Page 33 of Interior Design for Demons
He shuts the door. “Are you thirsty?”
I’ve basically been tonguing a living furnace for several minutes—hell yes, I’m thirsty. “I could use a drink.”
Instead of ordering drinks, he strides up to me, tucks his thumbs into his waistband, and jerks his pants down.
I stare at the long, thick column he’s presenting, as the implication slowly sinks into my mind. I’m shocked, and my stomach lurches with horrible sinking disappointment. This can’t be happening. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You want to redeem yourself in my eyes? Do this for me, and all will be forgiven.”
“You are the epitome of toxic masculinity and macho pride.” I seize the bedframe and pull myself upright, seething. “You think I’m going to coo and simper and take that in my mouth? You think I’ll stare up at you and flutter my eyelashes prettily, and drink you down, and thank you for the privilege afterward? Hell to the no. I have too much self-respect for that.”
“You welcomed Apollyon’s intimacy,” he snarls.
“He didn’t get much out of it,” I retort. “In fact, he was entirely focused on me. Didn’t ask for a thing. And that’s the difference between you two.”
For a second I think Rath is going to strike me. His fists tighten, and his white teeth are bared, savage. But he uncurls his fists just long enough to pull his pants back up. “Tomorrow Round 2 begins,” he says. “See that you’re ready to go early. And you’ll not be attending the festivities tonight. You are confined to your quarters. Without dinner.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.” He hurtles from my suite, slamming the door thunderously behind him. No matter how much I wrench at it, it won’t open. I keep trying now and then throughout the evening, but when no one delivers food or responds to my calls, I finally give up and prepare for bed. But I’m boiling inside, too angry to sleep. My demon protector saved me from a monster, then put me in time-out because I wouldn’t give him a blow-job. It’s like I’ve been captured by morally oblivious, ridiculously selfish morons with the sexual overdrive of teenagers and the emotional control of babies—with superpowers. Not a good combination.
Just as my anger is fading enough for me to feel drowsy, someone taps on my door.
“Go away, you vile creep,” I yell, before realizing that Rath would have just walked in, rather than tapping.
“Miss Labelle—it’s Melek.”
The tanned, brown-haired demon with the rose tattoo on his chest. A lower-level demon, the one who carried Ishtar’s message to Apollyon.
I sit up in bed. “What do you want?”
“I was sent to check on you.”
“By whom?”
“Lord Apollyon. He noticed you did not attend the party tonight. And I see that your room has been barred from exit or entry.”
“The work of my pissed-off sponsor,” I reply.
“Ah, I see. Are you well?”
“Besides being homesick, stressed to the max, riding the edge of death, spooked by creepy monsters, propositioned by horny demons, and not getting anything to eat for several hours—yeah, I’m just peachy.”
“I understand, miss. I will pass along the message.”
“While you’re at it—” I lunge from the bed and pad on bare feet to the door. “Tell Apollyon I couldn’t care less if he likes to keep pet humans around. And tell him to stop asking about me, and thinking about me.”
“It’s not personal, miss. He is one of the contest leaders, and it’s his responsibility to keep all the contestants reasonably functional.”
“Oh.” There I go again, assuming the red-haired bastardcareswhen in fact he is totally apathetic to me, besides a bit of lust, which is to be expected from a lust demon…
I’m not special. Nobody cares, and nobody will miss me when I inevitably die in this competition.
Maybe I should have indulged Rath. At least he seems tocare,even if he just wants to collect me or own me. He sees something unique about me, anyway. Maybe that’s worth losing a little of my personal pride.
“Would you still like me to carry that message?” asks Melek.
“Never mind,” I say faintly to the closed door. Glumly I crawl back into the bed and slip my legs between the cool sheets. The pillows are enormous, just the right balance of fluff and support—but the room is such a jumbled mess of a mangled aesthetic that it’s physically painful for me to look at, especially after multiple hours of confinement in here. I leave one small lamp shining on the bedside table and shut my eyes to block everything else out.
