Page 1 of Summoning Mr. Wrong
Prologue
I’ve never been good at adulting. At twenty-five, with a useless art history degree and $87 in my checking account, I was more of a cautionary tale than a success story. Which is how I found myself sitting cross-legged on my threadbare IKEA rug at midnight, surrounded by dollar-store candles and reciting an “abundance ritual” I found on TikTok.
This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.
But rent was due in three days, and my bank account was as empty as my fridge. Desperate times, desperate measures, etc.
“By the light of this flame, I call upon the energies of abundance,” I read from my phone screen, squinting at the cracked display. I was wearing my rattiest sweatpants and a hoodie with mysterious stains that I’d owned since freshman year. My dark hair was sticking up in seventeen different directions, and I hadn’t shaved in days. Not exactly magical practitioner aesthetic.
“Financial prosperity flows to me like water,” I continued, feeling increasingly ridiculous. “The universe provides what I need when I need it.”
I pricked my finger with a safety pin (sterilized with hand sanitizer because I’m not a complete idiot) and let a single drop of blood fall onto the piece of paper where I’d scrawled my wishes.
More money. A better job. Maybe some actual direction in life.
Basic stuff. Nothing outrageous. I definitely didn’t ask for a roommate from hell. Literally.
The candle flames suddenly stretched upward, tall and unnaturally still. The air in my tiny apartment thickened, pressing against my skin like a physical weight. A faint smell of smoke and something spicier—cinnamon?—filled the room.
“What the—” I scrambled backward as the paper with my blood ignited, burning with a flame too bright, too blue to be natural.
The lights flickered, then went out completely. In the darkness, I heard a sound like tearing fabric, followed by a heavy thud on my couch.
When the lights came back on a second later, I wasn’t alone.
There was a man—no, not a man—sprawled across my threadbare couch like he owned it. Six-plus feet of what could only be described as sex incarnate, with skin covered in intricate tattoos that seemed to shift and move in the candlelight. He had sharp features, a jawline that could cut glass, and amber eyes that literally glowed. Small horns curved up from his forehead, partially hidden by tousled black hair.
He was also completely naked.
“Uh,” I managed intelligently, my eyes betraying me by cataloging every inch of his—very impressive—anatomy.
He stretched, completely unconcerned with his nudity, and yawned to reveal pointed canines. “Finally. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for someone to call?”
Don’t look at his dick don’t look at his dick don’t look at his—fuck, I looked at his dick.
“Who—what—how—” I sputtered, still on my ass on the floor.
He sat up, propping muscular tattooed arms on his knees, and grinned at me. “Name’s Asmodeus, but you can call me Deus. Demon of lust, tempter of the virtuous, blah blah blah.” He glanced around my apartment with an appraising eye. “Gottasay, not impressed with the digs. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
I managed to stand on wobbly legs, keeping the coffee table between us. “I didn’t summon a demon. I was doing an abundance ritual.”
Deus threw back his head and laughed, a sound like smoky whiskey and sin. “Oh, honey. You think those TikTok witches know what they’re doing? That ‘abundance ritual’ was a demon summoning with the serial numbers filed off.” He picked up the charred remains of my paper. “Plus, you used blood. Classic rookie mistake.”
This cannot be happening.
“You need to go back,” I said, trying to sound authoritative but achieving something closer to hysteria. “I don’t want a demon. I just want to make rent.”
“Yeah, no can do.” He stood up in one fluid motion, and I immediately averted my eyes from all that naked glory. “The contract’s already sealed. I’m here until I complete a favor for you.”
“I didn’t sign any contract!”
“Blood signature,” he said, wiggling his fingers toward the burnt paper. “Binding in all realms, yadda yadda. Look, I don’t make the rules.” He glanced down at himself. “I should probably put some clothes on, huh? You humans are so weird about nudity.”
Before I could respond, his skin glowed briefly, and suddenly he was wearing tight black jeans and a faded band t-shirt that looked suspiciously like one I’d lost in the laundromat last month.
“That’s better,” he said, running a hand through his hair. The motion made his bicep flex in a way that should be illegal. “Now, about that favor—”
I held up my hands. “No favors. No demons. No… whatever this is. I just want you to go back to hell or wherever you came from.”
