No, the demon was standing by the foot of the bed, hands on his lean hips, completely nude.
Calladia’s eyes darted down against her will, then immediately up again. Whoa. That was . . .
Yeah. No. Ew.
She shook her head as if that could dislodge the image, then covered her eyes with her hands for good measure. Nevertheless, his frame was imprinted in her brain: pale skin stretched over lean muscle, and between his legs . . .
“Nope,” she said, refusing to contemplate it.
“Something not to your liking?” he asked.
“All of it, actually.”
“Are you sure? You haven’t even seen all of it yet.” His voice practically dripped with wickedness.
“And I never will,” Calladia vowed. “Now go to sleep, you menace.”
She didn’t move until she heard the rustle of sheets. When she peeked out from between her fingers, she saw him sitting upright in bed, arms crossed behind his head as if to better show off his cut torso. Thankfully, his legs and . . . yeah . . . were covered by the sheets.
“My wards will cause serious damage if you go anywhere but this room and the bathroom,” she said, trying to ignore the warmth in her cheeks. “So don’t fuck with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His lips curved up on one side in a devilish smirk that implied otherwise. His burgeoning black eye should have diminished his appeal, but Calladia had always been a sucker for a good fight.
She turned off the light. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m getting rid of you tomorrow, one way or another.”
His voice trailed after her. “If you say so . . .”
* * *
Calladia banged on the demon’s door the next morning. “Up and at ’em!” she called. When the only answer she got was a groan, she opened the door. The demon was a lump under the covers, so she marched to the window and opened the curtains and blinds to let in the morning light.
“Bloody hell.” Astaroth’s voice was fuzzed with sleep. His head poked up from the covers, and Calladia stifled a laugh. His hair stuck up chaotically around his horns, his eyes were half closed, and he was giving her a surly scowl that aimed for “intimidating monster” but landed on “pathetic morning grump.” His black eye had purpled but didn’t seem too swollen.
“Do you remember everything yet?” Calladia asked.
Astaroth groaned. “It’s too early for speech.”
She checked her smartwatch. “It’s nine a.m. and I’ve already been to the gym.” Thank Hecate for that hangover tonic. Her freshly washed hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and she was buzzing with an endorphin glow.
Calladia wasn’t naturally a morning person, but she’d gotten in the habit of going to the gym early. Working out had been her drug of choice for years. She’d always enjoyed sports, and exercise was a helpful coping tool to survive life’s stresses—not least of which was the pressure exerted by her mother. The older Calladia got and the more she’d struggled with her place in the world and an identity outside of “Cynthia Cunnington’s daughter,” the more she’d hit the gym. Calladia’s mother wouldn’t be caught dead sweating or performing any kind of manual labor, and it felt good to have a hobby separate from her mom’s polished, fake world.
She’d only fallen off her routine during those years with Sam . . . but no, she refused to think about that now. Would rather never think of her ex again, if only brains could be trained like one of Mariel’s plants to bloom only in appropriate directions.
“Come on,” she said when Astaroth showed no signs of getting up. “I have stuff to do.”
“Like what?” he groused, pushing himself to a seated position. The sheet slipped down, revealing carved muscles, and Calladia was instantly reminded he was nude. Her gaze darted to where the sheet bunched at his hips.
Calladia forced her attention upward. It didn’t matter that Astaroth was objectively attractive in a way that catered to Calladia’s precise tastes, nor that he was currently naked in her spare room. He was an evil, horrible, manipulative demon, and she would be a bad person and a worse friend to lust after him. “I work as a personal trainer,” she said, answering his question. “I have three clients this afternoon.” Her mother despised Calladia’s job, but Calladia loved it. Helping other people feel strong and confident was a reward beyond the paycheck.
Astaroth stretched, arms high over his head. His skin was smooth and alabaster pale. According to Mariel, demons had less body hair than humans, but the movement revealed tufts of reddish-gold hair in his armpits. Seeing that detail felt oddly intimate, like sharing a secret.
“It’s not afternoon yet,” Astaroth said, dropping his hands to his lap. “You could have let me sleep.”
“Oh, stop being a whiny baby,” Calladia said.
Astaroth’s eyebrows shot up. “A whiny baby?” His voice was full of outrage. “I’m six centuries old. I’ve seen more mortal lives come and go than you can comprehend.”
“Bully for you. You’re still being a baby.”
“Do you even know who I am?” Astaroth asked pissily.
It was Calladia’s turn to raise her brows. “Do you?”
“I—” His mouth opened and closed a few times, and then Astaroth rubbed his temples, grimacing. He cursed under his breath, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
Calladia instantly averted her eyes. “You’d better wear that sheet like a toga. I refuse to sully my eyes with the sight of your dick.”
“How you wound me.” Astaroth’s mutter was followed by the rustling of sheets. “Joyless harpy.”
“No, just a joyless witch, but there’s a harpy a few blocks down who’d be interested in meeting you. I’m sure she’d love the chance to devour some demon liver.” Ocypete was actually a vegetarian who used her wings and claws to paint abstract art pieces, not disembowel her enemies, but Astaroth didn’t need to know that.
Calladia risked a glance and was gratified to see the demon had wrapped the sheet around his waist. It didn’t solve the issue of his pecs or a truly remarkable eight-pack, but at least she didn’t have to worry about getting another eyeful of his equipment. “So,” she said. “How’s your head? Any memories come back?”
“It hurts,” Astaroth said, rubbing his temple with the hand not clutching the sheet at his waist. “And no, not particularly.”
“You know your age,” Calladia pointed out.
He grimaced. “It’s complicated. Some things I’m certain of, and I get flashes of images or words, but when I try to remember anything that’s happened recently, it’s just . . . blank.”
“So there’s really no change this morning?”
“None.”
“Shoot.” Calladia nibbled her lip, looking between Astaroth and the bright day outside. She couldn’t deal with a demonic houseguest indefinitely. “Look, I know you don’t like the idea of a hospital, but memory loss is a serious thing. You should at least get checked out.”
“No.” The refusal was instantaneous.
“What if they can help? What if every moment you wait, you risk the memories never coming back?”