Page 50 of Interior Design for Demons
He’s watching Rath and me. His smile is gone, his horns have emerged, and his eyes have turned from blue to red. I’ve never seen them do that before.
I’m not the only one to notice it, either. Ishtar is watching Apollyon, her eyes narrowed. And then her gaze swerves to me.
Quickly I face forward as Rath moves me to the exit. I thought we’d be heading down to a lower level, but he takes me to an atrium and unfurls his wings. “We’re going up,” he says. “Hold onto me.”
Gingerly I put my arms around his neck, wincing as my wounded shoulder burns. I’d rather not go into this torture experience already wounded. On its own, this wound will take days to heal, and I need to be in top condition to compete in this horrible competition. “Could you—heal me? Or take some of the pain?” I ask him.
He looks straight into my eyes, his dark ones unreadable. “What will you do for me in return?”
I swallow hard as an idea slithers through my head—a wicked idea worthy of Hell itself. One that will satisfy him without compromising me too far.
I lean in, letting my lips brush his ear. “Why don’t you heal me, and then I’ll show you.”
He seals a broad hand over the wound, and within seconds the pain is gone. When I feel beneath my blouse, I have some new scars, slightly offset from the old ones. The material is still blood-wet, though, and there’s no Apollyon to clean that up for me.
“Now,” says Rath hungrily. “Your promise, and make it quick. I must deliver you to your torture room in a few minutes.”
“I’ll do it while we’re flying,” I tell him. “Just—fly slow.”
I wrap myself around him, with my crotch positioned over his. He’s already rock-hard under his pants, and as he launches us into midair, I squirm, rubbing myself against that hardness. He gives an appreciative groan as I repeat the motion, over and over, pressing my breasts to his bare chest. He reaches up with one hand to squeeze my left breast through my silky blouse. Then his mouth seeks mine and I let him kiss me. It’s okay, it’s fine—Apollyon will have to make similar compromises to do his job, even though he’s mine. I’m doing what I have to do to stay whole and healthy, to succeed in this contest. My life is at stake, and my father’s eternal future—I focus on those stakes while I hump against Rath, while he plunges his tongue into my mouth with greedy delight. His kissing still turns me on—I can’t help it, he’s hot. But there’s something missing between us, something I found with Apollyon—and now that I’ve tasted the real thing, any other experience is just—not enough.
Rath is panting now, hovering in mid-air, his wings beating slow and heavy. He stops kissing me and his eyes glaze, while his hands grip my rear, kneading my flesh, rubbing my body harder against him like he’s forgotten that I’m a person and now I’m just a toy to help him reach completion. His back arches, hips thrusting forward, and I feel a pulsing heat against my center. Warm wetness seeps into my clothing.
It’s done. And I feel—dirty. Used. Cheapened, even though this was my choice, a bargain I made.
Rath flies us up another level and we land at the entrance to a lampless hallway. “Thank you,” he whispers against my cheek before setting me down. “I look forward to more.”
When I don’t reply, he takes my hand and leads me into the dark. I can’t see a thing, except when I look up at Rath, I can discern the fiery ring around his irises.
Finally he pauses and opens a door. “In you go, little rebel. I’ll be back for you when your session is complete.”
I don’t want to enter that room. I hang back, clinging to Rath’s muscled arm because at this moment, he’s the devil I know, and I’d rather hang with him than face whatever waits for me inside my personalized torture experience. “Rath, couldn’t you hide me somewhere? We could lie and say that I went through the torture—”
“No,” he says sharply. “I will not break the rules of the contest or defy my superiors, not even for you, little rebel. Besides, if I did, they would know. You will be monitored and recorded during the entire experience. Now go on. Oh—I forgot—you’re supposed to leave your clothes with me.”
“What?” I gasp.
“It’s part of the experience designed for you. We’ve learned that nudity shames and distresses you, so—hand over your clothing. All of it. Or I’ll take it off you myself.”
“You came up with this, didn’t you?” I snarl, unbuttoning my blouse.
“I did not. I don’t approve of you being naked in front of everyone—I’d rather be the only one who enjoys the sight of your body. But we will follow the rules. Adhering to them is the only way you will eventually win.”
“You still want me to win, then?” I toss Rath my bra and shimmy out of my shorts and panties. His face is dimly illuminated in the light from the partly-open door. He’s ogling my body, but he doesn’t reach for me.
“Of course I want you to win,” he says. “You’re my contestant. Now get in.”
He presses a hand to my bare chest and pushes me through the door.
When he closes the door, it’s as if it was never there. The wall seals seamlessly, magically, and I’m trapped, alone and naked, in a room about five-and-a-half feet square.
One wall is drab olive-green, another mustard yellow, a third garish orange, and a fourth a horrific mauve. The ceiling is a sickening plaid, composed of all those colors together, and the floor isorange shag carpet, flecked with olive green.Oh my god. And it’s not just the colors—it’s the dimensions of the space. The ceiling brushes the top of my head. The walls are off-kilter—every seam where walls meet is wavy or crooked. The line of the floor is slanted just slightly, maddeningly close to perfect but sonot.
I can usually find something pleasing, even in the ugliest of rooms, but there’s nothing pleasing here, nothing remotely symmetrical or attractive, nowhere my eyes can rest.
I’m naked, standing in the ugliest room ever created. And when tiny squares open in the wall before me and nozzles slide out, I know it’s about to get worse.
Hot liquid spews from the nozzles around the room. I scream, falling to the floor, bowing over to protect my eyes and face. The spray is hot enough to sting painfully, but not hot enough to actually blister me—a small mercy, I guess. And the nozzles shut off within seconds. But as it cools, the liquid on my skin begins to burn and itch, like the worst mosquito bite ever, like—like fire ant bites. I stepped in a nest of them once, when my foster family went down South to visit relatives. I didn’t realize where I was standing until it was too late, until the ants were swarming up my ankles and shins. The unbearable burning itch of their bites made me sob back then, and I’m crying now, my hands writhing, straining not to scratch my inflamed skin.
