Page 97 of Demon’s Snack

“That is a respiratory style.”

“That is adrenaline feeding the hunger. Nose. Hold. Out slow.”

I obey because fighting Sable and the hunger at the same time feels inefficient.

Isolde steps closer, her presence warming the bond from my other side. “His surge is lower than before.”

Sable flicks a glance at her. “I see that.”

“I can help regulate it.”

“I see that too.”

For a moment, the two of them look at each other over the wreckage of my self-control, and I become unpleasantly aware that my future may involve being studied, scolded, and managed in stereo.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “You’ve met.”

Sable’s mouth tightens, though there is fear behind it. “Keep walking.”

“Gladly.”

She moves to my left, Isolde to my right, and we push into the street beyond the estate gates while the courtyard behind us erupts into accusation, confusion, and the sweet beginning of Vaerith losing ownership of his story. The estate boundary line hums beneath my boots when we cross it, a subtle magical threshold I feel in my teeth. Once past it, the pressure on my glamour eases by a fraction.

I still do not stop.

We move through two narrow streets, a service lane, then under an arch crowded with old ivy and broken ward tiles. The shouting behind us fades into layered noise. Not gone, but distant enough to stop pressing directly against my spine. My shoulder burns. The demon essence sits inside me like a banked coal, hotter than I want, quieter than Vaerith deserves.

Only when the estate boundary falls fully behind us do I release Isolde’s wrist.

The absence of contact aches.

I step back anyway.

She looks down at the place my fingers circled her skin, then lifts her eyes to mine. There is no fear there. That nearly undoes me more than the ritual did.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

“No.”

“Squeezed too hard?”

“Firmly enough to make a point.”

Sable exhales loudly. “I love standing in alleys while people discuss wrist etiquette after fleeing a public demon scandal.”

Isolde adjusts her satchel. “Technically, the scandal remains ongoing.”

“That is not better.”

I drag my hands through my hair and remember the horns when my fingers hit the base of one. “Damn it.”

“Glamour,” Sable says.

“I know.”

I close my eyes and force the illusion back over the horns one layer at a time. The magic resists at first, slipping over heated bone like wet silk over flame. Isolde’s breathing shifts beside me, steady and deliberate, and I match it before she says a word. The glamour settles. The horns fade beneath bent light, leaving the usual ache behind my temples and a faint shimmer if anyone looks too closely.

When I open my eyes, both women are watching me.