Page 12 of Infernal Bindings

“It’s just one night,” I promise myself. “You’ll deal with everything tomorrow.”

After rinsing off the rest of my makeup, I fumble with my dress, grumbling a little too loudly when the zipper sticks.

“Need any help in there?” Daemon calls.

I don’t answer right away and instead tug on the zipper some more, shimmying as I curse at the damn thing. It doesn’t budge—not even an inch. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

“Gah,” I open the door and spin around, pouting. “The dress you picked is defective.”

A smug smile curves his lips. He slinks behind me, leather shoes clicking on the tiles. “It’s not defective, Annie. You just lack the patience for it.” Daemon’s breath is hot against my neck, his voice low in my ear. Goosebumps prick my spine, and I fight the urge to melt into his touch as I stare at our reflections in the mirror.

God, he’s beautiful. That perfect mouth is so close to my skin—but not close enough. Slowly, Daemon unclasps my pearl choker, then my earrings, stripping me bare before he ever gets to the dress. Fuck me.

I lean back against his chest—just for a second—before I realize what I’m doing. Thankfully, Daemon doesn’t call me out on it, but he does slide my curls over my shoulders, straightening them out once the earrings are safely on the sink. “I love your hair like this,” he says. “I wish you wouldn’t wear it up.”

He’s said those words before, but my cheeks flame regardless, turning a deep crimson in the mirror. Swallowing, I look away when he eases back the dress’s zipper, and it comes loose on the first attempt. I swear I tried, I want to tell him, mortified that Daemon might think I summoned him on purpose. But my tongue twists into knots.

“There. All finished.” Like a gentleman, he leaves the dress halfway zipped before disappearing into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

I mumble a thank you once he’s already gone and press my palm to my neck where the choker had been—where his hands had been too. Incubus. Not real. Incubus. Not real.

I repeat the words like a mantra as I slip free of my sparkling pink gown and into the heavenly soft pajamas Daemon gifted me. I keep repeating them as I step outside, his baggy clothes sliding against my skin in the best kind of way. Daemon is already on the couch, eyes closed and sleeping, by the time I crawl onto his massive bed.

My chest sinks at seeing him there. I pretend it’s not with disappointment as I close the transparent red curtain and go to sleep.

6

NIGHTMARES

Iknow I’m dreaming.

There’s this weird soft glow to everything, like one of my mom’s glamour shots from the 1980s. I’m back in the rotunda, but the lights are on and nobody is here, save for Christopher. He stands near the balcony, facing the now-empty baptismal pool, still dressed in his suit.

I take a step toward him, but he holds up his hand, stopping me. “Christopher?” I ask, my voice so low it’s almost inaudible.

“You left us for him,” he says. The words are detached—matter of fact—and I bristle at the implication.

“I didn’t leave for him,” I clarify. “I left with him.”

He throws my own words back at me. “It’s a distinction without a difference.”

Wearing Daemon’s pajamas, I close the distance between us, my pants dragging, the marble tiles icy on my bare feet. When I reach Christopher, he gives me a long once over and I can see the judgement etched in every feature.

“Do you want him?” Christopher asks.

I shake my head vehemently. “You’re my mate. I’m supposed to be with you.”

“I’m not going to share you, Annie.”

I know that.

My life isn’t some smutty fairytale where the guy lets the girl have both. Mates are possessive, and I get the distinct feeling demons are too. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not interested in Daemon like that. He’s a friend—sort of—and that’s all he’ll ever be because I know he has the power to return my soul and never will.

A relationship can’t be built on that kind of power imbalance.

Finally, Christopher closes the space between us. He twines our fingers together, and again those familiar butterflies return. Yes. This is how it’s supposed to feel.

Eyes closed, I kiss him—soft at first—but then hard, slipping my tongue between his lips. Christopher’s fingers tangle in my curls, his minty breath uneven as he comes up for air.