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Thankfully, I don’t sense any danger, so I open her door.
“Thank you,” she says, seeming relieved to be out of the car. “And goodnight.”
“Nope.”
She blinks. “What?”
“I’m walking you up to your front door,” I say bluntly, and she frowns.
I can sense her frustration building. If she were any younger or less controlled, she’d be pouting and stomping her foot at me. As it is, she merely gives me a flat look of annoyance.
You know what else is annoying? Being eaten by a demon five feet from your front door.
Putting a hand on her lower back again, I escort her up the walkway and then up the steps to her second-story apartment. As we approach her unit, I notice that she keeps a small succulent on a doll-sized wrought-iron chair by her front door, with tiny pink plastic ladybugs hidden among the leaves. It’s unexpected and amusing, like everything else about her.
And now I’m romanticizing her fucking decorating choices. Damn it all.
I stand behind her as she unlocks her door. She opens it just a crack, then pans her vision to me out of the corner of her eye. The single word comes out more like a question than a statement.
“Goodnight?”
“Be careful,” I reply and her eyes soften in response, some of the annoyance draining out of them.
I could kiss her now, and I know she’d let me. Her gaze keeps drifting to my mouth. But I manage to hold on to my control and look away from her face, clenching my hands inside my pockets to hide my agitation.
“Thank you for the ride,” she murmurs, then slips inside and closes the door.
I wait right where I am until I hear the deadbolt latch—not that a deadbolt would keep the worst of this city out of her apartment, man or demon. And I don’t know why I give a shit either way.
On the drive home, I work very hard at not giving a shit, but as I pull into my driveway, I find my blood still boiling, my true form itching just under the surface. Inside, I yank my shirt off and head for the stairs. My human guise melts away, freeing my wings to unfurl from my back, my tanned skin darkening to a deep charcoal gray. My fingers flex, birthing talons. I should go to bed, but I know I won’t. The balcony calls to me. Outside, the cool breeze caresses the horns that curve upward from my temples and soothes my skin, which still prickles with the remnants of my protective rage.
With a few long strides and a heavy beat of my wings, I take to the sky. It’s risky, perhaps. An errant human could see me. But there’s a reason I chose L.A. for my homebase. Smog shrouds the sky in mystery, and most likely, anyone who spots me will chalk it up to a drug-induced hallucination or a new movie marketing technique.
Everything and everyone is made to seem like something they aren’t in this city.
I fly fast and hard with no direction in mind, repeating that thought in my head with every down sweep of my wings. Nobody is authentic, not here. Not now. Not even her. She’s pretending to be my personal assistant, pretending she belongs in my space. No, let’s be fair—she’stryingto belong because I forced her there. Terrible decision, in hindsight. One I still have time to rectify.
Except I know I won’t.
My certainty on that point is only reinforced by the realization of where my ”directionless” flying has taken me. I land carefully on the rooftop of the building across the street from Sophia’s, melting into the shadows and scanning her apartment complex. In her unit, I can see Sophia moving around inside, microwaving food and occasionally tapping out something on her phone. She disappears into the bathroom, and my muscles tense as I catch a glimpse of her beginning to tug her shirt off to disrobe for a shower. Then the door closes, obscuring her from my view.
I grit my teeth, annoyed at the instant longing I feel to see her again. That’s not what I came here for. I came to make sure she truly is safe, so I should be watching the outer walls and stairwells anyway. There’s no sign of movement, but that could change without warning.
With all the demon activity in L.A. lately, nowhere is truly safe. I should stay a bit longer to make sure nothing harms her. At least until after she finishes her shower.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I growl as the noise breaks me out of thoughts of Sophia wet and naked, wrapped only in a towel.
“What?” I snap.
“Apologies for interrupting,” Fenriz’s dry voice says in a tone just shy of sarcasm. “There’s a wild animal problem in east L.A.”
“And that’s my problem how?” I demand irritably. He’s interrupting something that suddenly feels more important than any other aspect of my role in the cosmos.
“I would say so. They’re hellhounds.”
I curse under my breath. He could have fucking started with that piece of information.
“Send me the coordinates,” I tell my second. “I’m on my way.”
