Page 69 of Interior Design for Demons
His voice is decadent sin. “Tell me how disgusting I am, Grace. Tell me how much you despise me.”
The female demons don’t stop licking him, but the huge male demon behind him shifts, growling deep in his chest.
I’m trembling, blood draining from my face, my limbs. I’m going to be sick.
“Get off me,” whispers Apollyon. And when no one listens he roars, in the voice of the dragon, “Get off me!”
The five demons extricate themselves from him and duck outside, one by one.
Apollyon swirls a robe of liquid night around himself and steps in, cradling my jaw with his fingers. “You know what I am,” he says hoarsely, rubbing his thumb along my chin. “This is what I do. I’m a soulless, worthless scrap of false flesh. Why should I not try to claim what little pleasure I can from this wretched life? I have no morals, Grace. I would have been loyal to you, whatever it cost me—but you rejected me. So what’s the use?”
My gaze drifts to his chest, where the deep V of the robe shows the bloodstains on his breast. “You’re punishing yourself.”
“Only a little.” He swallows. “Melchizedek—the big guy—he was going to give me the real punishment later. I’m told he’s good at extracting the very purest screams.”
I want to draw him safe into the circle of my arms, to tell him he doesn’t have to do this, that he can be happy and comfortable and whole. But my head is cloudy from doing shots, and I’m scared. I’m terrified of him, of the dark freedom he embraces. Is it really freedom, or is it a prison with bars forged by his own hand and by Hell’s will?
“I wanted to talk to you,” I whisper.
“Ah.” He closes his eyes, lips pressed tight.
“And then I saw you—with them—”
He nods, eyes still closed. “I ruin everything.”
“I need to go.”
“I understand.”
Heartsick, I shrink back, under the heavy curtain. “Call them back,” I say softly. “Have your fun. Do what you need to do, and so will I.”
The curtain falls between us, and I stagger to the bar to throw back another searing shot. Rath is on a stool nearby, speaking to a woman in a gold dress. As I stumble past him I snag his warm thick fingers in mine, and I pull him away from her.
“What is it, contestant?” he says coldly.
I keep pulling until I get him into a dark space behind a high-backed sofa, between two purple drapes. Silently I find the buckle of his pants, whip his belt out, jerk down the zipper.
I drop to my knees.
When it’s over, I wipe my mouth on Rath’s sleeve, pull myself to my feet, and lean against him, with my cheek pressed to his broad chest. The warmth is comforting, but he doesn’t embrace me. He takes a handful of my hair and pulls my head back, his mouth commanding mine, delving into it, claiming it.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say dully between his kisses. “I’m just sad. And drunk.”
“I know.” He sighs. “You care abouthim, don’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Kiss me some more.”
Rath pushes me back with an aggrieved expression. “You must think I’m a fool.”
“Maybe a little bit.”
“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” he growls. “But your mouth felt so good.”
“I think I’m going to be sick now,” I say conversationally. “Shall I puke on the upholstery again?” I gesture to the nearby couch.
“Fuck no.” He pulls me down a short corridor and shoves me into a bathroom.
A few minutes later I flush the shots—and the evidence of what I did with Rath—down the plumbing of Hell, and I totter back into the corridor.
