Page 59 of Demon Food

I resisted the urge to reach down and take the heavy metal in my hands, just to smooth my thumbs over the cold links. But if I did that, then I’d also be tempted to pull.

No, I would be good. I would do neither, strolling toward the window with my hands in my pockets—not listening as I passed by the door.

He cleared his throat and I stopped, my eyes cutting to the door.

Well, what could a little bit of listening honestly hurt? I’d not done it in at least twenty minutes, so this was my reward for good behavior.

My eyes rolled shut as I paused by the door, tuning into his sounds once more. It didn’t take long to drown out the world and focus only on him and his movements as they waxed into the forefront of my mind like a stampede of quickly approaching horses.

His beating heart hit me first, and I had to pull back on my senses to hear less. The rustling of his body against the chaise lounge came next, and all I could picture was black velvet against milky skin.

I shot my cock a warning look at its excitement over that visual. Then I drew closer toward the door, because who the fuck was I kidding? I’d be here for an hour. Might as well settle in.

I gingerly rested a shoulder against the door, crossing my ankles and letting my head drop as I listened to whatever he was doing. Sitting. Lying down perhaps. Sucking on his lower lip. Turning a page.

My forehead creased. Wait, turning a page?

After a minute or two, another page turned. He was reading. There wasn’t anything in there to read, was there? Oh, how desperately I wanted to project myself through this door just to see him, but this blistering wound in my side would not appreciate the exertion that would take.

Gods, being intentionally kept away from him was even more torturous than being around him.

I closed my eyes again. What are you reading, darling? What did you find? Come out here and show it to me. Come out here and let me see you.

Then he whispered, “Oc-oce-ocean.”

My eyes shot open. I stared into space, waiting.

“Oce-ean,” he whispered again. “Ocean. Swim-ming in an ocean.”

Swimming in an ocean, huh? It felt a little like licking up a breadcrumb left behind. It was nothing and yet everything. What about swimming in an ocean, my love?

“The b-best part about sw-wimming in an oc-oce-ocean so full of life, is how…” He trailed off for a beat. Then he said, “Shit. Don’t know that one.”

I narrowed my gaze. He didn’t know the word he read?

“Oh,” he said, his tone brighter. “E-asy. How easy it is to, uh. Hmph. Oh, to d-dream.”

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that I didn’t own any books that were written in Novithish. They were all in Vultaen. How the hell was he reading anything?

“Dreams of b-ig and little,” he continued, painfully slow, fighting with each word. “Dreams of s-sand and w-wash.”

My eyes rounded. It was familiar. No, more than familiar. I recognized that exact sentence.

Dreams of big and little. Dreams of sand and wash. It was from a book called The Fisherman and the Swill. It was one of my favorite stories about a fisherman who slowly and poetically turned into a sea creature. I’d probably read it ten times.

“Dreams of big and little,” he whispered. “Dreams of sand and w-wash.”

Holy shit. He could read Vultaen.

“Each day, every wave⁠—”

“Delivers a new dream,” I whispered at the same time he said, “Deli-verss a n-new dream.”

A soft smile overtook my face. Oh, how intriguing. Could he speak it, too? The consequences for learning any form of Vultaen were so severe that I’d never met a human who would dare.

But here he was. Daring, indeed.

“What a little fox you are.” I traced a finger down the woodgrain of the door like it was the length of his spine, biting my lower lip as I smiled. “What other secrets are you hiding⁠—?”