Page 30 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“Me? Perish the thought!” He takes one step backward but winks at me.

It is unsettling, and yet, the playfulness in his expression and demeanor assures me he is harmless. And with how excited Bethie was to see him, how sweet and amused she is by him, I know I have no cause for alarm.

I follow Vesper toward the door.

I watch her, the way she turns back, the way her hand finds the crown of Bethie’s head and ruffles the little curls. The way she leans in and presses her mouth to her daughter’s cheek, while she seems to have made peace with leaving, though it is not easy.

“Momma loves you so much. Be a good girl for Manny, okay?”

Bethie’s arms extend immediately. The little beastie wraps herself around Vesper’s neck, and Vesper holds her—firmly, briefly, and I observe the full weight of it in the line of her shoulders. In the way her eyes close for exactly one second.

It reminds me of the mother bunny who would not let go.

Bethie releases her and turns back to Manny, tucking her small head against the side of his neck, entirely content with the arrangement.

Vesper straightens and walks through the door without looking back, because she has learned the cost of looking back.

I follow her out into the afternoon.

Behind us, I hear Bethie. Not crying. Not calling after her mother. Just a small, tuneless hum, and Manny’s voice walloping cheerfully about the indoor dance party.

The door closes.

Vesper breathes in the cold afternoon air beside me, shoulders settling, keys in hand.

I walk with her.

13

Vesper

The fitting room at the back of Vesper’s Vessels is technically a curtained alcove that serves triple duty: clothing try-on space, overflow storage for seasonal stock, and, on occasion, an argument corner when my sage supplier calls to tell me my bundles are back-ordered again.

Today it has a fourth function.

I have my back to Valefar as a matter of courtesy, a belated one, while he pulls on the gray knit sweater I found on the shop’s clothing rack. It’s hand-dyed, raw-hemmed. I also found him a pair of wide-leg black slacks. They only needed a little persuasion to button at the waist. The tail was more of a problem…until I begrudgingly took my embroidery scissors to the back of the trousers, mourning the textile sacrifice.

“You can turn around,” he says, amusement in his tone since he had no issues with me watching.

I didn’t tell him it was for both our benefits since I may have been tempted to jump his bones in here if I saw his dick.

I turn and make a camera frame with my fingers, squinting through it like I’m composing a shot.

The black and gray are extraordinary against his bronze skin. He’s standing with his natural, enormous posture, hands loose at his sides, tail threading through the hole I cut with more ease than expected. He looks like an avant-garde editorial, and some very lucky photographer would be insufferably proud of.

“You look amazing,” I say, lowering my hands. “You are—hot.”

He glances down at himself and frowns with genuine concern. “But I am not burning.” He lifts one arm, checking the sleeve. “Am I smoking?”

I press my lips together, emotion cracking in my throat. “No,” I manage. “Hot means attractive. Good-looking. Like crazy good-looking.”

The frown eases. He looks at me instead of himself, which is somehow worse for my composure. Something twists in my stomach. I’ve been ignoring it since the fitting room curtain closed, and I’m not great at ignoring things, so now it rises right to the surface.

I shift my weight, fiddle with my hair, then fold my arms.

He notices. Of course he notices. He takes one step toward me and tips my chin up with two fingers. Not a demand.

“What is wrong?”