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17

PARTYING WITH DEMONS

Hell is hot—not like fire and brimstone hot, more like a muggy summer in Florida. Even in my bodysuit, sweat clings to me, soaking through my long, brown tendrils of hair. Although it’s late at night, the sky still looks that same shade of ethereal red. The only difference is I can see starlight peeking through.

Still dressed in his leather biking gear, Daemon walks behind me on the cobbled street, his hand pressed firmly—possessively—against my lower back. This part of the kingdom is mostly deserted, and a fine layer of red and pink-tinged sand dusts everything, sticking to my bare feet. When I’m certain we’re alone, I whisper, “Shouldn’t you be in your demon form?”

“That’s racist to assume I have one.”

Oh God, I’ve insulted him. Every demon here is red and winged. I just assumed—

Daemon chuckles. “Stop spiraling, Annie. I’m giving you shit. Of course I have one.”

“Then why aren’t you—”

“Because I thought it might make you uncomfortable.”

My heart does this little flip-flop thing, and I fight the urge to turn back and look at him. The last thing I need is to draw attention to us. “Won’t we be more likely to get caught if someone recognizes you in your human form and guesses who I am?”

“Maybe,” he admits. “But there are other half-demons. It’ll probably be fine.”

Probably.

I can hear the hesitation in his voice, and can’t help but wonder if his demon form is truly so bad he’s afraid to let me see it. Is he deformed? Does he have a weird face? Suddenly, I need to know what it looks like. The curiosity is eating me alive.

“We shouldn’t take any added risks,” I tell him. And it’s true. Even if I didn’t want to see him with horns and claws—which I do—the smartest thing for us is to blend in as best we can. If I have to wear this ridiculous bodysuit, then he can surely swallow his pride and let me see the other half of him. The part he’s somehow managed to keep hidden for thirteen years.

Daemon must realize I’m right because he sighs. Behind me, bones snap and crunch. Enormous wings whoosh open, casting a twelve-foot shadow across the cobbled alleyway and a nearby building. I can feel him grow taller, looming over me like some kind of ancient god. Not deformed. Terrifying.

Long and twisted horns peek from his shadow. Against my back, Daemon’s palm ripples and expands, claws growing in the place of fingernails, their sharp points grazing into my soft skin. My flight or fight mode kicks in, and all the muscles in my body tense, the hairs on my neck standing on end. It’s everything I can do not to jump or jerk away from him.

I didn’t know what I was asking for, and now it’s too late to take it back.

Those black claws slink to my hip and dig in, stopping me in my tracks. “Annie, it’s alright. You—” A demon exits a nearby skyscraper, and Daemon’s tone changes. His voice is deeper now. More animalistic. “Keep going. You’ll stop when I tell you to.”

I obey. I don’t have a choice. And even though I know it’s just an act, adrenaline surges through my veins, terror making my breathing hitch. Daemon and the new guy exchange sentences in Infernal, but I’m too frazzled to try to translate it even though I know almost enough words to be conversational. The two chuckle, and Daemon slaps my ass, and suddenly I remember how not-dressed I am.

My face grows very hot, and it has nothing to do with the temperature outside.

Daemon. I bite my tongue, staring at the leather cuff that hides my wrist tattoo. A golden circle is attached to it that I just know is used for some kind of kinky bondage thing. I want to look back at him. I want him to reassure me that everything is going to be okay. But the demon keeps following us, keeps chatting with him, and deep down I know even if I could look back, I probably shouldn’t. If Daemon’s shadow is terrifying, what does his actual body look like?

I suppose I’ll know soon enough.

We pass by at least a dozen skyscrapers before we reach the shortest one. It’s deep maroon, with red stained-glass windows. On the metal front door is a raised symbol written in Infernal—a glyph that only allows incubi to open it. It seems Hell is just as exclusionary as Earth.

Daemon’s companion—if that’s the right word for it—opens the door for me, while Daemon nudges me through. Music blares. Darkness and chilly air greet me, and my nipples tighten into points so stiff they ache. On instinct, my fingers reach up to cover them, but I stop myself before I can, stepping deeper into the club, past at least a dozen red-winged male demons. They don’t part for me, but they don’t crowd me either. As they take me in, I squirm under the scrutiny and clench my thighs together.

More words are exchanged in Infernal. More demons laugh. This time, Daemon’s clawed, red hand snakes around to my breast. He rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and I moan, which garners even more laughter. Still, he doesn’t stop. He keeps rubbing me as he talks with them, and soon my thighs are a slick mess, the leather strap soaked through where it covers me.

I know I need to look the demons in the eyes for the stone to work, but I can’t. Not when they’re watching me like this. Not when Daemon keeps teasing me in front of them. He pinches hard and I squeal. “You’re so fucking sexy when you make that sound,” he growls. “Isn’t she?” he asks the others. And they nod in agreement. “Maybe I should pinch harder? You’d like that, right?”

I shake my head, even as I say the words I know he expects from me—the words the demons need to hear. “Yes, Sir.” My voice is a low whisper.

Daemon pinches again, harder this time, and I yelp so loudly it can be heard above the music’s thudding bass. Tears spring to my eyes, the pain razor-sharp as he pinches me again and again. My hips squirm, my traitorous body actually enjoying this, and my God, I don’t want Daemon to see. I don’t want him to know how fucking wet I am right now.

Abruptly, his hand drops. He speaks more in Infernal before waving the men away and pushing me deeper into the club. Before I pass by, I force myself to look at every one of them, staring into their dark red eyes. The stone doesn’t vibrate. It remains as lifeless as ever.

As we walk, the club’s dance floor comes into view. It’s open and large—the size of a warehouse. The floor is made of polished wood. Up above, strobe lights flash, illuminating hundreds of male demons and their human pets. They dance and grind on each other, downing shot glasses, waving bright and colorful glowsticks in the air. Neon pink. Lime green. Orange. The colors blur together as they swirl.