Page 6 of Devil Wears Nada
“Like what?”
“Afterglow,” he said, stretching like a satisfied cat. “And a curious desire to be held, which is most undignified for a prince of Hell.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get cleaned up.”
As I led him to the bathroom, carefully avoiding the broken glass everywhere, he leaned against me with unexpected affection.
“I’ve decided,” he announced imperiously, “that you’ll do nicely as my human consort while I’m exiled here.”
“Is that so?” I asked, amused despite myself. “Don’t I get a say in this arrangement?”
Van looked genuinely confused. “Why would you say no? That was transcendent, and I’m literally divine.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re something, alright.”
As I helped him into the shower, watching the water cascade over his perfect form, I had a sinking realization: demon or delusional, this beautiful disaster was going to turn my life upside down.
And I wasn’t entirely sure I minded.
Chapter 3
A week into cohabiting with a fallen demon prince, I’d established a few certainties:
First, Van wasn’t delusional. No human could shatter glass with arousal or occasionally make time hiccup when particularly excited. After watching him accidentally freeze my entire block for thirty seconds during an especially intense orgasm (leaving me with a neighborhood-wide power outage to explain), I’d accepted the supernatural reality of my situation.
Second, demon or not, Van was the most infuriatingly helpful unhelpful person I’d ever met. He’d reorganize my fabric collection by “aura compatibility” rather than color or texture. He’d answer my phone with “Lucas Beaumont’s atelier of delights, how may we serve your aesthetic needs?” And he’d provide cutting fashion critique to my clients that was equal parts brilliant and horrifying.
“You absolutely cannot wear that silhouette with your shoulder-to-hip ratio,” he told Mrs. Hemsworth, my wealthiest client, during a fitting. “It’s like putting a Rembrandt in a plastic frame from the dollar store.”
I’d nearly had a heart attack, but Mrs. Hemsworth had loved his honesty, tipped him generously, and booked three more commissions.
And third—most disturbingly—I was starting to actually like having him around.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Van said, leaning over my shoulder as I sketched a gown for an upcoming charity event. He smelled like my expensive shampoo and something otherworldly I couldn’t name.
“I’ve been designing for ten years,” I reminded him.
“And I’ve been the embodiment of aesthetic perfection for millennia,” he countered, taking the pencil from my fingers. His touch lingered, sending that now-familiar electricity through me. “The neckline should swoop here, following the natural line of the collarbone.”
He made a few deft strokes, and damn him, he was right again.
“How are you so good at this?” I asked, trying not to sound impressed.
Van shrugged, a graceful roll of those perfect shoulders. “Beauty is my domain. Fashion is merely beauty you wear.” He set the pencil down and stretched, his borrowed silk shirt (my silk shirt, technically) riding up to reveal a strip of pale abdomen. “Speaking of which, when are you going to make me something to wear? I can’t keep borrowing your things. I’m much taller, and your color palette does nothing for my undertones.”
I’d been avoiding this. Partly because I had actual paying clients to attend to, and partly because the thought of dressing Van—of measuring him, of having him model my creations—made it hard to think straight.
“I have a business to run,” I hedged.
“And I’ve brought you three new clients this week alone,” he countered. “That dreadful woman with the Pomeranian has booked a full wardrobe consultation, and she’s telling all her rich friends about your ‘exotic new assistant with the divine eye for fashion.’”
He wasn’t wrong. Mrs. Geller had cornered me in the hallway to gush about Van’s “European sensibilities” and “refreshing candor.”
“Fine,” I sighed, setting aside my sketch. “Let’s get you measured.”
Van’s face lit up with genuine delight, and something fluttered in my chest. When he wasn’t being an arrogant ass, his enthusiasm was almost… cute.
Cute? A demon prince of Hell? Get it together, Lucas.
