Page 10

Chapter 4

Eden

Ilet out a low, miserable groan and press the heel of my palm to my forehead, as if sheer pressure might coax my brain back into alignment.

Last night was… I don’t even know what it was.

It wasn’t the worst night of my life—I have an impressive backlog to compare it to—but it was definitely the strangest. So strange it already feels slippery in my mind, dissolving at the edges the harder I try to remember it. Which is surely a good sign, right?

Hopefully it just means that it really was exhaustion and grief finally hitting their breaking point. The pinnacle of everything I’ve been shoving down for so long, erupting out into one night of irrational, borderline feral behavior that led to a deeply horrific night terror.

A heavy weight settles onto my abdomen, followed by a familiar purr. I crack my eyes open, squinting against the aggressive morning light spilling through the window as Vesper stares at me, her yellow eyes blinking slowly. She stretches, claws kneading into my me before she settles back down into a warm loaf on my chest.

“Good morning to you, too,” I croak, a wave of profound relief washing over me as I reach up to bury a hand in her fur.

She’s fine. She’s perfect. Nothing happened to her. More proof it was all just some big nervous breakdown.

I take a long, shaky breath, ready to get up and start the first day of my recovery from this temporary insanity, when a soft clink drifts out from the kitchen. My head whips toward the sound, a pang of panic fluttering beneath my ribs. I hold my breath, hoping to God it was just a plate slipping in the sink. But then it happens again, this time alongside the distinct click from the toaster, and my insides turn to pudding.

No.

No, no, no.

I lift Vesper off me and stand, yesterday’s clothes twisted sideways, strands of sleep-damp hair sticking to my face.

I creep toward the kitchen doorway, and as I round the corner, the air vanishes from my lungs.

He’s there. The silver-skinned, horned, pointed-eared nightmare from last night is standing in my kitchen, looking disturbingly comfortable. He turns to face me slowly, his pupils narrowing into needle-thin slits against the golden glow of his irises.

“Good morning, little summoner,” he says, raising a charcoal-black, smoking piece of toast in greeting. “And good morning, House-Beast.”

I look down to where Vesper’s weaving a figure-eight between my ankles, her tail flicking happily. Even my cat’s been recruited as a traitor to my sanity.

“I fed the House-Beast for you, by the way,” he adds. “It enjoys me now. Spent most of the night attached to my hip. Sweet—if not annoying.”

“You’re still here,” I whisper in disbelief.

He takes a bite of the burnt toast and winces slightly. “Where else would I be?”

God, I’m gonna puke.

“I did try to wash out that dreadful tea,” he says around a mouthful, gesturing vaguely toward the dining chair where his shirt and tie hang, dripping steadily onto the floor. “But your washing machine had… opinions. So I let it cool off, borrowed this instead. What do you think?”

My brow furrows. “W—what?”

“This!” He gestures down his body with the half-eaten toast. “What. Do. You. Think?”

My gaze follows.

Oh, fuck me.

He’s wearing my vest. More specifically, my white, spaghetti strap vest, with a big pink butterfly printed across the front of it. The hem, which usually sits around my hips, is stretched indecently halfway up his ribcage, exposing a very, very visible line of abdominal definition that no hallucination should include.

“I found this little number in your laundry pile,” he says nonchalantly, looking down at the pink, glittery wings before dragging his eyes over me as if he’s comparing the way the fabric stretches over his chest to the way it would hang off mine. “Not my usual style, but I make the damned thing look sinful. Don’t you think?”

He pauses, his golden eyes tracking my stunned silence with a smug sort of satisfaction.

“It’s a bit tight under the arms, but the color is doing wonders for my complexion.” The spaghetti straps groan against his shoulders as he shoves the rest of the toast into his mouth and does a slow, graceful twirl right in front of the microwave.