Chapter 3
“This is ridiculous,” I growl, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on Finn’s closet door. “I look like a corporate accountant.”
Finn suppresses a smile, adjusting the collar of the button-down shirt he’s convinced me to wear. “You look like a normal human being, which is the point. We can’t have you scaring off my clients with the whole seven-foot demon lord aesthetic.”
“The clothes are constricting,” I complain, tugging at the dark gray button-down shirt and black slacks. “And unnecessary. I could simply manifest the appearance of clothing.”
“Real clothes look more convincing,” Finn insists, standing back to survey his work. “Besides, we had to cut slits in the back for when your wings… do that thing.”
“That thing” refers to my wings occasionally manifesting when I’m not concentrating, particularly when emotional. It happened yesterday when Josie dropped a stack of metal bowls in the clinic, startling me into a defensive posture, wings bursting through the back of my shirt.
A completely reasonable reaction that Finn DIDN’T need to laugh about for ten minutes straight.
It’s been one week since my transformation, and adjusting to human daily life has been… challenging. Finn introduced me to his assistant Josie as “an old friend staying with me for a while,” a deception she accepted with only minimal suspicion.
“Remember, you’re just helping out around the clinic today. Basic stuff. Cleaning cages, restocking supplies, maybe holding the occasional calm animal,” Finn instructs, checking his watch. “Nothing complicated.”
“I commanded thirty legions in Hell,” I remind him stiffly. “I believe I can manage to refill water bowls.”
Finn grins, patting my shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Just try not to terrify anyone—animal or human.”
As we head downstairs to the clinic, I find myself increasingly preoccupied with an unexpected dilemma: I don’t want to leave.
The realization has been building over the past week.
I should be focusing on returning to Hell, reclaiming my position, planning revenge against Valefar.
Instead, I’m… distracted. By Finn. By his ridiculous kindness, his absurd jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how passionately he cares for even the most insignificant creatures.
I’m not developing… feelings. That would be preposterous. I’m a Duke of Hell. We don’t have feelings.
And yet…
“Earth to Morax,” Finn waves a hand in front of my face. “You okay? You were scowling more intensely than usual.”
“I’m contemplating the various ways I could dismember Valefar when I return to Hell,” I lie smoothly.
“Right. Very demonic of you.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Come on, we open in ten minutes.”
The clinic day starts slowly—a few routine check-ups, vaccinations for a litter of puppies (disgustingly adorable creatures that kept trying to lick my hands), and a geriatric cat with kidney issues.
I observe Finn’s interactions with his clients, noting how he shifts his approach for each person—more technical with the knowledgeable pet owners, simpler explanations for the nervous first-timers, gentle firmness with the difficult ones.
“You’re good at this,” I observe during a brief lull, restocking the cotton balls in exam room one.
“At what? Veterinary medicine?”
“At… people,” I clarify awkwardly. “Understanding what they need.”
Finn looks surprised by the compliment. “Thanks. I guess I just try to listen more than I talk.”
“A rare quality in humans,” I note. “Most mortal souls I’ve encountered talked incessantly, especially when pleading for mercy.”
“And there’s the demonic perspective I’ve come to expect,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Remind me not to ask about your previous job.”
Before I can respond, the front door bursts open, and a frantic young woman rushes in carrying something wrapped in a bloodied towel.
“Please help! I found him on the road—someone hit him and didn’t stop!”
Finn immediately shifts into professional mode, taking the bundle and quickly examining the small, bloodied creature inside—a young raccoon, badly injured.
“Josie, prep the surgical suite,” he orders. “Morax, I need an extra set of hands. Now.”
I follow him to the back room, where he gently transfers the unconscious raccoon to an examination table. “He’s got multiple fractures, internal bleeding. We need to move fast.”
For the next hour, I assist as Finn works to save the small creature—holding instruments, passing supplies, keeping the animal stabilized while he repairs the damage.
His hands move with practiced precision, his focus absolute.
There’s something almost… magical about watching him work, this mortal with no supernatural powers somehow fighting death with nothing but skill and determination.
It’s oddly… impressive.
When the surgery is complete and the raccoon stabilized, Finn finally steps back, pulling off his gloves with a heavy sigh.
“He’ll make it, I think. Thanks for your help.”
“I merely followed instructions,” I reply, uncomfortable with his gratitude.
“You were calm under pressure. Not everyone can handle emergency situations.” He smiles tiredly. “For someone who claims to have no interest in ‘lesser creatures,’ you showed remarkable gentleness.”
I scoff, looking away. “Precision was required. It wasn’t gentleness.”
Finn just gives me that knowing look I’ve come to find both irritating and… something else I can’t quite identify.
After closing the clinic, we retreat upstairs. Finn orders something called “pizza” for dinner—a circular food item covered in melted cheese and various toppings that he insists is “essential human cuisine.”
“So,” he says between bites, “are we going to talk about it?”
I raise an eyebrow. “About what?”
“About the fact that it’s been a week, no sign of your demon enemy, and you haven’t mentioned going back to Hell once.”
I carefully set down my slice of pizza, considering my response. The truth is, I’ve been deliberately avoiding the subject. The thought of returning to Hell, to the endless politics and power struggles, no longer holds the appeal it once did.
Because of him. Because nothing in Hell is as interesting as watching Finn Hughes save a raccoon’s life or laugh at his own terrible jokes or fall asleep on the couch with his veterinary journals.
“I’m being strategic,” I finally say. “Valefar will be watching the typical entry points to Hell. Better to remain here until he believes I’ve given up.”
Finn nods slowly, clearly not buying my explanation. “Uh-huh. And how long does that usually take? This strategic waiting period?”
“Difficult to say. Demons are patient creatures.”
“Right.” He takes another bite of pizza, studying me. “You know, it’s okay if you just want to stay for a while. You don’t need an excuse.”
I bristle at the suggestion. “I don’t make excuses. I am Morax, Duke of—”
“—Hell, Commander of Thirty Legions, yeah, I know.” Finn finishes with a grin. “You mention it approximately twelve times a day.”
“I do not—” I start to protest, then catch the teasing look in his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”
“Just a little.” His smile softens. “Look, I’m just saying… you can stay. If you want to. No demon politics required.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. Stay. He wants me to stay.
This is dangerous. Attachment to a mortal is beneath me.
And yet…
“I’ll consider it,” I reply, striving for indifference despite the strange flutter in my chest.
Finn seems satisfied with that response, turning the conversation to plans for the raccoon’s recovery.
But later that night, as he sleeps peacefully in his bed (I’ve taken to sleeping on the couch, despite his offers to “figure out sleeping arrangements”), I find myself watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, listening to his soft breathing.
This is not what I expected when I was cursed.
I expected to break free, exact revenge, and return triumphantly to Hell. Instead, I’m contemplating extended time on Earth, working in an animal clinic, all because of one unusually kind human with laughing eyes and gentle hands.
I need to do something about these… feelings.
The next morning, I make a decision. If I’m experiencing this unprecedented attraction to Finn, I should approach it as I would any other conquest. Strategically. Deliberately.
I need to court him. Properly. As befits a Duke of Hell.