Page 15 of Devil Wears Nada
Van smiled, pleased with my attention to detail. “This is why we work well together, Lucas. You see me as I truly am.”
There was weight to his words that caught my attention. “What do you mean?”
He hesitated, fiddling with fabric swatches in a way that told me he was choosing his words carefully—unusual for my typically unfiltered demon.
“In Hell,” he finally said, “no one sees anyone truly. It’s all politics and positioning and power plays. Even as the Prince of Vanity, I was more symbol than person. The beautiful facade, the empty vessel of self-admiration.” He looked up, those shifting eyes suddenly intense. “You’re the first being, mortal or otherwise, who seems to see beyond the surface.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Van—”
“Anyway,” he continued quickly, clearly uncomfortable with his own vulnerability, “that’s why your designs work so well on me. You understand the essence beneath the form. Very practical from a fashion perspective.”
I wanted to push, to pull more of this unexpected honesty from him, but years of guarded caution held me back. “That’s me. Practical to the core.”
The moment passed, as they always did, leaving that familiar ache of something unfinished between us.
“I should check the mail,” I said, needing a moment away from his too-perceptive gaze. “The special buttons for Vega’s collection should have arrived.”
Chapter 9
I escaped to the building’s lobby, taking the stairs to give myself time to regain composure. This had to stop. These almost-moments, these almost-confessions—they were driving me crazy. Either we needed to acknowledge what was developing between us, or I needed to establish firmer boundaries.
The problem was, I didn’t want boundaries with Van. I wanted the opposite.
This is insane,I thought as I unlocked my mailbox.He’s literally not human. He’s going to leave eventually. This was never meant to be permanent.
But as I gathered my mail, I couldn’t ignore the way my apartment had transformed from “mine” to “ours” in just two months. Van’s touches were everywhere—the ridiculous silk throw pillows he’d insisted on buying, the exotic plants he claimed reminded him of Hell’s more pleasant gardens, the organizational system for my fabric collection that actually made more sense than my original method.
When I returned to the apartment, I found Van in the kitchen, humming to himself as he arranged something on a plate.
“What’s this?” I asked, setting the mail on the counter.
“Sustenance,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “You’ve been working for six hours straight. You need food.”
Before me was a perfectly arranged cheese board with fruits, nuts, and small slices of the artisanal bread from the bakery four blocks away—the one Van had discovered during one of his exploratory walks around the neighborhood.
“You went to Delphine’s?” I asked, touched by the gesture.
“I was bored,” he said with a casual shrug that didn’t quite mask the thoughtfulness of the action. “And their sourdough is acceptable for human food.”
“High praise.” I smiled, selecting a grape. “Did you terrorize the barista again?”
“I merely suggested that their coffee nomenclature is needlessly complicated and their sizing system defies logical progression,” Van sniffed. “The fact that the poor girl nearly cried is a reflection of inadequate employee resilience training.”
I laughed, the tension from earlier dissolving. This was our rhythm—Van doing something unexpectedly kind, then covering it with arrogance or dismissal, me pretending to believe his excuses while quietly appreciating the care beneath them.
“The buttons arrived,” I said, reaching for the small package in the mail pile. “Want to see?”
His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. “Obviously. They’re the final touch for the centerpiece jacket.”
I opened the package, revealing delicate obsidian buttons with subtle gold flecks that caught the light.
“Perfect,” Van breathed, picking one up to examine it closely. “They look like solidified fragments of the night sky.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for,” I said, pleased that he saw my vision so clearly.
Our fingers brushed as he handed the button back, and that familiar electricity sparked between us. After two months, his touch still affected me as strongly as it had that first day.
“We should finish the final fitting for tomorrow,” I said, trying to sound professional despite the heat rising in my cheeks.
