.

So naturally, I turned to human literature for answers. I consumed every romance novel, advice column, and self-help book I could find and built myself a full academic thesis on the gap between demonic rutting and lovemaking. The next time an opportunity presented itself, the difference was notable enough that my partner remembered my name.

I strip down, toss my clothes onto the toilet lid, and step into the tub. The porcelain is freezing against my feet. I brace one hand on the wall and reach for the left knob, twisting it.

Water explodes from the showerhead, ice-cold and brutal enough to punch the air from my lungs. I yelp and grab for the other knob, twisting both simultaneously. The temperature swings violently from freezing to boiling and back again while I wrestle the controls and curse through my teeth.

“Come on, work with me here.”

I twist the knobs until the water finally settles into something tolerable. I tip my head back and let it hit my face and shoulders, tension starting to dissolve. The pressure is strange, pulsing in a way Hell’s pools never did, but it feels incredible.

No one is grunting or watching nearby. It’s just me, hot water, and blessed, beautiful silence.

I could stay here all night.

Bottles line the tub’s edge and I grab the first one, squeezing what seems like a reasonable amount into my palm until far too much splashes out. The air fills with the scent of lavender and chamomile. I’m already working it into my hair before I realize my mistake. Bubbles erupt everywhere, foaming up so fast I can barely see.

I duck under the spray to rinse, and they multiply instead of washing away. I scrub harder and they keep coming, endless and ridiculous, sliding into my eyes and mouth no matter what I do.

“Stop multiplying,” I mutter, raking my fingers through the mess.

It takes an eternity, but the water finally runs clear. I’m gasping, hair flattened to my skull, and exhausted. But there’s still conditioner, body wash, and a whole system I apparently signed up for.

That’s when my brain decides to be helpful and supplies an extremely unhelpful image: Evie in this shower. Naked. Water running over her skin, head tipped back.