A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(63)

Calladia stared at him. What happened to fuck chivalry?

He had been right though; the couch was too small for him to sleep on. His knees hung over the edge, his legs were jammed toward his chest, and if he shifted more than a few inches, he’d topple off.

Calladia sighed. Maybe it was the tequila speaking, but she didn’t like seeing him uncomfortable. She didn’t like fighting with him either—at least not like this.

She moved around the space, dousing lights before casting a quick spell to bank the flames to a subtle glow. Then she grabbed all the spare pillows she could find and made her way to the bed.

“What’re you doing?” Astaroth’s sullen voice came from behind her, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw him peering over the back of the couch.

“Making a pillow wall, obviously.” She’d constructed a soft barricade down the center of the bed. “I get the left side.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said I get the left side. You get the right.” He seemed befuddled, so she shrugged. “If you want to sleep on the couch, I won’t stop you, but the bed would be more comfortable.”

Calladia went to brush her teeth, then left the brush and toothpaste on the counter for Astaroth to use if he wanted. She took her bun down and shook it out, finger-combing the damp strands. She’d brush it in the morning once it was dry.

When she returned to the bed, there was a demon-shaped lump under the covers on the right side. Calladia felt a twinge of something alarmingly close to fondness when she noticed the tips of his horns peeking out. Mariel had told her Oz slept bundled up like a burrito, his demon physiology demanding heat. Astaroth was apparently the same.

Calladia slid into the side of the bed closest to the window, where the air was cooler. Even with the pillow wall between them, she was far too aware of the demon’s presence. His soft breathing was audible in the stillness, and the mattress dipped slightly in favor of his weight.

Rain began tapping against the roof and windows, and Calladia yawned. “Good night, dramatic demon,” she mumbled as she curled up on her side.

Sleep reached for her with soft, dark fingers. She had nearly succumbed when Astaroth murmured a reply.

“Good night, grumpy witch.”

Calladia smiled.

NINETEEN

Astaroth woke up with a mouthful of hair.

He mumbled and spit it out, only to realize the hair had encroached elsewhere. Strands were wrapped around his neck, something brushed his ear, and when he breathed in, hair tickled his nostril. He nuzzled into the pillow to scratch his nose, then opened bleary eyes.

Dawn light spilled through the window, casting a bright rectangle across the bed. Astaroth was lying on his left side, and directly in front of him was a large quantity of the hair in question. It was long, straight, and buttery-blond, the texture silky where it wasn’t tangled from sleep. The head to which the hair belonged rested on a pillow next to him, facing away in a mirror of his pose.

He inhaled the scent of Calladia’s soap. She smelled like oranges and sun-warmed linen.

His sleep-fuddled mind didn’t understand why she was so close to him. Hadn’t she erected a pillow fortress? His right hand was resting on something soft; maybe the barrier hadn’t been fully breached overnight.

When he raised his head, he realized he wasn’t touching the pillow barricade. His hand was resting on the curve of Calladia’s waist. Her chest rose and fell softly under blue, rubber duck–patterned fabric.

He slowly placed his head back on the pillow, not wanting to make any sudden movements and wake her. Resting with her, touching her, felt surreal. Lucifer, even seeing her relaxed and quiet was bizarre. She’d had a few lively conversations with herself during the night, but now her breathing was deep and even.

It could be like this between us, he thought. Days spent fighting the world and each other, nights and lazy mornings dedicated to peace. His witch was a powerhouse, a warrior queen, but even warriors had to rest between battles.

It was who they let themselves rest around that mattered.

Calladia shifted. “Freaking bulldozer,” she muttered.

Astaroth bit back a laugh. His fingers gently flexed on her waist. The onesie was soft, but he felt the firm line of her body beneath it.

Had rubber ducks ever been so arousing?

Calladia made a grumpy noise. “Where’d you get the fedora?”

Astaroth froze. The words echoed in his head, ringing like a bell. Where’d you get the fedora? Where’d you get the fedora?

Where’d you get the fedora, a pickup artist convention?

His temple throbbed, and his head spun. Astaroth closed his eyes, swallowing against nausea.

A memory played out, one bracketed with green pines and sprawling brambles. The background was hazy, but one thing was clear and sharp: Calladia, standing with her fists clenched, a furious expression on her face. Her hair hung loose to her lower back, and she was wearing the same outfit from the first day: leggings patterned with daisies and a blue tank top that said Sweat Like a Girl.

In the memory, Astaroth stood opposite her, his white suit clean of blood and a black fedora covering his horns. His hand rested on the crystal skull topper of his cane sword.

This motherfucker is Astaroth of the Nine? the Calladia of memory asked. Where’d you get the fedora, a pickup artist convention?

Memory Astaroth and current Astaroth were united in their outrage. I don’t take sartorial critiques from people wearing spandex, he’d sneered.