Page 27 of The Demon's Due
“The one full of holes,” Ashmedai replied smoothly. “The one that would disappear between her arse cheeks the instant she bends over.”
Morgan, maddeningly, nodded. “Yeah, that one makes sense.”
Síofra glared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Morgan said, not meeting her eyes as he shoved the offending scrap into the basket. “But he’s not wrong.”
Her cheeks burned. She turned only to find Ashmedai’s reflection grinning from the chrome trim of a display. “Ah, progress. My queen dresses for her king.”
The rest of the “shopping” was no better. Every time Síofra reached for something practical, Morgan vetoed it, and Ashmedai swooped in with suggestions.
“That tiny black dress. Barely there fabric. Perfect.”
Morgan, grimly: “He’s right. That’ll do.”
“That red one too. Slit up to the hip. She should wear that when we need free access.”
Morgan again: “Yeah, not bad.”
By the time they were done, the bag held three provocative little impractical dresses, one skirt, two shirts which left little to imagination, two indecently delicate sets of lingerie, and-at Morgan’s insistence-a puffer jacket.
He held it up like a prize. “At least one thing to keep you warm.”
Ashmedai sniffed in disdain. “You bury her in feathers like a goose. Disgraceful.”
Síofra groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I hate both of you.”
Then she proceeded to stuff jeans, t-shirts and normal underwear in and aggressively challenged Morgan to try her.Morgan only shrugged and said, “Lets see if you get to wear any of that.”
Then he hurried her into the dressing room and passed her clothes of his choice.
As they walked out, Morgan muttered, “Still got the thong, though.”
Every moment they spent together ,the bond grew stronger. They could read her thoughts and emotions. Every spike of irritation, every flicker of embarrassment… and the curl of warmth she tried to smother when their attention lingered too long.
She caught herself smiling, small and secret, as Morgan handed over the shopping bag as if he’d just bartered for survival supplies instead of lingerie. Their intense focus on her was maddening and overwhelming… and yet some treacherous part of her liked it.
Ashmedai’s voice whispered in her neck, rich with mischief. “We should go into the dressing area. She should model each piece. The shadows would approve.”
Síofra nearly tripped over her own feet. “Absolutely not.”
Morgan cleared his throat beside her. “Actually…”
She froze. “Actually what?”
He shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his dark hair. “For once… I think he’s got a point.”
Her head whipped toward him, scandalized. “You agree with him?”
Ashmedai’s laughter rolled through them both, smug and jagged. “At last, the vessel shows sense. Even a wolf can recognize the wisdom of a king.”
Síofra groaned. “Oh, don’t start, Ash.”
“Do not call me Ash,” the demon snapped suddenly, his golden eyes flaring in her mind. “I am Ashmedai. King of demons. Do not whittle me down to a pet name.”
Morgan’s mouth twitched as if suppressing a grin. “He hates it when you call him Ash.”
“Good,” she said tartly. “Then I’ll keep doing it. Ashmedai is a mouthful.”
