Page 57

Fuck it.

I slide my hand down my chest, my palm closing around the hot length of it. I let out a breath that’s half-growl, half-sigh. But as I start a slow, experimental stroke, a wave of genuine revulsion curls in my chest.

It feels like I’m jerking someone else off.

I’m centuries old, of course I’ve done that before—but this is different. This is my consciousness driving a stolen vehicle, and trying to find the manual for the steering wheel. Every time my thumb brushes the head, I’m hyper-aware of the fact that the nerves are mine, but also really aren't. They’re a biological interface. A simulation. It feels like I’m crossing some unspoken line of demonic dignity. I'm a Torture Administrator, for fuck's sake. I shouldn't be reduced to manual labor on a couch.

But the ache is persistent, and it’s drowning out any semblance of logic.

I close my eyes, trying to superimpose Eden’s face over the darkness behind my eyelids as the memory of her pussy and her sweet sweet gasps fills my mind, until I can practically taste her wetness again.

My pace picks up, teeth grinding together as the silver piercing bolted into the head clicks rhythmically against my knuckles. My breath hitches as I catch a bead of precum with my thumb, wiping it slowly across the sensitive ridge of the head—okay, oh fuck, that isn’t too bad.

A heavy coil of heat begins to unspool at the base of my spine, radiating outward until my toes curl into the couch cushions.

I lean lean into the rhythm, my head falling back against the upholstery, biting into my other fist to stop myself from moaning, my mind a chaotic loop of Eden’s thighs, Eden’s pussy, Eden’s hands⁠—

“Are you masturbating?!”

My eyelids snap open, head whipping toward the hallway—nothing. No one. The air is still, the House-Beast is nowhere to be seen, and the bedroom door is still firmly shut.

A sharp, dry cough echoes through the room.

I look over to the TV, my pulse still thundering in my ears, to see the screen flickering into a sickening, static-heavy violet. Veraxia is staring at me, her face filling the high-definition display, her expression one of pure revulsion.

“Fuck's sake,” I hiss, tucking the cock back into the shorts with an undignified shove. Then I sit up slowly, rolling my neck until the vertebrae pop.

Well it was mildly fun while it fucking lasted.

“Veraxia,” I deadpan. “To what do I owe the displeasure this time? I’m busy.”

“I can see that,” she says, her lip curling in a way that suggests she’d like to audit my entire soul. “You weren’t in your office today. Or the day before.”

“Astute as ever,” I drawl, leaning back and trying to project a cavalier boredom I don't entirely feel with a semi-hard bratwurst still throbbing in my pants. “Your grasp of the calendar remains unparalleled.”

“You are masturbating in the mortal realm, Malachi,” she sneers, eyes narrowing as they take in the rumpled state of my borrowed clothes. “Is this your idea of fun? Is this why you’ve abandoned your station? To masturbate on a piece of polyester furniture?”

I let out a long groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Cut to the chase before I decide to see if this remote control works on your forehead.”

“Petulant brat,” she hisses, her voice rippling with a familiar, weary condescension that makes my skin crawl. “I was out for dinner last night, under the impression that I’d finally intercepted your little runaway job, when I heard something very interesting over my drinks. Do you know what it was?”

I pick a piece of cat hair off the cushion, feigning a deep interest in the fabric. “I don't know. That the brimstone harvest is down? That Satan’s finally divorcing her fifteenth husband? “

“I heard whispers of a Harvester from the Twelfth Division going missing,” she snaps “Specifically the one who reported your little 'vacation' to me. But I thought to myself: No. Surely, Malachi isn't that stupid. He’s already neck-deep in the shit; he wouldn't draw that kind of heat to himself. And yet,” she snarls, leaning in until her distorted face fills all fifty inches of the screen, “the second I tracked that Harvester’s essence, the trail bled straight back to you. The Twelfth has already flagged him as a lost asset. The only reason a Recovery Team isn't tearing through the Veil to find that shell is because I’ve manually rerouted the Harvester's location to a dead-zone server in the Sixth Division.”

I let out a mocking hum, tilting my head. “Oh, so not only have I got you riding my ass, but you’ve turned me into a tech-support ticket, too?”

“What is wrong with you?!” she snaps.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I mutter. “He was Vermin-Class, Veraxia. I’ve done the Twelfth a favor by getting rid of a pest who added zero value to the collective.”

“It doesn't matter if he was vermin-class! As much as I enjoy watching those bugs get their skulls squished when they wander into our halls, you cannot kill them on the mortal plane. It leaves a footprint, Malachi. A messy, bleeding footprint that leads right to a demon who’s on illegal leave from his job.”

“Malachi, shut up for fuck's sake!” Eden’s voice hammers from the hallway. “The dating show contestants can’t hear your life advice! Turn the volume down or I’m throwing the TV out the window!”

I tilt my head back and bellow toward the hallway. “My deepest apologies, baby girl! I’ll stop arguing with the desperate female who clearly has no self-respect! Carry on with your weeping!”

The sound of her bedroom door slamming shut is so violent the framed picture of the House-Beast on the wall actually tilts.