Page 14 of Devil Wears Nada
“You’re more than that,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes widened slightly, but before he could respond, my phone rang—Julian Vega’s assistant, already following up about seeing my collection.
As I answered the call, I caught Van watching me with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. It looked almost like… fear.
What exactly had I gotten myself into with this fallen prince? And more importantly, what was I going to do about the feelings growing between us—feelings that neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge?
Chapter 8
“No, absolutely not.” I stood in the middle of my workroom, arms crossed, trying to look stern while Van draped himself dramatically across my cutting table. “We are not adding actual hellfire accents to the collection.”
“But think of the impact!” he protested, gesturing expansively. “Vega wants unique, and what’s more unique than garments trimmed with the eternal flames of damnation?”
“Garments that don’t violate fire safety codes or, you know, burn the skin off my clients,” I countered, though I couldn’t help but smile.
Two months into our unexpected cohabitation, I’d grown accustomed to Van’s more outlandish suggestions. What I hadn’t grown accustomed to was the way my heart still skipped when he looked at me with those otherworldly eyes, or the domestic contentment I felt when we worked side by side.
“Fine,” Van sighed, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “But at least consider the color-shifting thread for all the pieces. Julian nearly salivated when he saw how my shirt changed hues.”
“That I can do,” I agreed, returning to the sketch I was refining. “Though I’m still not sure how you created that effect. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Van smiled mysteriously. “Let’s call it a lingering trace of my powers. A minor enchantment to enhance your already exceptional designs.”
I paused, pencil hovering over paper. “You enchanted the thread?”
“Just a touch,” he admitted, sitting up to face me. “Nothing dangerous, I promise. Just a bit of… supernatural enhancement.”
“Is that why Mrs. Hemsworth’s gown seems to float as if it weighs nothing?” I asked, suddenly connecting dots. “And why the jacket I made for Mr. Peterson never wrinkles?”
Van looked sheepish, an expression I rarely saw on his perfect features. “Possibly.”
I should have been angry that he’d been secretly altering my work. Instead, I felt a surge of affection so strong it almost knocked me off balance.
“You’ve been using your remaining powers to make my designs better,” I said softly.
“Don’t make it sound sentimental,” he protested, suddenly very interested in reorganizing my pin cushions. “It benefits me too. The better your reputation, the more luxurious our lifestyle.”
“Our lifestyle,” I repeated, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
Van glanced up, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face before his usual smirk returned. “Well, yes. I’ve grown accustomed to certain amenities. That new Egyptian cotton bedding, for instance. And the imported chocolates.”
“Of course,” I said, playing along with his deflection. “Purely selfish motivations.”
“Exactly.” He looked relieved that I wasn’t pushing the issue. “Now, about the fall line—I’ve been thinking emerald green with gold accents for the statement pieces.”
We fell back into our working rhythm, the moment of almost-honesty tucked away with all the others that had accumulated over the past weeks. There had been many such moments since the night at the fashion forum—times when one of us would say or do something that hinted at deeper feelings, only to quickly retreat behind humor or distraction.
It wasn’t just Van. I was equally guilty of the emotional dance we were doing. Every time I caught myself thinking of him as more than a temporary supernatural houseguest with benefits, I found ways to remind myself of the reality: he was a fallen prince of Hell who would eventually return to his realm. Getting attached was a recipe for heartbreak.
And yet…
“You’re staring again,” Van observed without looking up from the fabric samples he was arranging.
“Just admiring my own handiwork,” I replied, nodding toward the outfit he wore—a deep burgundy shirt with subtle black detailing that made his pale skin look like it was carved from marble.
“Mmm, it is one of your better creations,” he agreed, running a hand down the front of the shirt. “Though I think I prefer the midnight blue ensemble for meeting with Vega tomorrow.”
“Agreed. The blue brings out your eyes when they shift to that color.” I’d become an expert in dressing Van, learning which colors and cuts best complemented his supernatural beauty. It was like having a living masterpiece to design for—challenging, exhilarating, and deeply satisfying.
