Chapter 3 #4
Hunter stared at the sleeping hearth and didn’t answer.
Dorian’s gaze sharpened. “Hunter.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to be there, alright? One second, I was keeping my distance like a good little demon, the next–boom. In her dream. Fully realized. No control or cues.”
Dorian tilted his head. “And what was she dreaming, this innocent summoner of my best Devil?”
Hunter coughed. “She was just chilling.”
Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “Hunter,” he repeated, and the warning was loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it or play around it.
“Alright. Okay. She was dressed, um... not much dressed.” Hunter winced. “Almost naked.”
Dorian blinked slowly. “Pardon me?”
“She was wearing something, though,” Hunter said quickly. “Technically. Lace. I think. Not much lace. Just enough to make bad decisions look very right.”
Dorian stood and poured himself a drink. Still offered him nothing.
Fine.
“And what did this ‘lace situation’ lead to?”
Hunter slumped into the couch, hoping it absorbed his shame. “Heavy petting.”
“The indignity of irritation,” Dorian said lowly, then he turned around and sat back on the armchair, rolling the liquor in the glass.
“You’re a thousand-year-old demoniac intelligence with top-level status in the Dreamverse, and you just used the phrase heavy petting like a sixteen-year-old at prom. ”
“I panicked.”
“No, you lusted, and now you’re panicking.”
Hunter looked up, need still simmering under his bones. “It wasn’t like that.”
Dorian sipped his drink, tasting it thoroughly. “It never is, until it is. Did you cross the line?”
“I was snatched off before it went too far.” Hunter ran both hands on his face and through his hair. “It wasn’t just that. I don’t know. Whatever’s buried in her, it’s... leaking. It’s the best way I have to describe what happened. But neither of us had control over it.”
A long silence passed. And then, without sarcasm, without snark, Dorian said, “Stay with her.”
Hunter blinked. “What?”
“Stay close. Whatever version of proximity you can manage.”
Dorian stood, crossed to the window, and stared out, arms folded.
His voice was quiet, but it held a power older than time.
“And stay ready. At this point, everything is unmapped. I will look into this, but meanwhile, for hers and the Dreamverse’s safety, you need to be close if something really is surfacing. ”
“Yes, because I was such a game changer this time around.”
“I can take over if you want.”
“No,” Hunter all but screamed. The word, so excessively strong, was out before he had any control over it. Losing it was happening way too often lately.
Dorian raised a jet-black eyebrow, studying him but saying nothing.
Hunter stood and paced around a little. Staying still wasn’t possible right now. “Alright. Alright, I’ll stay close. Me.”
“Suit yourself.” Dorian headed to the bedroom. “And Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
“Best of luck, mate.”
“For the case?”
There was a stretch of silence that gave Hunter a pang of anxiety, then Dorian shrugged. “Let’s say yes.”
And he disappeared in the bedroom.
Well, that was new. Dorian never went, mate, ever. And luck with a case? It was not about luck, and they both knew it.
He sighed, reached for the glass of Scotch Dorian had left on the little table, and drained it.
Fine.
~*~
She was off. Way off.
Daphne had shelved three books in the wrong section. Three. She’d placed How to Pickle Anything under ancient mythology, and A Beginner’s Guide to Lichdom in gardening. Those sections weren’t even close to each other.
And for the love of sweet heaven, why was she checking the clock like some tragic character in a Hallmark knockoff? It was mortifying.
She should punch him again. Just on principle because obviously, it was his fault. Somehow, some way, he’d hijacked her dreams and turned them from terrifying to... God help her... hot. Scald-your-soul hot.
He’d felt so real under her hands. He’d been all heat and muscle, heavy weight and hard edges.
Her body had reacted like it knew him, needed him.
Her nipples had gone traitorous as she’d pressed against him, wanting him with something way too close to desperation.
And the man. Demon. Whatever he was, he was packed.
Which was not surprising and deeply infuriating.
And okay, she hadn’t been on top of a man for a while. A long while. Still, there was enough technology out there to get satisfaction all by herself, so it wasn’t like she was starved. And yet here she was. Starving.
Damn him all the way to hell.
When he finally waltzed through the library doors at nearly lunchtime, Daphne was ready to chew his damn head off and mount it on the “Quiet Zone” sign.
All megawatt smile, easy swagger, and charm potent enough to derail sound judgment, he had the audacity to stroll in like he had no care in the world.
Hell no.
“Daphne,” he drawled, leaning casually on the main desk like sin incarnate.
“Hunter.” She’d wanted her tone to be flat. It came out as murderous. Whatever.
“How are you doing on this sunny winter day?”
I want to peel those stupid clothes off, throw you on this desk, and ride you till closing time.
She couldn’t say that, obviously, which only irritated her more.
“It’s the week before Christmas. The kids are out of school.
I’m busy.” Her voice was clipped, her hands moving with deliberate efficiency over the stack of returns.
He watched her for a beat too long. Then swallowed, as if choking on a question he hated to ask. “Are you okay?”
No. And it’s your fault, you smug bastard. Instead, she reached for the first half-truth that wouldn’t involve sexual confessions or emotional vulnerability. “Didn’t sleep well.”
Something flickered across his expression. Hot. Dark. Hungry. If stares could devour, she’d be a memory. And part of her, some overheating part, would’ve let him.
But he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
And again, she was caught between wanting to smack him and kiss his impossibly beautiful lips to see if they compared to the dream. She kept her eyes down, busying herself with scanning books. “Being nearly mugged might do that to you.”
That snapped him out of whatever slow-burn hell he was in. His shoulders straightened; his focus sharpened. “Right. Right, of course. So... may I take you to lunch? Help take your mind off... things?”
No.
Yes.
Damn him.
If only she could put last night’s dream aside and look him in the eyes. But no. All she could think was his fingers in her, his mouth hungry and demanding.
“I assume you eat,” he said, voice tipping toward the devilish again, all honey and midnight. “Might as well eat with me.”
She arched a brow. “Since when do demons eat?”
“I can’t speak for the others, but this one does. Enthusiastically.” He leaned in closer, and the smell of him was intoxicating enough that her pulse stumbled. “Come on, Daphne. Have lunch with me. Unless you’re afraid my charm might slip past those iron gates of yours.”
“Really? You think challenging me is going to work?”
“I guess we’re about to find out, aren’t we?”
She huffed out a laugh. “You’re an asshole.”
“My, my, Miss Daphne, such language. Is that allowed in these sacred halls of knowledge?”
“When warranted.” But despite herself, she smiled. Begrudgingly. Damn him again. “Alright, demon. I’m off in thirty.”
~*~
Lunch became more. So much more. So often.
Somewhere between his smug grins and their second Christmas movie marathon, where he insisted Die Hard was festive canon and she refused to back down from White Christmas, something shifted.
It wasn’t sudden, but slow, like sugar dissolving in cold tea. Unseen, but unmistakably there.
They talked. A lot. Sometimes curled on her worn couch under mismatched blankets. Sometimes, while shelving books, side by side like old coworkers who’d finally realized they liked each other. Possibly.
He told her about the cabin he kept in the Norwegian wilderness.
Tiny, remote, and surrounded by snow so thick it buried the world into silence.
How he’d bought it decades ago because the aurora reminded him that some things in the universe were still beautiful and unpredictable in a good way.
He said he’d like to show it to her someday, and to that, she had had no comeback. Because wanting to see it was enticing.
She told him about the library.
Not the usual interview answer, but the real one.
Sort of. How she chose the job because she needed the peace, the order, and the predictability.
Which was all one hundred percent true. She didn’t mention the rest, though.
Not how books had saved her as a kid, when the walls of her house were too loud and too cruel.
Not how she’d learned that in a story, you could control the ending.
Rewrite the script and walk away whole. How it gave her hope one day she would.
How working here wasn’t just about loving books, but about guarding the door for others who needed an escape too.
She didn’t tell him that. And he didn’t press for more.
Just like she didn’t ask what he was holding back. Because there was something, some hesitation behind the charm, some truth coiled under the surface. She felt it like a prickle along her nerves, but she wasn’t ready to pry yet.
If she could have her secrets, he could keep his.
Up to a point.
She would find out eventually, as she always did.
For now, what she knew was enough to wade through that first wave of dizzying curiosity.
That early phase where every new story, every offhand comment, every too-long look felt like discovering something precious about a person you actually, unexpectedly, enjoy.
They hadn’t even kissed.
Like everything Hunter, it was a clashing mix of maddening relief.
The demon could control himself. For all his charm, for all the smirks and perfectly delivered innuendos, Hunter had never pushed.
Not once. Not even when she baited him, tested him.
Not even when the air between them grew so thick with tension she could practically bite it.
They were two fighters circling each other in the ring, except they were arguing about Christmas movie rankings and pretending their souls weren’t buzzing every time they got too close.
No kiss. Barely a touch. Just heat, unsaid things, and the unbearable weight of almost.
So, really, it was perfectly reasonable to ask him to spend Christmas with her.
Totally normal. Just two people cooking, eating, watching another movie.
Chilling. And who knew, maybe there’d be a Christmas miracle.
One where she finally felt safe enough to close the distance and kiss him.
Heavens knew she wanted to. And because the way he looked at her sometimes, like she was both a puzzle and a promise, made her believe he was just waiting for her to say the word.