Page 16 of Devil Wears Nada
Van’s smile turned knowing. “Yes, we should. Though your fitting sessions have a tendency to end with significantly fewer clothes than they begin with.”
“Professional focus,” I insisted, even as my body was already responding to the memory of our last “fitting session,” which had ended with Van bent over the dress form, my name on his lips as I took him from behind.
“Of course,” he agreed with mock seriousness. “Completely professional.”
Somehow, we did manage to complete the fitting without succumbing to temptation, though it required more willpower than I cared to admit. The midnight blue ensemble—tailored trousers, a structured jacket with subtle shimmer, and a silk shirt that complemented Van’s complexion perfectly—was perhaps my finest work to date.
“Vega will be impressed,” Van said, admiring himself in the mirror (specially reinforced after the third replacement). “This collection will secure your place in LA’s fashion elite.”
“Our place,” I corrected without thinking. “This is as much your vision as mine.”
Van went very still, his reflection showing an expression of surprise that quickly transformed into something more guarded. “I’m merely the muse and the model. The talent is yours.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” I said, stepping behind him to adjust the lay of the jacket across his shoulders. “These designs evolved because of your input. Your eye for detail, your understanding of how fabric moves, your insight into what will truly showcase the wearer. You’re as much a designer as I am.”
He met my eyes in the mirror, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. “Lucas…”
“I’m going to credit the collection as a collaboration,” I continued, suddenly certain it was the right thing to do. “Lucas Beaumont and Van.”
“Van what?” he asked, turning to face me. “I don’t exactly have a mortal surname.”
“Just Van,” I said, smiling. “Like Cher or Madonna. Mysterious, singular.”
“Appropriate,” he agreed, but his usual bravado seemed subdued. “Though I don’t know that I deserve official recognition.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
He looked away, moving to take off the jacket with careful movements. “Because I won’t be here forever, Lucas. Eventually, Hell will recall me or restore my full powers. This—” he gestured between us, “—was never meant to be permanent.”
There it was, the truth we’d both been dancing around. My heart constricted painfully in my chest.
“I know that,” I said quietly, taking the jacket from him and hanging it with more care than necessary. “But while you are here, you deserve recognition for your contributions.”
“Lucas.” His voice had a gentleness I rarely heard. “Look at me.”
I did, though it hurt to meet his gaze.
“I’ve existed for millennia,” he said. “I’ve witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, the birth of artistic movements, the evolution of beauty in all its forms. But these two months with you…” He paused, seeming to search for words, which was unusual for my silver-tongued demon. “They’ve been more meaningful than centuries in Hell’s courts.”
“Van—”
“Let me finish,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “I need to tell you why I was banished. The truth.”
I went still, sensing the importance of this moment. “I thought it was politics.”
“It was, but not in the way I implied.” He moved to sit on the small sofa in my workroom, his perfect posture now curved withthe weight of confession. “I challenged the hierarchy because I was… dissatisfied. Empty. I had everything a demon prince could desire—power, position, the adoration of lesser demons—but it meant nothing.”
I sat beside him, careful to leave space between us. “What happened?”
“I suggested to the ruling council that perhaps our entire paradigm was flawed,” he said with a bitter smile. “That perhaps true fulfillment comes not from the accumulation of power or the worship of self, but from… connection. Creation. Contributing to something beyond oneself.”
“And they banished you for that?” I asked, incredulous.
“Heresy of the highest order,” he confirmed. “Lucifer himself called me corrupted by human philosophies. My punishment was to be stripped of most of my powers and cast into the mortal realm, to experience firsthand the emptiness and futility of human existence.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “The joke’s on them, because what I found here with you is exactly what I suspected existed. Purpose. Collaboration. The joy of creating beauty together rather than simply being beautiful in isolation.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Van, are you saying—”
