Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Annie
Ispent the next nineteen and a half minutes in a state of dumbfounded domesticity, feeding the cat, and washing my face in his bathroom.
It was black marble, mirrors cut to angles so you could see every possible version of yourself.
Samiel, I realized, lived under a barrage of reflection, undistracted by vanity.
Then I just sat on the velvet couch, legs tucked under me, Fluoxetine purring like a little generator against my calf. Samiel disappeared for a few minutes, then returned in a crisp black T-shirt and jeans, looking every bit the suburban demon dad.
He hovered in the kitchen, refilling a glass of water for me and then, in a show of nervous energy, slicing oranges into perfect, identical segments as if expecting a yacht party rather than a government check-in.
I watched him, resisting the urge to go full sitcom wife and wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face in his back, and hum nonsense just to break the tension.
Instead, I watched Fluoxetine with a hand on her strong, improbable spine, grounding myself in her animal patience.
I was happy. No—happy didn't even touch it. I was… okay. Not afraid. Not waiting for the next shoe to drop, or the lights to come up and reveal the joke. I was sitting in the one house in the world where I could actually see myself living, with a man who looked at me like loss was not an option, and a cat who didn’t want to kill me in my sleep.
It was a feeling so foreign I almost didn’t trust it, but there it was—the shape of a future.
The doorbell buzzed at exactly twenty minutes. Samiel tensed, then exhaled, then swept to the door with a certain ceremonial bravado. I padded over behind him, wearing a pair of his socks that went to my mid-thigh, the T-shirt I’d grabbed from his closet, and absolutely nothing else.
Mayor Vepar stood on the stoop, all business and goat hair, his suit immaculate and his clipboard at the ready. The sight of me—bare-legged, braless, a demon cat in my arms—made him pause, a momentary hitch that was more surprise than judgment.
"Ms. Harris," he said, managing a polite nod. "Samiel. May I enter?"
Samiel stepped aside, the picture of demonic hospitality. “You’re the first to ever ask,” he said. "Respect."
The mayor regarded the interior with a practiced eye, noting the cat, the open books, the oranges, the lived-in feeling that wasn’t here yesterday.
He set his briefcase on the kitchen island and opened it, revealing an actual stack of legal papers and a single red pen.
He made a show of flipping to the top sheet, then leveled his gaze at me.
"This is the finalization of intent," he said.
"You sign here. Samiel signs here. There is a ninety-day review at the end, after which either party may opt out with no legal consequences or supernatural retaliation. Please take a moment to confirm your intentions.” He flipped the page and handed me the pen.
It was heavy and a little warm, the kind of pen that made you want to sign in cursive and never look back.
I didn’t ask to read the fine print; I didn’t even hesitate.
I signed with a flourish, making the A in Annie so large it looped halfway down the page.
I handed the pen to Samiel, who looked at me once.
He signed right below, his script a surgeon’s nightmare, sharp lines and impossible angles.
The mayor witnessed both, added a stamp in gold foil, and then closed the folder with the finality of a gavel drop.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You are now contractually bound for the next ninety days, subject to mutual review and the usual clauses.” He scanned the room, maybe expecting a cake, maybe waiting for us to burst into flames.
When nothing happened, he packed his briefcase and made for the door.
At the threshold, he turned and fixed us with a look that was almost human.
“Try not to kill each other,” he said, half joke, half warning. “It reflects poorly on the community.”
The door shut with a hiss of displaced air. Silence pooled in the space he left behind, slow and syrupy. I sat on a kitchen stool, suddenly aware of the way my heart jackhammered against my ribs.
“Well,” I said, “that was weirdly anticlimactic.”
Samiel’s face broke into a smile. “You wanted fireworks?”
“I wanted a little more drama. Maybe a blood oath. At least a handshake that could cause a small earthquake.”
He set the pen down, walked over to me, and hooked his claws into the stool’s seat so he could drag me closer.
“We can do better than that,” he said, voice velvet and smoke. He braced a hand on my thigh, thumb circling just above the hem of the T-shirt, and leaned in so close I could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. “How do you want to celebrate?”
I considered. “We did the food. We did the sex. We did the running and the Netflix binge.” I looked down at my lap, then up at him again. “What’s left?”
He grinned, slow and sure. “I can think of a few things.” His hand slipped to the inside of my knee, drawing lazy, electric lines up the bare skin. “But I want you to pick.”
I let the question stretch out, chewing my lip as I tried to land on something that didn’t sound corny or like a test. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fuck him again, or eat more, or see how fast we could make Fluoxetine run laps around the living room.
It was that the part of me that had always felt temporary—provisional, even in my own body—suddenly craved permanence with a hunger that surprised me.
I wanted to see if this was real. If I was real to him.
I said, “I want to see if the closet’s big enough for both of us.”
Samiel’s eyes flicked up, a micro-expression so brief I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching for exactly this: hope and terror, in equal measure. Then he nodded and held out a hand. “Come on,” he said, and led me down the hall like we were about to go on a tour of a crime scene.
The master bedroom was big, with floor-to-ceiling windows setting the walls on fire with the Nevada sun.
The bed was a fortress of sheets and pillows, the kind of place you lost afternoons.
The closet was at the far end, behind a sliding door that looked like a repurposed piece of old mining equipment—iron, worn smooth, etched with sigils I didn’t recognize but wanted to learn.
He opened the door, and what hit me first was the smell: linen, cedar, the faint echo of smoke and something sweet, like the memory of a dessert.
The second thing was the sight: his clothes were ordered by color and function—black, then gray, then rare shocks of blue or wine; crisp shirts, jeans, tailored trousers, all of them hung with a precision that bordered on neurotic.
At the end was a stretch of empty rail, six hangers waiting, plus two deep drawers with nothing in them but sachets of cedar and a single, folded white T-shirt.
I put my hand on the hangers, just to feel the cool weight of them. “Did you think you’d jinx it if you put my stuff in here?”
He looked away. “Demons are superstitious,” he said, so quietly I almost missed it. “And I didn’t want to make it seem like I was expecting you to stay. In case you… didn’t want to.”
I turned, meaning to tease, but his face was still a little too raw. So I just stepped in, wrapped my arms around his ribs, and pressed my cheek to his chest. “You want me to move in?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I want you to move in so much it’s embarrassing.”
I laughed, and the sound vibrated between us. “Give me a suitcase and I’ll make it official.”
He pulled me tighter, then let go and ducked out, returning thirty seconds later with my duffel from the first place.
He set it on the bed as an offering, then stepped back, giving me the floor.
I unzipped it, started hanging my clothes—the only clothes I had packed.
It took all of three minutes and then there, in the closet, was actual evidence I was going to be part of this place.
Samiel hovered in the doorway, watching me like I might bolt.
He didn’t say anything until I paused to finger the last hanger, which was made of polished black wood and heavier than the rest. “That one’s for if you ever get something fancy,” he said, and it was both a joke and not.
I could imagine it now: me in some blood-red dress, him in one of those crisp shirts, both of us trying to survive the world outside the glass.
I hung the hanger back on the rail, stepped out of the closet, and squared off with him. “What’s next? You going to show me the bathroom or just wait until I start snooping?”
He rolled his eyes and led me down the hall, swinging open the door to a bathroom that was not just a bathroom, but a cathedral to water. Black tile, glassed-in shower big enough for a rugby team, and a steel soaking tub that looked like it had been rescued from a mad scientist’s lab.
The counter was black stone, the sink a basin deep enough to drown a toddler.
There was a little lacquered tray, already lined with my sunscreen and eyeliner and the ancient bottle of toner I never remembered to use.
Next to it was a box of cotton swabs, and what I recognized as my peppermint toothpaste.
My toothbrush rested in a new holder, still in its shrink-wrap.
I touched the tray, smoothing the bottles like they might vanish if I looked away.
Behind me, Samiel hovered, then ducked his head, that strange rush of embarrassment again. “I asked the mayor if it was okay to get your mail forwarded. He said it was fine.”
I stared at him. “You’re better at domesticity than any man I’ve ever met.”
He looked at me sidelong. “I read a lot of women’s magazines during the lockdown,” he said. “They said the key to a happy home was mutual respect and clear boundaries. I figured—if you were going to stay, you should have a place for your stuff.”