Dangerous.
And damn if Calladia didn’t like that.
She felt the urge to beat her head into a wall. Curse her miserable luck to get stuck with a demon who looked like her every fantasy come to life. On paper, a jacked werewolf ought to be exactly Calladia’s type, but her tastes had always run counter to expectation. She liked that she and Astaroth were the same height. She liked his snide comments and aura of elegant menace. She even liked how polished he was, despite how aggravating all that perfection could be, because it made her want to muss him up. Tackle him into a pit of mud, maybe, and watch his sneer turn into sputtering outrage.
Calladia didn’t want to date some burly bruiser.
She wanted to be the burly bruiser.
Kai handed the phone back, breaking her reverie. “I’m glad I met you, fair Calladia.” He winked. “I’m sure our paths will cross again soon.”
Astaroth looked about to say something withering, so Calladia grabbed the demon’s elbow and steered him around. “Thanks for the directions, Kai,” she called over her shoulder.
Kai grinned and waved.
“What was that?” Calladia demanded once they were out of earshot. “You looked ready to strangle him.”
“What was that?” Astaroth retorted. “He was practically drooling over you.”
His appalled tone seemed over-the-top. Sure, Calladia wasn’t the peak of femininity, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that a man might like her. “Turns out some men have taste,” she said. “Just because you think I’m a violent harridan with no fashion sense doesn’t mean other people agree.”
“But you are a violent harridan with no fashion sense.”
Stung, Calladia stopped in her tracks, yanking her hand away from his arm. “Screw you.”
Astaroth looked startled. “What?”
Her cheeks were still hot, but this time it was shame causing the flush. “You may not find me attractive,” she said, “but other people do. You don’t need to be cruel about it.”
He squinted like she’d said something ludicrous. “When did I say you aren’t attractive?”
“Oh, maybe the unfashionable harridan insult?”
“It wasn’t an insult, just a bit of banter.” At Calladia’s disbelieving look, Astaroth winced. “All right, I can see how my comments on fashion could be controversial, but you’ve made it clear you don’t care about that. Why should it bother you?”
Did he even hear half the things that came out of his stupidly pretty mouth? Calladia started marching down the street again, not checking to see if he followed. “I don’t care about fashion,” she said. “But in what world is calling me a harridan a compliment?”
“This world,” he said, catching up to her. “Didn’t we talk about the importance of building a personal brand? You’ve done an excellent job.”
Her glare threatened to flay him on the spot.
Astaroth held up his hands. “Perhaps I also worded that poorly.”
“You think? Apparently that knock on the head took away your social skills—if you had any to begin with.” Her gut churned with humiliation, and anger burned red-hot in her veins. By Hecate, she wanted to grab him by the horns, slam him into the nearest wall, and—
“I’m sorry.”
The soft apology accomplished what nothing else could have. Calladia stopped, her anger warping into confusion. “What?”
Astaroth ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it so the pale gold layers feathered over his black horns. “I forgot that what demons take as compliments, others might not.”
Calladia didn’t understand. “Calling someone a violent harridan would be a compliment for demons?” She could only imagine what Dear Sphinxie—the Glimmer Falls Gazette advice columnist—would say.
“I’ve been called a diabolical, ruthless, remorseless monster,” he said. “And many other things, of course.” He shrugged. “That means I’ve cultivated a reputation that makes people fear me. If they say it to my face, it means they respect me enough to admit that fear.”
Calladia blinked. “That’s—wow.” Fucked up was what came to mind. “So by insulting me, you meant to tell me you fear me?”
“It’s not fear,” he said. “I just have a healthy respect for your anger and your right hook. Would you rather I pretend you’re some delicate flower?”
Calladia had never been a delicate flower, and she never would be. She stared at him, recalculating their hostile encounters through this upside-down demon lens. He engaged in their arguments eagerly, which she’d considered a mark of dislike. Everything she gave, he dished right back.