Page 8 of Infernal Bindings

“We’re at my mom’s house,” he pants. “She won’t like that you’re here.”

I’ve never been anywhere near his family. It’s practically blasphemous. Yet, given the circumstances, he couldn’t exactly take me to mine.

Automatically, instinctually, I comb my fingers through his jet-black hair just like I have a hundred times before, then peer around us, half-expecting a torture chamber. I’m greeted by opulence instead. High-arched golden ceilings and plush couches. Baby blue walls with golden swirls accenting them. Soft white carpet and paintings from Picasso, Monet, and at least five other artists I don’t recognize.

It’s beautiful.

“My mom is in the greed faction,” he says, as if I have any idea what that means. “Brune takes care of his witches.” My confusion must show because he goes on to clarify, “The Septem has seven factions run by seven archdemons: greed, lust, envy, wrath, gluttony, pride, and sloth. My mom serves Brune, the archdemon of greed.”

“And you serve?”

He chuckles and closes his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m an incubus, Annie.”

Lust. “Do you… like your faction?”

Daemon shrugs. “It doesn’t matter either way. Most witches get to choose, but I didn’t. I’m half-demon, so I fall under Salios’s command whether I like it or not. Thankfully, the archdemon of lust is more hands-off than most.” Daemon sighs as I massage his scalp, hoping to negate the massive migraine I know he’s about to have from using his magic. “Fuck, I love when you do that. Let me sit here for a few minutes and finish catching my breath, then I’ll show you around.”

I do just that, massaging his temples, behind his ears, the base of his skull, all the while staring at a crackling fireplace in the center of what must be his living room. The scent of wood smoke, freshly baked bread, and sandalwood surrounds us, and I must admit it feels more homey and welcoming than my parents’ townhouse. The longer I massage Daemon’s scalp, the more boneless he becomes, until he’s snoring in my lap. I don’t have the heart to move him—not when he looks so freaking exhausted and serene—so I let him recover in peace, kicking off my high heels before I lean against the wall and close my eyes as well.

God, it’s been a long night.

I don’t know how much time passes, but it's not enough before we’re interrupted.

“Daemon, are you home? I could use some help with groceries.”

Every muscle in my body tightens at the loud, feminine voice. His mother. My eyes must snap open at the same time as his. Within seconds, we’re disentangling our bodies and scrambling from the carpet like we’re doing something wrong. We are doing something wrong. My own mother has chastised us for our closeness, but she’s gotten used to it over the years. His mother, on the other hand, probably has no idea that we’re friends.

I’m still tugging on the hemline of my dress—which has ridden up substantially—when a very tall, very leggy woman walks around the corner. Like Daemon, she’s dressed in a well-tailored black suit, but unlike him, her hair is long, pin-straight, and gray. Tied around her neck is a dark green ascot, and emerald studs sparkle in her ears. She looks exactly how I imagined she would—wealthy, well-dressed, and attractive—and yet completely wrong.

She’s too old to be a witch.

This woman has crow’s feet and wrinkles, and a slight limp to her step. She’s nothing like any witch I know—frozen at the age they were during their baptism. My brows furrow as I try to make sense of her.

Maybe she’s not his mother. Perhaps she’s a business partner or a personal assistant.

The woman sighs in exasperation, then pinches the bridge of her nose. “Daemon, how many times have I told you not to bring your bimbos home with you?” She looks at me, then gestures in the direction of their front door. “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice girl and all, but please, see yourself out.”

Daemon cringes. “Mom, this is Annie.”

Mom. But how?

Her annoyed expression becomes vitriolic. “Your light witch?” she hisses. “You brought her here?”

Daemon steps between us, shielding me with his body. Then, he peers back at me and lowers his voice. “Annie, my bedroom is downstairs. Go make yourself comfortable while I talk with my mom. I’ll be there soon.”

I glance around at the enormous house. “But where—”

“Down that hallway. First door to the right.”

“She isn’t sleeping here,” his mom snaps.

“Go,” Daemon whispers. “It’s fine.”

I duck my head like a schoolchild as I dart past them, holding onto the edges of my dress to keep it from riding up. I’m too scared to look back, let alone retrieve my high heels and purse, but their argument is loud enough it bounces off the palatial walls.

“It’s forbidden to have her here,” his mom says. “You know that. What if Brune or Salios find out you’re bringing her into our private spaces?”

“They’re not going to find out.”