Astaroth made a frustrated sound. “And is my entire worth and identity boiled down to one incident? Will you always look at me and see the demon who hurt your friends, no matter what else I do or say?”
She was taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. Maybe the alcohol had broken his composure, the way being contacted by her mother had broken hers. Maybe both of them had learned too well how to shield themselves from the world.
Calladia wasn’t sure how to respond, or even if she should. Was this an argument? It had an edge to it their usual banter didn’t, like the uneven sharpness of broken glass. She didn’t like it.
Was Astaroth looking to be comforted, absolved of his crimes? He didn’t deserve such softness, any more than Calladia did.
Their eyes remained locked for long moments. Then Astaroth stood. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced. He looked between her and the bed, then plopped back down on the couch. He lay on his side facing the fire, legs tucked up and head pillowed on his bicep.
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.