Page 35 of Whispers From The Dark

Petra’s eyebrows hit her hairline when she sees the five-figure amount printed on the statement before her. Glancing around, she sees a family on the other side of the fountain, so she keeps her volume low despite her frustration.

“I’ve saved up less than half that amount over the last three years. You’ve got to be joking?” She’s staring at the paper, doing mental math while she looks down the itemized list. “You comped the bottle service?” She’s incredulous, but I’m not remotely surprised.

“I’ll handle it—” I begin inside her mind, but I’m interrupted by Dmitri’s hand shooting out, grabbing Petra by the chin. It takes everything in me to not react, to let her handle this on her own, when his hot, sour breath clouds in front of her face, a noxious fog on a cold winter’s day.

“Listen, I’m not about to let some cheap slut ruin my relationship with Roman Sauveterre. He’s his father’s successor, and I need to stay in his favor. You nearly fucked things up for me big time, Petra. This is me being nice.”

It only takes Petra a moment to compose herself. She slaps his hand away from her chin and moves a step back. She flings the statement at him, but he snatches her wrist in the middle of the motion, gripping it hard.

The sound that escapes her, something between a whimper and a cry, snaps my hard-wrought restraint.

The moment her eyes go black, Dmitri lets go. But it’s too late. Despite her size, the power I pack into her tiny fist is enough to knock him to the ground. His hand covers his left eye, and he’s writhing on the pavement. The child across the fountain lets out a squeal, and the woman shouts to ask Petra if she needs her to call the cops.

“I’ve handled it,” I call out in a singsong voice I’ve heard Petra use before. I smirk, knowing that this feminine body is the one that committed violence against a man, and the stranger knew, instinctively, that he deserved it.

Petra is silent within our shared mind, but I can taste her rage. She’s furious, but I swell with pride, knowing I stood up for her when she needed me.

“You didn’t need to do this,” I say, allowing my voice to boom out of the small woman who stands over Dmitri. “I know exactly how much money is in your bank account after you granted me entrance into your bar. You can afford the hit.”

Spinning on my heel, I reach into Petra’s bag for her phone to call an Uber. I have no intention of waiting for the bus as a crowd gathers around the bloodied man on the ground.

13

PETRA

I don’t say a word as Asmodeus sits us down inside the Uber. I keep my mind as blank as I possibly can. In the moment, my rage and frustration were enough. I hadn’t been able to voice the cause of my emotions, only able to feel them. But now, I have the words, and I don’t know if I can keep them hidden away for much longer.

“I suppose your fury wasn’t with Dmitri, but with me, then?” he asks.

“Look, I…” Hesitation seizes my mind, and I’m suddenly uncertain about how to approach this. Over the past few days, I’ve been reminding myself that he’s a demon and this deal only exists to sate his curiosity, nothing more. I don’t know if⁠—

“It is more,” he says, quiet and soft. A gentle whisper fluttering in my psyche.

“Then why did you leave?” Before he can answer, I find my irritation once more, and it propels me onward. “You made me think there might be more, and then you just disappeared. Then you come back and act like you have the right to interfere with Dmitri? You don’t get to just take over willy-nilly when I don’t handle something the way you think I should.”

“Petra, I⁠—”

“And you know what, I know it’s stupid considering you literally have access to my entire body, but you don’t own me. You don’t own my actions and decisions. But you made me punch my boss. In the face! What if I wanted to work there again after you leave me for good? Because that’s clearly what you do. Leave. You burning that bridge for me almost pisses me off more than you leaving after making…after sleeping with me.”

I almost didn’t correct myself, but I won’t dwell on it now. Because it sure as fuck had felt like making love to me, but is a demon even capable? If anyone could make pleasure feel so fully intertwined with that warm glow of affection that I mistook for love, it would be the godforsaken Prince of Lust.

I’m an idiot. Asmodeus’ silence all but confirms it.

He doesn’t say it, but I feel his apology. The contrition seeps into my mind, and it makes me angrier than I already was. Because I have nothing to be sorry for, and yet his feelings leach into mine, confusing me.

Part of me wants him to leave again, but I remember how the past few days of silence felt, of not knowing where he was or if he was coming back. I don’t want to feel that way again. Left to my own devices, all I could think about was how I’d fucked everything up. How I’d fallen in too deep and ruined every bit of the future I’d imagined for Jack. If Az leaves, if he doesn’t possess me in the manner we’d agreed upon, all of this had been for nothing.

So I want him to stay, but I don’t want to feel his remorse. I don’t want to know he’s there at all—at least for the time being. I want to be my own person for five fucking minutes without fear of losing the life I’m so close to ensuring for Jack.

And with that thought, he’s gone. Or at least, I think he is. The emptiness doesn’t feel the same as it did the other night—echoing and dark and lonely. But I can’t feel him. I have control of my body once more, and I dig through my purse, looking for the old busted compact with the exact right shade of foundation that I stubbornly refuse to throw away. The mirror is cracked, but I search for him in my gaze. Olive green irises look back, and my heart rate skyrockets. Fast and loud in my ears, my heart pumps with fear. Maybe this time, he’s gone for good.

But before I can tip over into panic, my stare flashes obsidian. For only a moment, he’s there. My heart slows down, and I take a deep breath. He’s not gone, he’s just… buried. The relief I feel is visceral, and I tell myself a lie, insisting I’m only comforted because of the deal I’d made on Jack’s behalf.

There’s a crescendo in my mind, the haunting melody of a slow solo movement rising to a loud, orchestral peak. I love him, I think to myself, repeating the phrase until I remember how Eponine’s story ended. Jack is possibly the only thing to stop the same level of self-destruction in me. Unrequited love is a bitch, but I must let these feelings wither. There is no alternative.

I’m climbing the stairs to the apartment, trying really hard not to cry, when my entire body tenses up and I stop, mid-flight. Something is off, and it only takes a moment for me to figure out what it is when our door opens above me.

“Petra paid me already, so it’s really no trouble, Ms. Russo.”