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And oddly, she’d thought a lot about Lassiter, the fallen angel.
She was still evil, it was true. Down to her marrow. But as she listlessly contemplated the future ahead, she was coming to the heretical conclusion that she’d had no right to rob him of what had been his due.
There had been a moment, when she’d been fucking him and enjoying the idea she was taking away what mattered most to him because she had been cheated of what had mattered most to her, that his mask of composure had slipped… and the pain in him had shown in his face.
At the time, she’d been so damned satisfied by his show of weakness. So triumphant, the angel’s ruination part of the prize, in addition to her getting her true love.
And now she was here, stewing in an agony that was eternal for her: Because the reality was… no one wanted her. Not really.
’Cuz she was a demon.
Yeah, yeah, boo-hoo and all that bullshit. But the truth was, she hadn’t been asked to be born as she had been, made as she had been… created as she had been. There’d been no consent even contemplated by the Creator when He’d conjured her out of space and time.
And the thing that she was coming to realize was that if He had asked her? She would have begged to be different.
Everything that had gone down with Lassiter was letting her see that now, and that meant, in so many ways, he was as important to her immortal life as Lash was. Kind of ironic, really. That angel was probably living his best life with his female, not thinking of Devina even a little—and dismissing her if she did cross his mind for a brief second. Meanwhile, he was a ghost that constantly stalked her in the shadows, a reminder that her nature was immutable… and what do you know, she didn’t want to be alone with herself any more than anybody else did.
“It’s me… hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” she sang under her breath.
Thanks, T. Swift.
Fucking hell, no wonder she liked retail therapy so much.
On that note, there was just one collection left to deal with.
Throwing off all her damned introspection, she pivoted and regarded her Birkins. Of all the things she owned, the bags were her absolute favorite, her most prized, and she went over to the display of Lucite stands. The boxy purses with their perky handles and their little buckles were in all kinds of colors and different types of leathers, the most exclusive handbags in the world, made by the very best artisans in the world.
And she had so many that she loved so much.
Ultimately, though, it was the ruined one at the top that she loved most. Man, it had been her true pride and joy, that Himalayan. And though it had been burned beyond utility, she still loved it best anyway.
Which was why she had used it for that stupid fucking spell.
But again, there was no reason to retread all that. And no, she wasn’t making yet another promise to move on, get over herself, be independent. She was just going to go along, putting one Louboutin after another, and see what happened.
What wasn’t happening next? She wasn’t bribing anyone to love her. She wasn’t engineering any destiny for herself. And she wasn’t making herself indispensable in the hopes that reliance could take the place of true regard. After Lash had inducted all those women she’d found him?
He’d just waltzed on out with them and left her behind. He hadn’t even looked back.
So yup, she was just packing up her clothes and moving on. Maybe she’d find something to do, or maybe, like so many mortal souls, she’d just wander her days and nights in the shadows of dreams that had never manifested—
The knuckle rap on her door was loud, and she rolled her eyes. Stupid fucking security guards. This was a goddamn storage space as far as they knew. Who the fuck did they think was going to answer.
When the knocking came again, she marched across and yanked open…
… the…
… door.
Out in the hall, dressed in the dark gray suit she’d picked out for him, Lash was standing in the low light of the commercial hallway.
He of course looked beautiful and pathological. Which made her hate him—and in a way, the return to her normal state of rage felt good in a nostalgic sort of fashion. Like a friend had come back for a nice meal.
“What do you want,” she said.
His eyes went down her body and he cocked a brow.
Yes, I’m wearing blue jeans and a fucking sweater, she thought. I’m packing, you asshole.
“What,” she snapped.
As he arched his other aristocratic brow, yes, she did entertain a brief fantasy of shaving both of them off. With a chain saw.
