19. Chapter 19
Milo
Ishut the door behind me and face the shower with misplaced confidence.
It’s a bath-shower combo. Gleaming white porcelain, a curved rod holding up a fabric curtain covered in tiny botanical prints, and two knobs I’m ninety percent sure control temperature. This is fine; I’ve got this.
In Hell, bathing happens in communal pools carved into volcanic rock, heated by thermal vents until the water hovers somewhere between uncomfortably hot and legitimately dangerous.
Privacy doesn’t exist. You wade in with a dozen other demons, ignore the fact that several of them are actively fucking in the corner, and scrub off whatever needs scrubbing before someone decides your personal space is up for debate.
Actively fucking isn’t an exaggeration. Demons aren’t exactly a prudish species.
Sex in Hell is recreational, transactional, and about as emotionally significant as a firm handshake.
I lost my virginity at a post-quota celebration, to a demoness who forgot my name before we’d even finished, and honestly seemed annoyed I tried to make conversation afterward.
The experience lasted roughly seven minutes and left me deeply confused about what all the fuss was about.
So naturally, I turned to human literature for answers.
I consumed every romance novel, advice column, and self-help book I could find and built myself a full academic thesis on the gap between demonic rutting and lovemaking.
The next time an opportunity presented itself, the difference was notable enough that my partner remembered my name.
I strip down, toss my clothes onto the toilet lid, and step into the tub. The porcelain is freezing against my feet. I brace one hand on the wall and reach for the left knob, twisting it.
Water explodes from the showerhead, ice-cold and brutal enough to punch the air from my lungs. I yelp and grab for the other knob, twisting both simultaneously. The temperature swings violently from freezing to boiling and back again while I wrestle the controls and curse through my teeth.
“Come on, work with me here.”
I twist the knobs until the water finally settles into something tolerable. I tip my head back and let it hit my face and shoulders, tension starting to dissolve. The pressure is strange, pulsing in a way Hell’s pools never did, but it feels incredible.
No one is grunting or watching nearby. It’s just me, hot water, and blessed, beautiful silence.
I could stay here all night.
Bottles line the tub’s edge and I grab the first one, squeezing what seems like a reasonable amount into my palm until far too much splashes out.
The air fills with the scent of lavender and chamomile.
I’m already working it into my hair before I realize my mistake.
Bubbles erupt everywhere, foaming up so fast I can barely see.
I duck under the spray to rinse, and they multiply instead of washing away. I scrub harder and they keep coming, endless and ridiculous, sliding into my eyes and mouth no matter what I do.
“Stop multiplying,” I mutter, raking my fingers through the mess.
It takes an eternity, but the water finally runs clear. I’m gasping, hair flattened to my skull, and exhausted. But there’s still conditioner, body wash, and a whole system I apparently signed up for.
That’s when my brain decides to be helpful and supplies an extremely unhelpful image: Evie in this shower. Naked. Water running over her skin, head tipped back.
“Don’t.” I say it out loud, but my brain keeps going, supplying more details without permission. The curve of her waist. Her hands sliding soap across her stomach. Flushed skin, parted lips, water running between her breasts and down her body.
My erection arrives with absolutely no regard for timing or morality.
In my defense, I’m a demon. We’re not built for restraint.
Lust is practically a job requirement. For the prosecution: I just met her, my current assignment involves taking her immortal soul, and she’s on the other side of that wall trusting me not to be this much of a creep.
But Evie’s unfortunately very pretty, and her soap smells unreasonably good.
Apparently, those two facts have sent my moral compass home for the evening.
I reach for the cold knob and wrench it to the side.
The water turns glacial in an instant and I gasp, reaching for the knob, but my hands are slick with soap and I can’t get a proper grip. It spins loose under my palm, refusing to catch, and the spray stays freezing.
“Okay, okay, turn off.” I twist desperately at anything I can reach, but nothing’s working, and the spray is relentless. My feet are sliding on the tub floor because I’ve turned the whole thing into a slick death trap with all the product I used.
I step forward for better leverage, and my foot slides. The shower curtain is the only thing within reach, so I grab it on instinct. Half the rings tear free, and wet fabric wraps around my chest and face in a suffocating mess.
When I try to yank it off, the curtain clings harder, plastered to my skin. My other foot slips, and one knee hits the tub with a loud bang. Pain shoots up my leg. I’m on my knees, blind and freezing, when footsteps sound in the hallway.
Then my mortal form drops. My horns emerge first, followed by my nails lengthening into claws and skin bleeding from ordinary human tones into pastel pink.
Fantastic. Really excellent timing.
“Milo? You okay in there?” Evie pounds on the door.
The adrenaline spike alone nearly kills me. I yank the knob and the water stops. “I’m fine!”
“I heard a crash.”
“Just slipped!” I’m trying to unhook the curtain from my horns with claws that are shredding everything they touch, and the irony of a demon being defeated by bathroom textiles isn’t lost on me.
“Do you need help?”
The doorknob rattles.
“Absolutely not! I’m good!”
I scramble to force my mortal form back into place, running almost entirely on panic.
“If you break anything, you’re fixing it yourself.”
“Understood!”
Finally, her footsteps retreat.
I stand there, dripping and shivering, staring at the stupid botanical curtain hanging half off its rod. Hell’s communal baths are looking pretty good right now.
My knee throbs where I slammed it into the tub, and lavender and chamomile still cling to my skin, but there’s no hiding what I did to that shower curtain. After a quick towel dry and a change of clothes, I head for the kitchen, following the sound of plates clinking.
Evie’s sitting at the table with her bad ankle propped on the chair across from her, spooning pasta onto two plates. She’s changed into soft lounge pants and an oversized cream sweater that keeps slipping off her shoulder. Her hair is twisted up in a clip, pieces falling loose around her face.
She glances up when I appear.
“I destroyed your shower curtain.”
I blurt it out with no attempt to make it sound better. Her eyebrows climb.
“Come again?”
“I slipped, grabbed the curtain for balance, pulled half the rings off the rod, and tore the fabric in multiple places. The floor is also very wet. I wanted to fix it with my power, but after what you said about demonic tricks . . .” I swallow. “I figured I should tell you instead.”
She sets the spoon down, her jaw working as frustration gathers behind her eyes. When she opens her mouth, I brace for impact.
“I’m sorry.” It comes out quiet and wretched. “You let me into your home, and I couldn’t even take a shower without causing property damage.”
She says nothing, and I start calculating whether I can survive sleeping in her yard.
“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” she mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like a kicked puppy.” She studies me long enough to make me squirm. “It’s just a shower curtain, Milo.”
“I know, but—”
“I’ve got three spares in the hall closet, because Marmalade has torn down every one I’ve ever owned. He hooks his claws into the fabric and hangs off it. I buy them in bulk.”
I’m embarrassingly relieved. “So you’re not angry?”
“I didn’t say that. We’re okay when my bathroom floor is dry.” She jerks her chin toward the hallway. “Mop’s by the washing machine.”
I nod quickly. “Right. Yes. On it.”
Everything is where she said it would be.
I carry it back to the bathroom and start soaking up the water.
When I glance up from a particularly stubborn puddle near the base of the toilet, Evie is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, apparently reconsidering every decision that led to this moment.
“You’ve never mopped a floor before, have you?”
“What gave it away?”
“You’re pushing the water in circles. You have to wring the mop out between passes.”
“I am wringing it out.”
“You’re squeezing it once and calling it done. Here.” She hobbles forward and holds out her hand.
“You’re supposed to be resting.”
“And you’re supposed to be cleaning, but instead you’re making a second flood. Give me the mop.”
“No. Sit down. I’ll figure it out.”
“Milo.”
“Evie.”
We stare at each other. She sighs, leans against the doorframe, and talks me through it instead. Wring harder. Start from the far wall. Work toward the door. Don’t step in the parts you already cleaned.
It takes longer than it should. She corrects me four times, and mutters something under her breath that I’m fairly sure translates to unbelievable. By the time the floor is dry and the mop is rinsed and propped against the wall, we’ve settled into a rhythm that wasn’t there before.
“Passable,” she says, inspecting the tile.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t ruin it.” But the corner of her mouth twitches. “Come eat.”
She turns and limps back toward the kitchen, and I follow. As I sit, she slides a steaming plate of pasta toward me, covered in creamy sauce with chicken and vegetables.
After we finish eating, Evie leans back in her chair with a wince. She looks wiped.
“I’ll get the dishes.” I reach for her plate.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. But you look like you’re about to pass out, and I promise I won’t break anything.” I carry our plates to the sink and turn on the water.
She huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t argue, which tells me exactly how tired she is.
The dish soap smells of lemon and herbs. I wash the first plate and set it on the drying rack.
“That goes on the left side.”
I rearrange without comment. She watches closely as I wash the second plate.
“Rinse it again. You left soap on the rim.”
I do, running my thumb along the edge to check. She nods once. I wash the rest of it her way. Bowls in back. Utensils in the small compartment on the side. By the time I reach the cups, I already know they go upside down because that’s how they were sitting in the rack when I first saw the kitchen.
Behind me, the cat flap in the door bangs open and Marmalade trots in looking pleased with himself, his orange face covered in dirt and bits of grass.
Evie straightens. “What did you do?”
The cat trills at her, utterly shameless.
“You’re filthy. Were you digging in my garden beds again?” She leans forward, squinting at him. “You know you’re not supposed to do that.”
Marmalade headbutts her ankle in response, leaving a smudge of dirt on her pants.
“Perfect. Thank you so much for that.” But she’s reaching down to pet him, scratching under his chin.
He abandons her and walks over to his food bowl, sitting beside it and staring up at her with huge green eyes.
“Unbelievable.” She pushes herself up, hobbling over to the cabinet where the cat food lives. She scoops a small amount into his bowl and he attacks it.
I lean against the counter, drying my hands on a towel, and when she catches me watching, some of the irritation leaves her face.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . . thanks. For doing the dishes.”
“It’s not exactly heroic.”
“It is to me.” The words are quiet, almost reluctant.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I nod.
Marmalade finishes inhaling his food and starts grooming his dirt-covered face, swiping one paw over his whiskers.
“Just so you’re aware,” Evie says, watching him, “he’s going to bring you a dead mouse at some point. Probably while you’re sleeping. It’s his way of showing affection.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
Her head whips toward me. “It doesn’t . . . are you serious?”
“Yeah, it’s a gift. Why?”
“It’s a corpse. On your pillow. While you’re unconscious.”
I shrug. “I’ve woken up to worse.”
“I genuinely don’t want to know what’s worse than a dead rodent in your bed.”
“In Hell, someone once left a severed—”
“Nope. Stopping you right there.” She holds up a hand. “I don’t need that image.”
I grin. “You asked.”
“I really didn’t.”
Marmalade pads over to inspect me, sniffing my jeans before meowing up at me.
“He likes you,” Evie says. “Which is bizarre because he’s an asshole to literally everyone else.”
“Maybe I’m special.”
“Maybe you smell like something dead and he’s confused.”
I laugh and she does too, and for a moment it feels absurdly normal. Like we’ve done this before.
Then the laughter fades and we’re still looking at each other, the air between us shifting into something heavier. Her gaze stays on mine until the moment stops feeling casual.
She looks away first. “I should sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
“Yeah. Good idea.”
She hesitates in the doorway, hand braced on the frame. Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“Goodnight, Milo.”
“Goodnight.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I hear her door click shut.
I make my way to the couch and stretch out on top of the blankets she’s set up for me. I close my eyes and try to relax, but the day starts replaying instead.
It was nice. Really nice. Minus Evie hurting herself, it was the best day I’ve had in years.