Page 14 of Infernal Bindings

And he doesn’t.

Up and up I climb, my orgasm cresting in a slow, powerful wave. I come undone, quivering, gasping, and then I wake up.

For real this time.

Disoriented and confused, I bolt upright and scan Daemon’s dark bedroom. He lies on a nearby couch, eyes closed and fully dressed—including his suit jacket. I sigh in relief, then peek beneath the covers to confirm I’m clothed as well. Thank God, I am. The shredded pants from my super weird sex dream are still intact, albeit a little damp.

I cringe at the sensation.

Did I… orgasm in my sleep?

What am I, a fourteen-year-old boy?

I throw the covers off me and let the cool air dry my sweaty skin. As my breathing steadies and my eyelids droop, my gaze drifts back to Daemon a final time. He’s snoring soundly, his features smoothed into something serene.

Incubus. Not real.

Incubus. Not real.

But damn, that dream felt real to me. I try not to think of the implications as I rip my gaze away from him and force myself to rest.

I belong with Christopher, so why do I want him?

7

CONJURING AN ARCHDEMON

In the kitchen, Daemon rolls up his shirtsleeves, then cracks an egg into a large, clear bowl. He cracks a second, then a third, and the yellow yolks slosh together. Peaceful silence stretches between us as morning sunlight streams in through a bay window overlooking the marble countertops. I prop my head on my elbow while I peer outside, occasionally stealing glimpses at Daemon while he makes us breakfast.

He’s right. Outside there is a pretty suburban neighborhood, complete with white picket fences, fancy SUVs, and children giggling as they play hopscotch on the streets. Puffy white clouds fill a bright blue sky, and dandelion seeds blow past the window from manicured front yards that undulate in the breeze. It’s nice, pleasant even. A total contrast to the hellscape in the basement.

I’m staring at the specks of white dandelion fuzz when something slides in front of me. Coffee. Thank God. Or in this one particular instance, thank the devil. I have a working theory that it’s the coffee fruit Eve stole from the Garden of Eden and not some stupid apple.

“Don’t worry, I loaded it with sugar,” Daemon says. “It’s perfectly disgusting, just the way you like it.”

I smile up at him and take a sip. Sweet and creamy liquid warms my throat all the way down. “Sweetened and condensed milk?” I ask.

“Of course.” He drinks from his own mug, the coffee so dark it might as well be made of tar. I make a face at it, able to smell the burnt grounds from my barstool. Gross.

“You want mushrooms in your omelet?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

Daemon rolls his eyes and returns to the gas stove. As he turns the dial on the burner, a bright blue flame sputters to life. He pours the egg concoction into a frying pan, and savory smoke rises into the air, filling the entire kitchen. As he waits for the food to cook, I get a strong hankering for something else.

“Can you make us pancakes too?”

Daemon snorts. “You know, you’re incredibly demanding for someone who never helps cook.”

I arch a brow. “Is that a yes?”

He groans in response, but returns to the fridge and starts pulling out fresh ingredients. My grin widens, and again I sip from my coffee, perfectly content to ignore all of my adult problems and obligations in exchange for this drama-free morning. Maybe I don’t have to go home at all. I could hide out here and—

High heels click across the tiled floor, and Daemon’s mom appears in an open archway. While I’m still dressed in Daemon’s pajamas, she’s wearing business attire—a white, pin-straight dress, a designer purse, and sunglasses that hide what I assume to be vitriol in her eyes.

“I see you haven’t taken the trash out yet,” she says, sitting on the barstool beside me.

My skin crawls with her closeness, my magic thrumming just beneath the surface, warning me this woman is dangerous. Everything about her screams powerful—more powerful than me. Unless and until I pledge my soul to an angel and can channel from them, she always will be.