A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(15)

“No.” The refusal was instantaneous.

“What if they can help? What if every moment you wait, you risk the memories never coming back?”

“They’ll come back,” he said, but although his tone was confident, his darting eyes suggested he had doubts.

“What will you do if they don’t?” Calladia pressed. “You can’t stay here. Are you going to wander the streets indefinitely, waiting for Moloch to finish you off?”

Astaroth made a face. “He does seem like a touchy wanker.”

“And you’re vulnerable.” She could tell Astaroth didn’t like that, so she kept pushing. “You’re injured and alone, without any information about your enemies. If you don’t take steps to get treatment, then frankly, you’ll deserve whatever happens to you.”

“Lovely bedside demeanor you have,” he said. “Do you offer inspirational speeches as well?”

“I prefer inspirational butt-kickings,” Calladia said. “So I’m setting the rules. Either you go to the hospital or end up on the street, but you’re not staying here a moment longer.”

Seconds ticked past while Astaroth glared at her. Calladia folded her arms and glared right back. He wanted a standoff? He could have one.

As the silence stretched out, the scene struck Calladia as absurd. Here she was in her cheerful spare bedroom, sunlight spilling through the window, while a six-hundred-ish-year-old demon wearing a bedsheet glowered at her. He’d need to try way harder than that to intimidate her, but then again, she hadn’t found him intimidating the previous day either.

Their first meeting was preserved so vividly in her mind, it was a marvel it hadn’t imprinted itself just as deeply in his brain. Astaroth hadn’t glared at her in the woods when Calladia had come to help Mariel. No, he’d sneered, as if she were no better than a bug beneath his boot. With his suit, cane, and that absurd fedora, he’d looked like a Hollywood version of an over-the-top villain. Swaggering and threatening, puffed up on his own importance.

Calladia shouldn’t have found him physically attractive then. And she hadn’t—not really—just a passing thought when she’d first clapped eyes on his cheekbones and lean, elegant frame, an objective observation soon subsumed by pure rage. She definitely shouldn’t find him attractive now.

He was still glowering. Calladia turned her lips down in an exaggerated frown and cocked her head, mocking him.

“Blast,” he muttered.

Calladia kept waiting. He might have the patience of an immortal, but she had the kind of patience that came from pure spite. No way he was winning this standoff.

Astaroth threw up his free hand. “Fine,” he spat. “I’ll go to hospital.”

Triumph swelled in Calladia’s chest. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Now get dressed.”

FIVE

I look awful,” Astaroth groused, running his fingers through sleep-tangled, blood-caked hair as he peered at himself in the mirror.

Calladia was leaning against the doorframe, watching him “primp,” as she’d called it. “Yep,” she said cheerfully.

“You don’t have to agree.” Astaroth scratched his neck, feeling disgruntled and uncomfortable. He eyed the shower. “I don’t suppose your hospitality extends to a shower?”

Calladia sniffed in his direction, then wrinkled her nose. “You do smell rank.”

“Lovely,” he muttered. He turned to the shower and dropped the sheet.

“Do you have any modesty?” Calladia asked.

“No.” Astaroth bent to turn the shower knob, biting the inside of his cheek when Calladia gasped. If she didn’t like it, she could stop looking.

Once the water was steaming hot, he stepped in and slid the door closed. Through the clouded glass, he saw Calladia’s silhouette still in the doorway.

“Supervising?” he asked.

“I don’t trust you not to use my good conditioner.”

He studied the options on display. “None of these look good.” Was that a three-in-one conditioner, shampoo, and body wash? The horror!

“I could make you wash with steel wool.”

The only options were cheap-looking shampoo and conditioner or the dreaded three-in-one. How did she manage to have such soft-looking hair when she was abusing it with subpar products? He had too much self-esteem to go with the worst option, so he grabbed the basic bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

Five minutes later, he felt much better. The water at the bottom of the tub was running clear again after the blood had washed away, and he smelled like kiwi fruit.

“I’m coming out,” he warned Calladia.

A yellow towel was tossed over the top of the shower. He caught it and dried off before wrapping it around his waist.

When he stepped out, Calladia handed him his clothes, folded as well as they could be with blood stiffening the fabric. He grimaced at the thought of getting dressed in them again.

Calladia sniffed the air a few times, and her jaw dropped in outrage. “You used my good conditioner!”

“No, I used your slightly-less-objectionable conditioner.”

“Ugh.” Calladia shook her head. “Hurry up. I’ll be waiting in the hall.”

After swiping her deodorant over his pits, Astaroth dressed quickly. The fabric was scratchy against his damp skin and smelled of body odor and dried blood. He slicked his hair back, studying his reflection.