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His red eyes sparkle, so dark they almost look black. He grabs the gas pump and shoves it into his tank. “Or maybe you’d rather I feed in front of you. Would you like to watch me fuck some pretty blonde girl against the wall?”
That was… descriptive.
I don’t answer, and Daemon scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”
We finish refueling in tense silence, and I try very, very hard not to think about him feeding on some stranger. As Daemon returns to the bike, I start to pull on my helmet, but he stops me. Placing his hands over mine, he pins my arms and the helmet in place, then stares at me. His expression is unreadable.
“Do you think I enjoy it, Annie? I have to fuck people to survive, even when I don’t want to, even when the idea is so repulsive to me—” He swallows, cutting himself off. “I didn’t choose to be this, and I don’t appreciate your judgment for it.”
“I don’t judge—”
“You’ve spent your whole life judging me,” he says. “You think I’m a player who enjoys screwing around—and maybe sometimes I do—but it’s not a conscious choice I get to make.”
He lets go of me, and the helmet plops onto my head. I open my mouth to say something—though I’m not sure what—but I never get the chance. Before I can so much as blink, we’re peeling out of the gas station and on the open road once more.
Wrapping my arms around Daemon, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time. And if I have been, I have no idea how to square that circle.
16
GOOD GIRL
Daemon’s house is pitch black when we arrive—no porch lights either. There are no cars on the street or parked in the driveway, and I can’t help but sigh in relief when I realize I won’t have to interact with his mother. Our shoes scrape against the paved sidewalk as we approach the otherwise silent front yard.
“We’ll be alone all night,” Daemon says, confirming what I’ve already guessed. Keys jingle as he fishes them out of his pocket and shoves them in the entry. “The Septem is meeting to discuss what to do with me.”
I blink up at him. “What do you mean?”
Daemon shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” But I keep pressing him and eventually, he relents. “Even if my innocence is proven, I’m a liability for them. My going into enemy spaces has always threatened the treaty, but now…”
I swallow. This is my fault.
“Will they kick you out? Can they? You’re a demon.”
“I don’t know,” Daemon admits, pushing the door open. We step into darkness, but it’s short-lived. Daemon snaps his fingers, and a nearby fireplace erupts into a bright orange glow, casting flickering shadows across the walls. “They could petition Salios for my removal from Earth. If I’m banished to Hell, the only time I could cross the barrier is if you command it, and the only tasks I’ll be able to perform are the ones you explicitly demand. That means I—and by proxy the Septem—can’t be framed for anything else.”
Banishment. “But that isn’t fair—”
“Life isn’t fair, Annie.”
“What happens if I don’t complete my baptism?” I ask. “I’ll be dead in eighty years, and then what? You’ll just be trapped down there? Forever?”
“That’s the idea. But if I’m trapped down there, at least I’ll be trapped with you.”
“Unless I’m with Salios instead,” I whisper.
Daemon levels me with a heated stare. “That isn’t going to happen. I won’t let it.”
God, I want to believe him, even though the alternative isn’t much better. In either scenario, I’m still somebody’s prisoner, and my soul still belongs to someone else. Not for the first time in my life, I consider asking Daemon why he wants my soul, why he’s never returned it despite us being friends. But I decide against it; we have a mission tonight, and if we’re fighting, we won’t be able to accomplish it.
Maybe I’ll bring it up tomorrow.
Or never.
After all, I’m a master at avoidance.
Daemon takes my hand in his and threads our fingers together. As he pulls me through the living room and into the basement, wood smoke is replaced with thick floral incense. Blue walls and high ceilings become red and tented. In the middle of Daemon’s enormous bed is a black clothing box with a shimmering golden ribbon on top. I look at it, then look at myself, still dressed in Christopher’s shirt and a pair of ratty jeans.
It’s not exactly clubbing material.
