“You have a keen sense of smell,” he said.
“My mom made me take a potions course in college.” Calladia grimaced. “Not my favorite aspect of magic, but the scents stick with you after you’ve been sweating over a cauldron for a semester.” She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. “I need to stretch my legs.” Once outside the truck, she raised her brows. “Well? Are you coming?”
Astaroth’s chest warmed at the thought that she wanted his company. He got out of the truck and shook out his legs before reaching overhead, groaning at the delicious ache in his muscles. “Lucifer, I’m stiff.” He twisted his torso a few times, then noticed Calladia staring at him. Or rather, at his waist. He glanced down and realized the stretch had lifted his shirt to expose a strip of skin. Astaroth reached even higher, arching his back to show off more of his abs.
Calladia quickly looked away. “I was thinking we should stop here for the night,” she said. “We only have another hour or two of sunlight, and I’d rather reach Isobel’s place during the daytime. Visiting strange witches after dark is a good way to get hexed.”
Relief washed over Astaroth at the realization that his time with Calladia would be extended. It was followed by swift self-condemnation, because that was the opposite of the scenario he should be hoping for. He needed to reach Isobel as soon as possible to learn how to restore his memories and kill Moloch; every minute spent delaying that goal was a minute he risked himself—and Calladia—encountering further danger. “Are you sure?” he asked. “The tent isn’t exactly comfortable. We could push through and see if Isobel has a spare room.”
She shot him a knowing look. “I find the tent perfectly comfortable, but I’m willing to take pity on your delicate constitution. We’ll book a hotel.”
“I’m not delicate,” he objected, despite the relief he felt. “I’m discerning.”
“Definitely delicate,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away, hips swinging. “And a frightful snob, to boot.”
He stifled a chuckle. “Do you know how many people dare disrespect me?” he asked in a mock-stern tone as he caught up to her.
“Not nearly enough, I bet.”
Astaroth couldn’t help it. He laughed, a full, hearty guffaw. “You’re so bloody mean!”
She smirked. “You can take it.”
“And so I shall, gladly,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.
Calladia shook her head. “It’s like you want me to insult you. Are you a masochist or something?”
“Just a demon who likes a challenge. A mortal constantly trying to take the piss out of me is unusual.”
“So you like being called a delicate little purse dog because it’s a novelty?” she asked.
They were passing a bakery with an array of large, colorfully shelled eggs in the window next to the pastries—a sure sign of griffin occupancy, since the creatures used their talons to puncture eggs before slurping up the yolks. On impulse, Astaroth cut Calladia off and backed her toward the window. She went without resistance, and her breath hitched when her shoulder blades met the glass.
Very interesting.
Astaroth planted his hands on either side of her head and leaned in until his mouth was inches from hers. Her eyelashes fluttered. “It is a novelty,” he murmured, reveling in the pleasurable tension strung between them. “But part of the enjoyment comes from imagining all the ways I can prove you wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?” Calladia asked. “How would you prove me wrong?”
She was trying to play tough, but the breathy quality to her voice sent triumph spinning through him. Every sense felt sharpened as he took her in. The unsteady waft of her breath, the pink tinge to her cheeks, her dilated pupils . . . she was far from unaffected by his nearness.
Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?
Astaroth brought his mouth even closer to hers, watching her eyelids sink to half-mast . . . then shifted until his lips brushed her ear. “You wouldn’t call me delicate if you’d seen me in action,” he murmured.
She shivered. “I saw you fight.”
“Not the kind of action I meant.”
Calladia made a shocked noise, then planted her hands on his chest and pushed. He stepped back, grinning at how flustered she looked. “You are incorrigible,” she said, shaking her head.
Not a victory yet, but a tactical advantage. Astaroth slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I think you like it.”