Chapter 16 #2
“I’m not judging.” He pulls one from the shelf, and examines the cover which features a shirtless man clutching a windswept woman against a stormy backdrop. “Interesting research material.”
“That one’s actually quite good. The protagonist is a marine biologist who discovers that the mysterious reclusive millionaire buying the land next to her research station is actually a selkie.”
“A selkie.”
“A seal shapeshifter.”
“I know what a selkie is.” He’s grinning now, that infuriating, delighted grin. “I’m just surprised to learn that my practical, disciplined dance instructor reads paranormal romance novels.”
“They’re popular for a reason.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“The market research shows—”
“Isadora.” He steps closer, still holding the book. “I’m not making fun of you. I think it’s charming.”
“I’m not trying to be charming.”
“I know. That’s what makes it charming.”
We’re standing very close now. Close enough that I can see the faint sparks of red in his eyes—not his demon form emerging, just the subtle tell I’d noticed and dismissed so many times before.
“Dinner,” I say, stepping back. “I made pasta.”
“Pasta sounds wonderful.”
The meal is simple—garlic bread, a green salad, penne with homemade marinara sauce. Nothing fancy. I’m not trying to impress him.
Liar, whispers a voice in my head. I spent two hours on that sauce.
Mal eats like a man who’s been alive for centuries and learned to appreciate every meal. He compliments the food sincerely, asks about the recipe, tells me about a trattoria in Florence where he once spent three months learning Italian cuisine from a woman who turned out to be a witch.
“A witch?”
“A hedge witch. Minor powers but an excellent cook.” He tears a piece of garlic bread. “I still use her tomato sauce recipe.”
“Do you miss them? The people you’ve known?”
He considers the question seriously. “Some. There was a poet in Vienna. A shipwright in Rotterdam. A teacher in Morocco who helped me learn Arabic calligraphy.”
“You speak Arabic?”
“Among other languages. I’ve had a lot of time to learn.” He meets my eyes. “I miss them sometimes. The ones who saw me clearly. There weren’t many.”
The ones who knew what he was, I realize. The ones who didn’t run.
“And now?”
“Now there’s you.”
The words hang in the air between us.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say quietly. “I mean—unless you do something unforgivable, like criticize my teaching methods or step on my feet during the showcase.”
He laughs. “Duly noted.”
We finish dinner and clean up together in a comfortable rhythm that already feels practiced even though it’s only the second time we’ve done this. A domestic choreography that requires no instruction.
When the last dish is put away, he turns to me.
“I should probably go.”
“Probably.”
“It’s getting late.”
“It is.”
“And you have an early class tomorrow.”
“Seven AM. Seniors’ stretch and sway.”
He nods and takes a step toward the door, then stops.
“Unless...”
I know what he’s going to say. I know what he’s offering.
“Stay,” I say before he can finish. “I’m not suggesting... Just stay. Tonight.”
His expression softens. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want you to leave. The rest...” I shrug, trying for casual and probably landing somewhere around desperately vulnerable. “We can figure out the rest.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.” He takes my hand, his fingers warm and steady. “I’ll stay.”
Mal emerges from the bathroom in a pair of sweatpants I’d inherited from a long ago college boyfriend and kept because they’d been worn impossibly soft.
His chest is bare because I couldn’t find a shirt that would fit him, and I’m trying very hard not to stare at the impressive muscles and the way the lamplight catches the planes of his torso.
My bed is a queen which is just barely large enough for two, especially when one of those two is over six feet of chaos demon.
He sits on the edge of the bed, then lies back carefully, as if he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
The mattress dips under his weight. We’re both staring at the ceiling.
“This is strange,” I admit.
“Very strange.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Shared a bed?”
“Shared a bed without...” I gesture vaguely. “You know.”
“Ah.” He turns his head to look at me. “Is it disappointing?”
Yes and no. What happened on the couch had been amazing and part of me desperately wants to repeat it. But the other part of me...
“It feels...” I search for the right word. “Significant.”
“Significant how?”
“I don’t know. It just feels like we’re crossing a threshold. Not a physical one. An emotional one.” I turn to face him, tucking my hands under my pillow. “Does that make sense?”
“More than you know.” His voice is soft in the darkness. “I’ve been alive for more than three centuries, Isadora. I’ve experienced... a great deal. But I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve shared a bed with someone without an ulterior motive.”
“Ulterior motive?”
“Sex. Manipulation. Gathering intelligence. Waiting for my target to fall asleep so I could search their belongings.” He grimaces. “I wasn’t always a nice person, especially when I was obeying Azrael’s orders.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m lying in your bed because you asked me to stay, and all I want is to be here. No agenda. No plan.” His hand finds mine under the covers. “Just... here.”
Our fingers interlock. His palm is warm against mine.
“Tell me something,” I say. “Something true.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“I’m terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of you. Of how much I care about the outcome.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “The contract has dominated my existence for three centuries. It’s been my purpose, my obsession, my reason for everything. And now...”
“Now?”
“Now I’m not sure I care whether I break it. Not if it means losing you.”
The admission hangs in the air, fragile and enormous.
“You won’t lose me.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know I’m choosing to be here. Right now. That’s what I know.” I squeeze his hand. “The rest we’ll figure out.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts closer, and I feel the heat of his body along my side, the gentle pressure of his head against my shoulder.
“I haven’t slept beside anyone in decades,” he murmurs. “I may have forgotten how.”
“It’s easy. You just... close your eyes. Stop thinking.”
“The stopping thinking part is challenging.”
“Tell me about it.”
A soft laugh vibrates against my skin. “We’re both terrible at this, aren’t we?”
“Completely terrible.”
“Good. I’d hate to be the only one.”
Silence settles over us, comfortable and warm.
His breathing slows, evens out. I listen to it, letting the rhythm anchor me.
Right now, all that matters is the demon in my bed, his hand in mine, his breath soft against my shoulder.
Two people who have no business being together, choosing each other anyway.
I close my eyes and let sleep pull me under.