Page 43 of Demons Dig Donuts

Indy watched him lean in and parted his lips expectantly, pulse thumping wildly. Yes, they were going to kiss. A big hell yes to potential elevator sex. That was what Indy needed, a damn good lay, hot and messy, and then he—

The elevator doors opened.

It was a waiting room.

Simple, plain, boring.

A few depressing paintings of landscapes did little to liven up the place—really quite the opposite—and Indy was sure he’d been in dentists’ offices with more personality than this. The only thing remotely interesting was the giant set of doors beside the receptionist desk.

Sitting at said desk was a cute redheaded man whose jaw was on the floor as he stared at the two of them.

Mr. Heiss released Indy and stood up straight, clearing his throat. “Marcus.”

Marcus, the redhead, bobbled his head. “Mr. Heiss, sir! Hello, sir.”

Mr. Heiss walked out of the elevator. “Is everyone ready?”

Indy followed, wondering if his face was as flushed as it felt. He swore they’d been about to kiss, but it was more likely Mr. Heiss had timed it to mess with him again.

Stupid handsome asshole.

Indy glanced at Marcus but didn’t linger. He wasn’t human, but that was to be expected.

Werewolf, judging by the glow in Indy’s nails.

“Yes! No!” Marcus cringed. “The twins are late. But, uh, you know they’ll probably be in there, uh, soon. I think. I…” He wrung his hands and stared at Indy.

“Don’t look at me,” Indy drawled. “I will be no help when it comes to this walking bag of dicks. Oh!” He grinned. “Speaking of dicks, did you know that Mr. Heiss has—”

“Quiet.” Mr. Heiss snapped his fingers.

Indy grunted as an invisible grip seized his waist, pulling him along as Mr. Heiss stalked toward the big doors. They opened at his approach, and he went right in, dragging Indy with him into the next room.

It was big, round, and was built from black stone from the ceiling to the floor. Dominating the space was a large circular table with five fancy high-back chairs around it. There were dozens of shelves overflowing with books, scrolls, and parchments, which immediately seemed like a fire hazard given the singular source of light came from flaming sconces mounted on the walls.

Its fantastical decor was a stark contrast to the modern waiting room just outside, though the occupants certainly seemed right at home.

After all, they were monsters.

Indy immediately recognized Louis Morénas-Mostro, looking scrumptious and brooding as ever, with his lovely bronze skin perfectly moisturized, thick dark hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, and giant, bulging body crammed into a blue pinstripe suit.

Jesus, he was hot.

And he wasn’t alone.

There was a white woman in a cute rockabilly getup hovering over his shoulder, and a hulking dog monster lay curled up on the floor behind him. The dog must have gotten too close to one of the sconces because part of him seemed to be actively burning.

He didn’t seem to mind though.

So, there was that.

The chair directly facing the door was larger than the rest, and there sat Q. Mostro.

The Q.

The head of the Mostro family.

Indy had certainly heard of him but never had the pleasure of meeting him. Seeing him there and knowing what he was—what he really was—was oddly surreal.