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I scramble to the far end of the couch, my back hitting the armrest as I hastily wipe the drool from my chin and cheek with the back of my hand.

I slept on the demon. I slept on the demon. Oh my God, I snuggled a demon.

“If you decide you don’t want to return to your job after your little hiatus, you could always take up a career as a human faucet,” Malachi drawls, not moving an inch. “You’ve hydrated my entire sternum.”

He’s just lounging there, looking annoyingly comfortable, with Vesper tucked into the crook of his neck like he’s her favorite heating pad. Traitor cat. I’m shaking from a heat that has nothing to do with the morning sun, my face burning with a brand of embarrassment that should be fatal.

“I... it was an accident. I was tired,” I manage to croak out.

“The soul cannot fight what the flesh craves, Eden,” he murmurs, the words dripping with drama. “Your body simply recognized the dark magnetism of my own and surrendered to the inevitable heat.”

The words are so wildly out of pocket that my brain just stops. I blink at him, my jaw hanging open. “Pardon?”

“I’m workshopping,” he says, finally cutting his golden eyes toward me. He holds up a book—my book—with the shirtless guy on the cover and the spine I’ve broken from too many re-reads. “Shattered Desires? Really? The title alone is a cry for help.”

“Why do you have that?” I bluster.

“Research, baby girl,” he says, flipping a page. “I have questions, actually. For instance: why does this protagonist refer to his cock as ‘velvet wrapped steel’? That sounds structurally unsound. Is it a medical condition? Should I be concerned for him?”

“It’s fiction! Give it to me!” I lunge for it, my fingers catching the edge of the cover, but he lifts his arm, holding it mockingly out of reach.

“I’m trying to learn!” he protests, a dark glint of mischief in his golden eyes. “You were the one who told me to read a romance book. You said it was better than the porn. You said women preferred this.”

“No! Jesus Christ, Malachi, just give it back!” I’m practically crawling over him now, trying to snatch it back, my face flushing a furious shade of red.

“What have I told you about speaking that miscreant’s name in my presence?” he growls.

I freeze, my hand still outstretched, my chest inches from his. Vesper doesn’t seem to care about the blasphemy; she just stretches, letting out a soft, vibrating purr as she readjusts her weight against his side.

The chaos of the moment dies down, settling into something much quieter. Being this close to him is confusing, to say the least. My heart’s still hammering, but it’s shifted from the frantic beat of embarrassment to a low thrum that makes my skin feel sensitive, almost electric. I can see the fine lines of his throat and the way his golden eyes aren’t just bright, but deep—like looking into a furnace.

For a split second, I’m not thinking about the book or the drool or the fact that he’s a literal monster. I’m just thinking about the way he smells and how solid he feels under my hands.

Then, as quickly as the tension flared, he breaks it, tossing the book onto the coffee table with a dry thud.

“Sit still,” he commands.

Before I can protest, he reaches out and presses his palm flat against my forehead. He holds it there for a few seconds, his eyes searching mine with a terrifyingly focused intensity.

“Your temperature is down,” he notes, his thumb grazing the arch of my eyebrow. “You’re less... radiator-like. The antiseptic is winning the war against your poor choices.”

Then he reaches lower, taking my injured wrist in his hand. He’s surprisingly gentle—his touch firm but careful. He peels back the edge of the bandage to check the wound, his silver fingers moving with a practiced, steady grace that makes my breath catch in my throat.

One minute he’s mocking my trashy taste in books, and the next, he’s handling my hurt skin like it’s the most important thing in the room.

“It’s closing,” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the steri-strips that cross over the red line. “Clean. Less rot.”

He looks up, and for a second, the sarcasm is gone, replaced by a look that’s far too perceptive. “Try to keep it that way. I’d hate to have to listen to you whine about gangrene.”

I could choke on the tension with how thick it is in the air. For a heartbeat, I think he might lean in—or that I might let him. My skin is prickling, my heart is racing, and I’m hyper-aware of how close our mouths are.

What the fuck is going on?

Is this some kind of residual effect of the Veil’s coating? Am I so far gone, so broken by grief and the sheer exhaustion of the last few days, that I’m actually finding myself drawn to the lips of the entity that’s currently wearing my laundry?

Perhaps the delirium and shock of the last few days have acted as a catalyst, and I’ve developed a full-blown case of summoning-induced Stockholm Syndrome because I’m too tired for any other defense mechanism.

Then, he wrinkles his nose, and—thank God—the momentary spell of madness shatters. He drops my arm as if it’s turned into a piece of rotten fruit and leans back, the clinical focus replaced by a look of genuine, high-velocity judgment.