Page 39 of When I Accidentally Summoned a Demon

“Apparently not.”

I lean against the wall, arms crossed. Because it’s far too much fun to watch his reactions to everything. I don’t know if I’ll ever get bored by it…or tired of him.

He falls quiet for about ninety seconds. Then the Beast throws his first tantrum, and Valefar’s brows come down like a storm front. He hisses, “This male has taken her captive.”

“He has,” I acknowledge.

“He also shouts considerably when he has no right to!”

“He does.”

“And why does he not listen to her or the household?”

I lift my mug and sip my coffee. “Remember when I mentioned the miscommunication trope? It’s kind of standard when it comes to fairy tales.”

“It is a hostage arrangement with musical numbers.”

I choke on a laugh.

Bethie switches brushes as if she’s a surgeon changing instruments and starts on the right horn in green, which will be incredible with the purple. Valefar tilts obligingly to give her the angle.

He does not stop watching the screen. He watches through the library, and the snowball fight, and the ballroom, and by the time the last petal falls he has gone very still, studying in that intimate way he does. I’ve made it to the couch by now. Bethie has moved on to her shape-sorter ball, wishing she could convince the purple triangle that it belongs in the star-shaped hole.

Then the light comes. The Beast rises off the balcony. The transformation happens. Valefar’s jaw sets. “I do not trust this conclusion.”

“What conclusion?”

“She fell in love with the Beast.” His gaze stays on the television. “Then they remove the Beast and present her with a prince she does not recognize.”

I blink at him. “She knew,” I say softly.

“That seems insufficient.”

And there it is. The thing under the thing. I set my coffee on the end table.

He turns toward me then. Purple on one horn, green on the other, a bath towel around his enormous shoulders, and the most careful expression I have ever seen on a face designed by Hell to be terrifying.

Valefar tilts his head. “Would you still like me if I did not have horns or a tail?”

I freeze, throwing him an incredulous look. “Of course I would,” I tell him but can’t help but lean forward and whisper in his ear, “But I really would miss the tail.”

The tail in question curls smugly around my ankle.

“Noted,” he says.

And that’s when someone knocks on my front door. Nobody knocks on my front door at nine-thirty on a Saturday. I get up, cross to the window, and pull the curtain back one inch.

“Fuck.”

My mother’s Buick is in the driveway.

“Fu—” Bethie begins, delighted while banging the plastic shapes against the ball.

I go shock white—but recover quickly. “Nope. Nope. Fun. Mommy said fun.” I’m already moving. “Vale.”

He is on his feet before I finish saying his name. Seven feet of him, unfolding out of a cross-legged position like a drawbridge going up.

“Horns,” I hiss. “Tail. Everything.”