Page 51 of Infernal Bindings

“You brought me to my dad?” I hiss. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You needed healing,” he says.

“I needed a nap.”

“Annalise,” Dad says, putting himself between Daemon and me both physically and metaphorically, “Daemon did the right thing here. You needed help. I only wish he’d called rather than teleporting into my waiting room.”

It’s unreal that he’s taking a demon’s side in all this. I’m about to say as much, but even with the healing, that argument seems like more energy than I have left. When Dad helps me off the floor, I let him, leaning against his side for added support. He half-carries me to his desk and sets me in the large leather chair—the one he never lets anyone sit in, ever.

I sink into it, and lay my head against the sleek mahogany desk, over what I’m sure is a stack of important documents. It’s not the most comfortable pillow I’ve ever had, but it’s not the worst either.

“I’ll take it from here, Daemon. You can go home now,” Dad says, and it isn’t a request.

“But—”

“Out, Daemon. Now.”

Glancing up from the papers, I watch Daemon backpedal as Dad’s eyes flash red like Minerva’s had a couple days ago. And then I remember he also has infernal magic coursing through his veins. We all do.

“I’ll see you soon,” Daemon says. “If you need me, tug on the bond.”

He slips out the door while Dad joins me on the other side of the desk—at a seat meant for clients. Honestly, whatever he’s going to say, I’m not in the mood for.

“How often does he feed from you?” Dad asks.

I sink back into the paperwork, my forehead smacking against the desk. “He doesn’t, Dad. It was just this once.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I think I’d know if we were having sex.”

Dad not-so-politely yanks my paper-pillows away, and I grumble, glancing up at him because the sooner I do, the sooner this lecture ends. He clicks the stack against the desk’s surface, straightening the documents before shoving them into a nearby bin. “An incubus doesn’t have to touch you to feed from you. And they don’t have to feed from you every time they touch you. Daemon is young. He lacks the control older demons have—”

“It was an accident.”

“It was dangerous. He is dangerous, Annie.”

“He shouldn’t have brought me here.” I force myself to sit up straight and wrap his jacket tighter around me. “I would have been fine with rest.”

“You don’t know that, and neither did he. That’s why he brought you here.” Sighing, Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “I warned Minerva that raising him on Earth was a mistake. He needed other incubi to teach him how to properly feed, and how to show restraint.”

“I could have stopped him.”

“It’s not your job to stop him. It’s his power to control.” For a moment, we just stare at each other, saying nothing, saying everything. Finally, Dad opens his cell phone and clicks on the camera icon. Switching it to selfie mode, he passes the phone to me.

I stare at my face.

And stare.

And stare.

My eyes are dark and glossy, like there’s a gray film over them, and my lips are swollen.

I look like Martha.

Dad says something, but I don’t hear him. I’m watching my puffy mouth, pressing my fingers into it and trying not to shudder. Even now, tender as it is, it also feels… good?

Irritated, Dad yanks my makeshift mirror away and pockets it. I frown at him when he speaks. “As I was saying, Christopher is almost finished with the list. I know you don’t want to think Daemon is capable of murder—none of us do—but clearly, he is.” He gestures to my face and my frown deepens. “You need to brace yourself for the very real possibility that he used your bond to kill Martha, and then tricked all of us into believing otherwise.”