Page 43 of Interior Design for Demons
My heart splits, divides, and shrivels into brown husks. Then it crumbles into ash and is whisked away on a sour wind, leaving a hollow sunkenness inside me.
The angel rises from the couch, while I shrink against the wall of the alcove, thanking my lucky stars that I didn’t remove my mask yet.
“Apollyon,” says the angel. Gloved hands reach for the mask and carefully remove it. A cloud of white-blond hair. Aquiline features. Lavender eyes framed by delicate golden lashes. A mouth so pretty I can’t stop looking at it.
I can’t tell the angel’s gender, if they have one at all. But it’s obvious that this is a tryst, an appointment between them and Apollyon.
When the two of them kiss I nearly vomit inside my mask, because they’re both so beautiful I can’t stand it and because I—I want Apollyon and I don’t want him to want anyone else.
It’s a brief kiss, and Apollyon says, “I regret that I cannot satisfy you myself this time, my heavenly beauty. As I told you, my circumstances have recently changed, and I find myself less free to bed whomever I please. But rest assured, I have found the perfect partner for you.”
The particles of my heart reform, rehydrate, and reassemble, and the jolt is so startling I gasp.
Apollyon whips around, and in half a second he has me in a throat-grip, pinned halfway up the wall, his cerulean claws poised over my heart.
“Stop, Apollyon,” cries Karaziel, and my pulse stutters, because when the angel speaks full-voice, I can feel their power in every pore, along every nerve. An aura of regal command floods the small space, accompanied by a flash of white light. “She is not a spy. She is a human I rescued from demons who were about to maul her.”
“A human?” Apollyon’s white robe gapes open as he pins me in place, and I can’t help noticing the white-marble panels of his chest, flecked with golden glitter. “A lackey, a slave? One of the contestants?”
“I’m not sure.”
Apollyon releases me, and I crash to the floor. Though my knees wobble, I force myself to stay upright.
“An interesting costume choice,” Apollyon says. “Clearly a human with spirit, and—” He stops, his blue eyes fixing on my hands. Frowning, I glance down. Traces of paint linger beneath my nails and along the side of my right thumb. Apollyon continues speaking as if he had never paused. “Karaziel, my beauty, your partner waits in the alcove immediately next to this one, on the right. Your previous guest quarters have been prepared for you as well. Please enjoy yourself.”
The angel bows slightly, replaces their mask, and glides out of the alcove.
Slowly, purposefully, Apollyon draws the drapes together, sealing the two of us in. His fragrance, lemon sugar and gardenia, suffuses the space, turning my thoughts all floaty and fragile. He turns toward me, clucking his tongue reproachfully. “Grace, Grace.”
No point in denying it. “How did you know it was me?”
He points to my hands. “Most of the other designers let their demon helpers do the painting, but your fingers are always smudged and stained.”
“I guess I like the feeling of paint on my fingers. But that’s not much of a clue.”
“Let’s see.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “You’re a human, dressed as a demon. A dramatic and rebellious choice. Unexpected. As far as I know, none of the contestants were given demon masks or costumes.” He prowls toward me, a predator’s grin sharpening his features. “And I only heard of one contestant unaccounted for this evening—someone who caused quite a stir because she didn’t wear any of the costumes chosen for her. Seems as if she wanted to defy someone, or hide from someone, perhaps. Surely she knew such a move would lead to—punishment.”
He stops directly in front of me, his body nearly skimming against mine. He’s so tall—I feel dwarfed, dominated, my heart thundering wild and wicked.
“Punishment,” he repeats, thumbing one of the spikes on a strap that crosses my chest. His talons extend, and he slices through the strap as if it were butter. Now there’s just one thin layer of leather between my skin and his hand. When he teases the leather aside, two of his talons pinch my nipple, causing a splinter of pain through my breast. I hiss through my teeth in response, but I don’t move. I revel in his attention being centered on me alone.
He delicately nudges the leather into place again and steps away, to the wine that I poured.
“That’s it?”
“Do you want more?” He swirls the wine in the glass, dark eyebrows raised.
“Doyouwant more?”
A flicker of blue fire in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’m a lust demon. I’m always in the mood.”
“But you denied that angel.”
“I—” He swallows, his pale throat flexing, jaw hardening. “That’s none of your business.”
“Isn’t it though?” I say softly. I could swear a tiny shiver runs over him—but he covers it by turning away and drinking deeply.
A smirk curves my mouth. Who has the power now?
