Chapter 6
“So he just… appeared in your living room? Naked? And you decided, ‘Yes, this is boyfriend material’?”
Finn’s friend Jeremy stares at me with undisguised suspicion, beer bottle paused halfway to his lips. We’re at the neighborhood barbecue—an apparent human ritual involving excessive meat consumption, alcoholic beverages, and probing personal questions from near-strangers.
“He didn’t exactly ‘appear,’” Finn explains, shooting me a warning look that clearly communicates ‘stick to the cover story.’ “Morax is an old… internet friend. Who needed a place to stay. And now we’re dating.”
“Uh-huh.” Jeremy’s skepticism is palpable. “And what is it you do again, Morax?”
“I’m a consultant,” I reply smoothly, using the vague profession Finn suggested for situations like this. “Specializing in… conflict resolution.”
“He means he mediates disputes,” Finn adds hastily. “Legally. Through proper channels. With paperwork.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Three weeks into our relationship, and Finn still panics whenever I interact with his friends, convinced I’ll accidentally reveal my demonic nature or threaten someone with eternal torment for cutting in line at the grocery store.
Which I only did ONCE, and the man deserved it.
“And you’re staying with Finn while… consulting… in the area?” Jeremy continues his interrogation.
“Precisely.” I take a deliberate sip of the inferior beer I’ve been nursing for social acceptability. “I find his company… stimulating.”
Finn chokes on his drink, cheeks flushing adorably. I’ve discovered I enjoy making him blush in public with suggestive comments. His reactions are always entertaining.
“Well, you’ve certainly been good for the clinic,” interjects Emma, another of Finn’s friends, joining our conversational circle with a plate of grilled vegetables. “Josie says appointment bookings are up 30% since you started helping out.”
This is actually true, and something I take considerable pride in.
After discovering my natural affinity for organization and intimidation, Finn put me in charge of clinic scheduling and accounts receivable.
Turns out centuries of managing demonic legions translates well to running a veterinary practice, and my “gently menacing” phone manner (Finn’s words) has significantly improved the rate of bill payment.
“The clinic was being taken advantage of,” I state simply. “I merely implemented more efficient systems and encouraged clients to honor their financial obligations.”
“He threatened to haunt their dreams if they didn’t pay their bills,” Finn mutters.
“I did no such thing,” I protest. “I merely implied that failure to compensate you for your services would result in consequences they might find… uncomfortable.”
Emma laughs. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Finn’s been trying to make that clinic work for years. It’s nice to see him finally getting some recognition—and actual payment.”
Finn smiles, his hand finding mine under the table and giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s been a good few weeks,” he admits. “Busy, but good.”
The barbecue continues with typical human social patterns—clusters forming and reforming, conversations about weather (tedious), local politics (even more tedious), and various offspring achievements (exceedingly tedious).
I observe it all with anthropological interest, noting how Finn navigates these interactions with natural ease, genuinely interested in his neighbors’ mundane concerns.
He truly cares about these ordinary humans and their unremarkable lives.
It’s still baffling to me, this capacity for connection Finn possesses.
In Hell, relationships are strategic alliances at best, vicious competitions at worst. Yet here he is, listening intently to an elderly woman’s lengthy description of her grandchild’s soccer game as though it contains vital information.
“You look like you’re plotting someone’s demise,” comes an amused voice beside me.
I turn to find a striking woman with short dark hair and knowing eyes watching me. She extends her hand. “I’m Sylvie. Finn’s ex.”
Ah. The veterinary school girlfriend.
I take her hand, carefully moderating my grip to avoid crushing her bones. “Morax.”
“Just Morax? Like Madonna or Cher?” She seems more amused than intimidated, which is irritating.
“My full name is difficult for people to pronounce correctly,” I reply smoothly.
“I bet.” Her eyes assess me with uncomfortable perceptiveness. “So you and Finn, huh? That was… fast.”
There’s something in her tone I don’t care for—a hint of judgment or perhaps concern. I draw myself up slightly, allowing just a touch of my natural intimidation aura to manifest.
“We have a… profound connection.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure you do. Finn always did have a thing for strays with an edge.”
Before I can formulate an appropriately scathing response that won’t involve actual scorching, Finn appears at my side, a plate of grilled meats in hand.
“Sylvie! You made it!” He gives her a quick, friendly hug that makes something dark and possessive twist in my chest. “I see you’ve met Morax.”
“We were just getting acquainted,” Sylvie confirms, her smile a shade too knowing for my comfort. “Catching up on who’s who in Finn Hughes’ life these days.”
“Morax has been helping me turn the clinic around,” Finn explains with obvious pride. “He’s got an amazing head for business.”
“Among other talents,” I add, deliberately placing my hand on the small of Finn’s back in a clear gesture of claim.
Sylvie’s eyes narrow slightly at the move, but her smile remains in place. “I’m glad to hear it. That clinic has been your dream for so long—you deserve to see it succeed.”
Their conversation shifts to mutual acquaintances and veterinary school memories, each reference to their shared past grating on me like sandpaper. I find myself increasingly tense, wings straining to manifest beneath my carefully chosen button-down shirt.
She touched his arm THREE TIMES in two minutes of conversation.
“Would you excuse us for a moment?” I finally interject, perhaps more abruptly than social norms dictate. “Finn promised to show me the… community garden.”
“I did?” Finn looks confused, then catches my expression. “Oh! Right, the garden. Sylvie, we’ll catch up more later?”
“Count on it,” she replies with a wink that makes me seriously consider the logistics of opening a small portal to the Pit of Despair right under her feet.
I guide Finn away from the gathering, toward a quieter area of the community park where several raised garden beds contain wilting tomato plants and overgrown herbs.
“Everything okay?” he asks once we’re alone. “You seemed a little… intense back there.”
“I don’t care for your ex-mate,” I state bluntly.
Finn blinks, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Are you… jealous? Of Sylvie?”
“Certainly not,” I scoff, offended by the suggestion. “Dukes of Hell do not experience petty human emotions like jealousy.”
“Uh-huh.” His smile widens. “So the temperature drop around us when she hugged me was just a weather anomaly?”
I glare at him. “Your prior relationship with her was significant?”
His expression softens. He steps closer, placing a hand on my chest, right over where my heart would be if I had one in the human anatomical sense. “It was college. We dated for two years, realized we made better friends than partners, and broke up amicably. That was eight years ago.”
“She still harbors affection for you,” I observe, not entirely pacified.
“Sylvie cares about me as a friend,” Finn corrects gently. “The same way I care about her. But that’s all it is now—friendship.”
I study his face, searching for any hint of deception, but find only open honesty. It’s frustrating how terrible he is at lying—a trait I find simultaneously annoying and endearing.
“Besides,” he continues, sliding his hand up to cup my face, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty thoroughly involved with someone else these days. Someone tall, dark, and occasionally terrifying.”
The possessive knot in my chest loosens slightly. “Your taste has improved significantly.”
He laughs, rising on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips. “Dramatically. Now can we please enjoy the rest of this barbecue without you glaring daggers at my ex? Literal or figurative.”
“I make no promises regarding the figurative daggers,” I mutter, but allow him to lead me back toward the gathering.
The rest of the afternoon passes more pleasantly.
I make an effort to be marginally more sociable, even engaging in conversation with several of Finn’s friends who seem determined to “get to know” me.
I provide carefully edited versions of my background, claiming origins in “a very hot climate” and “a family business involving soul collection,” which Finn hurriedly translates as “debt collection.”
By early evening, when we’re walking home, Finn seems pleased with how the day went.
“See? That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” he asks, swinging our linked hands between us—a gesture I initially found childish but now secretly enjoy.
“It was tolerable,” I concede. “Though the food was mediocre and the conversations largely pointless.”
“Yeah, but you made three children cry just by smiling at them, so I’d call that a win for you.”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “The small humans are appropriately responsive to my presence. They have better instincts than their parents.”
Finn laughs, bumping his shoulder against my arm. “They’ll be telling their therapists about you in twenty years.”
“Good. The memory of my visage will ensure they grow up appropriately cautious.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, the evening air pleasant against our skin. These simple moments—just existing alongside him in quiet companionship—have become unexpectedly precious to me.
I never experienced this in Hell. This peaceful contentment.