A Demon's Guide to Wooing a Witch （Glimmer Falls, #2(75)

Calladia eyed the forest. “I don’t love the idea of leaving Clifford.” Her beloved truck was the closest thing she had to a home at the moment.

“This means camping again, doesn’t it?” Astaroth sounded dismal. But when she glanced at him, he gave her a crooked smile. “Somehow, my delicate constitution and I will endure.”

She shouldn’t find him so entertaining. But over the course of the trip, the evil demon had transformed into a snarky yet supportive rascal. She liked this version of Astaroth, with his clever wit and absurdities. It was worrisome how much she liked him.

Would he remain the same once his memories were recovered though?

Calladia felt uneasy at the thought. Realistically, he needed to be whole again to confront Moloch and enact change on the demon plane, but would he still be willing to publicly fight for the hybrid cause once his memories returned? Or would he fall back into stagnation, cynicism, and easy, glib lies? He’d spent his long life in the pursuit of power, not justice, after all.

In aiding him, was Calladia inadvertently creating one more corrupt politician who could break her heart?

Stop it, she told herself. She wasn’t in love with him or anything. Would it be depressing to see Astaroth become the merciless demon of legend once more, rather than the flawed but fascinating man he was now? Yes. Would it break her? No.

Calladia didn’t break. Even at her lowest, she’d clawed her way back up.

“Let’s go.” She shrugged on the pack that held her sleeping bag and other necessary supplies. They’d stopped at a grocery store and clothing outlet in Griffin’s Nest, so they were fully provisioned. Astaroth had insisted on his own backpack to carry the tent and the other half of their supplies （which he still swore he’d pay her back for）。 When she’d teased him about chivalry, he’d gotten annoyed and said it was called teamwork and that the chivalric code had been left in medieval times for a reason, and he’d thank her not to reintroduce that church-and-state-focused propaganda to the modern world.

Each trailhead had a carved rock at its base depicting various animals. They chose the one with a bat etched into it—thanks, Bronwyn!—and started hiking. The trail quickly grew steep, the trees closing in overhead and blocking out the sky. Roots jutted out of the ground like gnarled knuckles. Soon the path dwindled to a mere track, and forward progress required shoving branches aside.

“Are you sure this is the right path?” Astaroth asked after a thin branch whacked him in the face. He spat out a dead leaf.

“I didn’t see any other bat signs,” Calladia said.

“Why go to the trouble of setting up a whole bloody quest leading to her house when she clearly doesn’t want to be found?”

“Drama,” Calladia said. “Alzapraz once spent a year crafting a hedge maze to his front door. It was only when he tried to order delivery that he realized what a bad idea that was.” According to Mariel, her great-great-etcetera-grandfather had pitched a fit when the delivery person had given up and thrown the pizza over the hedge in the general direction of the house. The next day, the maze was gone.

The air was cool, but the exertion warmed Calladia up, and sweat began to collect between her breasts and at the small of her back. She took off her pack, then stripped off her flannel and tied it around her waist, revealing her sports bra.

A choking sound was followed by crashing and the snapping of twigs. Calladia turned to see Astaroth half inside a large bush he’d apparently walked into. He staggered back, tripped over a root, and landed on his ass.

She burst out laughing.

“Rude,” Astaroth said. “I could have been injured.” He scrambled to his feet and brushed off his backside, then picked leaves out of his hair.

Calladia was still chuckling. “The mighty Astaroth, brought low by a bush.”

“Brought low by your strip show,” he said, flicking his eyes up from where he was inspecting his shirt. The desire reflected in his pale blue irises made Calladia’s cheeks heat.

“I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of people in their bras.” This bra wasn’t what one might term seductive either—it was black, with a sturdy band and a scooped front that barely hinted at cleavage.

“Yes,” Astaroth said, “but none of them were you.”

Calladia, who had so far managed the hike with no trouble, was suddenly breathing hard, and a hot throbbing started between her legs. It was the way he was looking at her from beneath his brows, all smoldering intensity and barely restrained lust.

She shouldn’t have let him finger her this morning. Now she was desperate for him to do it again.

He would oblige if she asked, she was sure. He could have her up against a tree in seconds, his hand diving between her legs as his lips fastened on her nipple through the sports bra.

Calladia felt the lure of the cliff edge again. A wicked impulse seized her. “If I asked you to make me orgasm right now, would you?” she asked.

“Yes.” Astaroth shrugged off his backpack and strode toward her, face set in determined lines.

Calladia was addicted to the push and pull of power between them. When he was close enough to touch, she stopped him with a hand planted on his chest. His pectoral was firm beneath her fingers. “Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?” His hands settled on her hips, a light touch that burned with promise.