Page 2 of My Indecent Valentine

“Fires out!” I shout. I don’t have to worry about the guests. Samite will take care of them. My job is to shut down the kitchen before we set off the sprinklers and turn this ruined dinner service into a real shit show. My chefs move lightning fast, whipping out their fire blankets and smothering the flames in seconds.

It’s depressing how good we’ve gotten at this, but the damn replacement fans have been on backorder for months. They won’t tell us what the hold up is. The same two fans keep going out, and our technician warned us we’re on borrowed time with the other three. “You probably should have ordered a few backup units and some extra components if you were that worried about downtime. Your original contractor should have told you that.” There’s nothing like good advice that comes a few years too late.

Our front-of-house staff performs a miracle. They box up dishes table side and dote on the guests, smoothing ruffled feathers. Their practiced attentions, on top of the fact that the meals will all be comped, works wonders. Guests are smiling and laughing even as they’re rushed out the door.

“Someone wants a word with you,” the head server stops by to tell me. I’m about to remind him that Samite deals with the customers, but then he points. “He’s waiting for you at table sixty-six.”

I freeze, not looking up, as I consider the request. I could still direct him to Samite, but for whatever reason, my gut is telling me not to. “I’ll go talk to him,” I say with a firm nod, then I shuck my whites and smooth my hair. He’s just a customer, I tell myself. If he were a critic writing a bad review, he wouldn’t ask to talk to me.

“Do you want me to go with you?” the head waiter asks with a nervous edge in his voice as he glances toward the far booth.

“No need. I’ll be fine,” I say. I’m not afraid of my own customers.

I make my way across the rapidly emptying dining room, and the closer I get, the more my pulse kicks up until I can hear it beating in my ears. I’m not afraid, I remind myself. I don’t know why my heart is beating. I’m keyed up from a night gone bad, and I’m curious, that’s all. Whoever sixty-six is, he’s had the pleasure of watching me fuck up dinner service, and now his meal has been comped. He’s had a full night. What else could he possibly want?

“Your waiter is refusing my payment.” His eyes flash at me with irritation the moment I come to a stop. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this, and all I can do is blink in surprise as I mentally adjust. This is about the bill? “I am not accustomed to being refused,” he adds with a rumbling growl in a voice so deep, I feel it in my toes.

“I’m–er, my apologies for any miscommunication, but there’s no need for payment. We’ve comped everyone’s meal,” I explain with a practiced service-industry smile. “We hope you’ll be back on a better night when everything is working properly.”

“I ate a truly delectable meal, and I will pay for it.” He growls and slides a sleek black credit card across the table. There’s a discreet red logo in the corner, the mark of a private bank, demon-owned, very exclusive. I’ve only ever seen it a couple of times in all my years working in fine dining. I silently consider letting him pay. Tonight is going to be enough of a financial loss for us anyway. There’s no reason not to accept, is there?

“That’s decent of you. Thank you,” I say, reaching for the card. His hand comes down on top of mine, flattening it against the table with its hefty weight. I flinch.

“Decency is a human notion, antiquated and priggish. There is nothing decent about me.” He snarls the word ‘decent,’ holding my eye for a beat before he continues. “You should know that up front.” He lifts his palm and waves at the card. “Have one of your servers run that. I have something else to discuss with you. Take a seat.”

I motion a waiter over, and after handing off the card, I slip into the opposite side of the booth. This table is the largest in the whole place and still too small to create the illusion of a safe distance. A nervous tingle runs up my spine, but I straighten in my seat, determined to hide it.

I would ask his name, but I’m not sure he’d tell me. The richer the demon, the cagier they can be about their personal information. I know from experience. Although, there is one trick I’ve learned.

“What can I do for you, Dramoth?” I say, pulling a name out of thin air. Demons might not like giving out their names to strangers, but they absolutely hate being called by the wrong one.

“The name is Magleon,” he corrects me with an irritated snort.

“What can I do for you, Magleon?” I ask again, hiding my smile. While I wait for his answer, I study him, taking in the details I couldn’t see from further away. His appearance is not nearly as flawless as it seemed from across the room. His jaw is large and heavy, like the rest of him, but even though he’s expensively dressed, his chin is scruffy, and his hair looks mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. What on earth could be unsettling enough to cause this mountain of a demon to touch his hair nervously all night?

He takes the same amount of time studying me in return until finally, he chuckles, and as he does, the glow in his eyes dances. “You’re a smart woman. Care to hazard a guess?” He glances over my shoulder as his hand swipes through his hair again, and I note the hard swallow bobbing in his throat just before I turn to see what he’s looking at.

Samite. My husband.

My heart squeezes at the sight of him. He is the shoulders and backbone of this place. So much rests on him, my insufferably snarky rock of a partner.

Tonight, he’s dressed in a black-on-black tailored suit that fits him like a glove, equal parts dapper and devilish, and my eyes take a moment to eat him up. It’s only been a few hours since I last saw him, but I’ve missed everything about him: his orangey-gold horns, neatly trimmed beard, strong hands, and perfect mouth.

A shuddering breath escapes my lips.

Samite has posted himself at the front door, graciously bidding guests a good night, and I can’t help but note that he’s a full head shorter than the tallest demons filing past him. Whether he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, I may never know. He’s never mentioned his height, not once in all the years I’ve known him, and there’s a part of me that truly believes that Samite has no idea that he’s shorter than the average demon. I doubt he would want to change it even if he did know. What must that be like? To feel so secure in your own skin that the opinions of others cannot shake you, can’t leave you frozen where you stand? I wish I knew.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Truly one of a kind,” Magleon murmurs from across the table.

The warm glow that bloomed at the sight of my husband gives way to a cold chill, and my spine stiffens. “What do you want with him?” I ask through clenched teeth, turning back to glare at the black-horned demon. I don’t care if I am merely human. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect what’s mine.

Chapter 2

Samite

Iunroll the small piece of paper passed to me by a smiling demoness. I’d noticed her hanging back, waiting until she was the last of our guests. She offered me her hand, and when I took it, she slid her thumb suggestively across my palm and deposited the paper. Then, releasing me, she sauntered out the door.

It’s her hotel room number. Cute. I snap my fingers, and a small flame leaps to my fingertips. The paper is reduced to a fine gray ash by the time it floats to the floor.

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