Page 38 of Interior Design for Demons
It’s not exactly an apology, but it’s sort of endearing, the way he’s so stiff and restrained, using such big words, phrasing the whole thing like a freaking contract. I know from my kissing sessions with him that he’s hiding a lot of violent, red-hot passion. And I sort of want to tease it out of him again, and let him rush me away along that fiery river.
But he locked me up. Deprived me of food. Didn’t advocate for me when I was assigned more work than the others. Those things add up to—maybe not betrayal—but at least some very clear warning signs.
When I look into his dark eyes, into his handsome tanned face framed by that tumbling golden hair—I want to give in. His crisp shirt is partly unbuttoned, showing the deep cleft of his throat between his collarbones, and the valley between his perfectly molded pectorals. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong masculine forearms, so beautifully tanned, and his hands, oh god hishands, with those strong thick fingers—
I can barely cobble together the reasons I shouldn’t have sex with him. Something about daddy issues and toxic masculinity andhnghh—dammit but I really, really want those hands on my body.
“Can I think about it?” I ask. It’s the best I can manage through the hormonal haze in my brain.
“Of course, little rebel.” The deep purr of his voice, of his pet name for me—it nearly makes me jump his bones right there. But there are cameras in here too, of course. If and when I decide to have sex with one of these Hottie McBody demons, it’s going to have to be somewhere private, with no possibility of sneaky spying by the reality show runners. I’m not about to reveal my O face to every single freaking soul in Hell again.
As Rath walks me back to my room, I summon the nerve to ask him a question. “So, my dad—how’s he doing?”
Rath glances sideways at me, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“He’s being tortured constantly and stuff, right? And he’s in the Pit, so—he doesn’t know what’s going on with the competition?”
“That is correct.”
I have this weird need for my dad to know what I’m doing for him, what I’m enduring, how hard I’m trying. I mean, it’s for my own life and survival, of course, but it’s more than that, too. I really do want to win this thing for him. I don’t believe he deserves that level of excruciating torture for what he did—not after he spent the rest of his years trying to make up for it.
“Wouldn’t it bemoretorturous to show the contest to the people in the Pit?” I ask Rath in my softest, most innocent voice. “At least, you could show it to the ones with family members in the contest. They’re the souls with the most at stake, right? I imagine the suspense would be excruciating. And then at the end—the destruction of their hope—so devastating.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He cocks his head. “I suppose I could mention it to Ishtar. Perhaps she will allow some of the souls in the Pit to view upcoming episodes.”
Inwardly I pump my fist, but outwardly I continue walking primly beside Rath. To thank him, I hold his muscled arm, stroking his bicep lightly. His breathing quickens at my touch.
Who are my fellow contestants fighting for? I haven’t really asked them—I’ve been so consumed with survival and my own conflicting emotions. Plus it’s an awkward question: “Sooo—which one of your loved ones was so evil they got sent to the Pit of Hell?”
Ouch. Not a fun conversation.
When we reach my room, Rath doesn’t ask to come in. But before walking away, he says, “A few costume choices have been left in your closet. Take your pick.”
“Costume choices?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He sighs. “Tonight’s party is a masquerade.”
Rath sounds incredibly annoyed by the idea of a masquerade party. But my heart does a little flip-flop and I nearly squeal, because I’ve wanted to go to a masquerade ball since I was twelve and I watched Phantom of the Opera for the first time—the sexy version with Gerard Butler. I was hopelessly in love with the Phantom from that moment.
Okay, so Imighthave had a thing for bad boys for like, years. I’ve always tried to push back against those inclinations, but now—well, there’s not much point in trying to resist. And I’m fully aware that I’m being dumb. Foolish in the extreme. If I were smart, I’d stay in my suite and avoid any unnecessary contact with demons. I wouldn’t entertain the faintest thoughts of kissing or screwing them. I wouldn’t be vacillating between two very-bad-for-me demons, or behaving like fucking Bella in the Twilight movies. Gag me. At least I don’t faint every time a demon makes eyes at me. But Iambeing ridiculous. I know it, but with my emotional endurance stretched to the limit, and my stress levels maxed out, I don’t have the strength to stop myself. I’m a dry leaf, jittering across the pavement, pushed this way and that by every breath of wind.
I can’t keep doing this.
When I’m alone, and Razenath’s big beautiful body isn’t touchably close, I can think rationally about him. He’s vindictive in a way that physically harms me, and that’s a level of abuse I just can’t allow. But I have to be careful with him, too, because if I reject him outright again, he might forget his resolution to be rational. He is my sponsor, and he is a demon, one who believes I’ve sworn myself to be his alone. Despite his hotness, and his lust, and his possessive brand of care for me, there’s a kind of hollowness to him, an emptiness. I can’t quite connect with him.
Apollyon told me demons don’t have souls. I can believe that about Rath—his emotions are unfocused, untethered—they’re missing something, swirling around a core of empty blackness. And maybe that’s why, beyond the kissing, I just haven’t been able to make myself care for him the way I care about—
I stop myself short, eyes wide. Nope. Not going there.
The bottom line is I can’t sleep with Rath. And I don’t want the suffocating, stressful pressure of his touch and his eyes all night. But Idowant to go to this masquerade and enjoy myself—which means I may have to play a little trick on my sponsor. I feel kind of bad about it, but I have to let the guilt go. To give myself permission to enjoy this evening, if that’s even possible. Knowing the demons, there will be just as much horror as decadence at this party.
The costumes hanging on the rack in my closet are stunning. One is a scanty harlequin’s outfit with an enameled full-face mask that curves into points like a jester’s cap. There’s one with a gold-sequined mask, white robes and golden wings—an angel’s outfit. There’s a hideously painted stitched-up face trailing blood from the corner of the lip-hole, paired with a ragged barely-there ensemble of black gauze and leather straps. And then there’s a cat costume—mostly thin strips of leather and fur, with a black mask that fits me as smoothly as if someone had made an exact cast of my face—with a set of rings like jeweled black talons.
They’re all amazing, and none of them are quite right for me. I have several hours until tonight’s event—and there’s a costume concept itching at my mind. Quickly I take stock of what I have as far as regular clothes—and then I use the tablet on my dresser to send a message to Rusala. It’s a risk, calling the demon—he’ll probably want to pierce me from nose to knees and call that a costume—but there are a few supplies I need that I don’t have here in my room.
As it turns out, Rusala is more than willing to help when he finds out what I have in mind. He’s shirtless today, with various studs and rings interspersed between the golden swirling tattoos across his skin. He has swapped the gold ring in his septum with a crystal one, tinged scarlet at the crisp faceted edges, as if it’s been touched with blood. His black mohawk has also been dyed red at the crest, and scarlet cuffs accent the pointed tips of his ears. His eye makeup is sparkling ruby-red instead of the green he usually favors.
“I plan to plow as many demons as I possibly can tonight,” he tells me casually, as he hands over the supplies. “Maybe even that lovely dark-eyed human, Aghilas. He’s mostly a ladies’ man, but I have it on good authority that he expanded his horizons on a business trip once.” He waggles studded eyebrows and cocks a hip. “Pretty sure I can convince him to be adventurous again.”
