Page 26 of Devil Wears Nada
I smiled at the familiar voice calling from our workroom, setting down my coffee mug as I called back, “Check the middle drawer of the filing cabinet. I organized everything yesterday, remember?”
A pause, then: “Found them! Your organizational system is bizarre but effective.”
I laughed, finishing my breakfast before joining Van in what had once been my solo workspace and was now unquestionably our shared domain. He was bent over the cutting table, arranging fabric swatches with the same intense concentration I’d fallen in love with twice now.
“The Neiman Marcus order is ready to ship,” I said, coming up behind him to wrap my arms around his waist. “And Julian called—the spring collection is outselling everything else in the boutique.”
Van leaned back against me, his body fitting perfectly against mine as it always had. “Of course it is. We’re brilliant together.”
I pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. “Yes, we are.”
The past six months had been a journey unlike any I could have imagined. The morning after Hell’s bargain wasenacted, I’d expected devastation—the crushing weight of loving someone who no longer knew me. And those first few weeks had indeed been painful, watching Van navigate a life he didn’t remember creating, seeing confusion in his eyes where recognition should have been.
But something remarkable had happened. Without his memories, but with his essential self intact, Van had fallen in love with me all over again. Differently this time—more gradually, more humanly—but with the same intensity, the same connection that had defined our first coming together.
His mind had constructed an elegant fiction: he believed he was a European model who had come to Los Angeles for a fashion shoot, suffered a traumatic head injury in an accident, and been taken in by me during his recovery. When his “memory” didn’t return, he’d decided to stay, discovering in the process that he had an innate talent for design that complemented mine perfectly.
It was close enough to our truth that I could live with it. And in the months that followed, as we rebuilt our relationship piece by piece, I discovered something profound: the Van I’d fallen in love with wasn’t defined by his supernatural origins or his memories of Hell. He was defined by his passion, his creativity, his capacity for love—none of which had been taken by Hell’s bargain.
“You’re thinking deep thoughts,” Van observed, turning in my arms to face me. “I can tell by your expression.”
“Just appreciating how far we’ve come,” I said honestly.
He smiled, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead with familiar tenderness. “From me being a confused amnesiac in your bed to partners in the hottest new design house in LA? I’d say that’s significant progress.”
I laughed. “Deadly Sins Atelier. Still can’t believe that name came to you ‘out of nowhere.’”
Van shrugged, his expression turning thoughtful. “It just felt right somehow. Like it was always meant to be our brand.” He traced a finger along my jawline, a gesture he’d rediscovered on his own. “I get those feelings sometimes. Like there are memories just beyond my reach, important ones.”
I held my breath, as I always did when he brushed against the edges of his former truth. Hell’s bargain held firm—he never quite broke through to his supernatural past—but sometimes he came tantalizingly close.
“Your doctor said that’s normal with amnesia,” I said, the familiar cover story coming easily now. “Fragments might always feel just out of reach.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t look entirely convinced. “But sometimes I dream things that can’t possibly be memories. Flying. Falling through darkness. Strange creatures with beautiful, terrible faces.” His blue eyes—now permanently human but no less captivating—searched mine. “And you. Always you, even in the strangest dreams.”
My heart squeezed with bitter-sweet joy. His soul remembered, even if his mind couldn’t access the truth.
“Maybe you were a fantasy writer in your previous life,” I suggested lightly, our standard response to these moments.
He laughed, the sound as musical as it had always been. “Maybe. Or maybe…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Anyway, we have work to do. The Vogue photoshoot is tomorrow, and I still think the hemline on the feature piece needs adjusting.”
I let him change the subject, following him to the dress form that held our latest creation. As we worked side by side, making minor adjustments to what was already a stunning garment, I marveled at how seamlessly we still functioned as creative partners. Hell had taken his memories, but not his talent, not his eye, not his innate understanding of beauty.
And certainly not his ability to drive me crazy in the best possible ways.
“You’re staring again,” he noted without looking up from his pinning.
“Can’t help it,” I admitted. “You’re distracting.”
He smiled, a hint of his old vanity shining through. “I know. It’s a gift and a burden.”
Some things never changed, memory or no memory.
* * *
Later that evening, after we’d finished our work and shared a quiet dinner on our balcony, Van disappeared into the bathroom for his nightly routine. I took the opportunity to retrieve something I’d been working on in secret, a project that had occupied my spare moments for weeks.
When he emerged, I was waiting in our bedroom, a large flat box on the bed between us.
