His fingers slowly graze the seam of my dress.
“Demonia,” he murmurs, breathing me in.
Demon. Temptress. She-devil.
All fitting descriptions of who I am—and who I’ll definitely be to him by the time this night is over.

I haven’t seen her in over a year. We crossed paths once, on a job. Damon and I were tracking a CEO who liked using his wife as a punching bag whenever he lost on an investment. We followed him to an auction where he’d be off guard.
Lola was already there, draped over the arm of some bald bastard, wearing an emerald-green dress that matched her eyes. She kissed his cheek. Rubbed his shoulders. Played her role perfectly.
But the second she spotted me, the performance cracked. Her smile fell and her languid body went rigid.
As we were leaving, I caught one last glimpse of her outside taking a thick wad of cash from him while her bodyguards stood watch behind her. Lucky for them they weren’t the same two from that night at Venom. Otherwise, I’d have killed them both then and there, consequences be damned.
It was just a reminder of what I already knew. She’ll do anything for a paycheque.

I’m sitting on the tiny back porch—a generous name for three rickety wooden steps—while Roscoe runs laps around the clearing, burning off his endless energy. Every so often, he trots up to Monroe to sniff at him, like he’s making sure the man still exists.
Monroe’s out there with an axe, chopping firewood like he was born to do it. He’s been at it for over an hour now, and sometime between log ten and log thirty, he ditched his light jacket despite the gentle snowfall.
He sets another log on the stump, steps back, raises the axe behind his head, and swings. One clean strike splits it in half. Another splits the halves again. His arms flex beneath his athletic long sleeve, and his hair is tied into a half-bun to keep it out of his eyes. His forehead and neck shimmer with sweat, catching the gold of the early evening light.
I swear to god, whoever invented electric heating clearly never watched a man chop wood. Watching this shit could get a girl pregnant.
And considering Monroe’s track record… I should probably take a test.