Page 28 of I Accidentally Summoned a Demon Boyfriend

And he didn’t stop. He fucked me through the night—on the couch, in the shower, in the bed, and back to the shower—and then he left me, legs weak, body limp, mind spinning.

I woke up on the fourth day with one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had. My head felt like a freight train had run me over, and my body was sore from the acrobatics of the night before. Metice fed me again before he left, but my mind felt like I’d been sucking on helium.

I avoided eye contact and stared out the window. It wasn’t until he left that I decided we had to talk about what happened. After a day full of nervous thoughts and failed attempts to get my phone to contact the human world, I waited by the door for him to return home.

Only, I didn’t get to bring up the topic of our unexpected night of fucking. Because when Metice walked through the door, he was covered in blood.

I ran to his side as he stumbled into the room. “What happened to you?”

“I found the right bargain.” He coughed, and more blood spilled from his mouth onto the floor. “We go to see the witch tomorrow.”

.

7

Detour

“Let me help you,” I fussed as he brushed my hand away. I sat next to him on the leather couch with a towel and a bowl of water.

“I’m fine. I’ll heal,” he groaned after lifting his arm too quickly. It was then I recognized just how badly hurt he was.

“Obviously you’ll heal, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help.” I pressed the towel against a bloody wound. “These are going to scar.”

Metice didn’t say anything. Beneath the eerie moon, he watched me clean the blood from his skin. I couldn’t look at him because I was terrified. How could I not be when the demon who was supposed to be protecting me from the rest of hell looked like he was near death? My mothering nature pushed my terrified inner child into a corner. After I finished his left arm, I moved to the other and followed that with his chest, shoulder, and finally, the cut above his eye. I had to change the water in the bowl six times before I was done.

The entire time, he sat there silently watching me. We didn’t talk, not about his wounds or the night before.

I could see him already healing before I finished cleaning the wounds, but I couldn't stop myself. I felt the need to help him. Metice had to be okay, and there was something in me that pushed me to make sure of it.

It wasn't until after he fell asleep when I finally found my way back to my room, and for the first night since I landed in hell, I couldn't sleep at all. All I could think about was, what the hell was possibly strong enough to do that to him? And what if that thing found me? From there, I wondered about the bargain he’d made. What exactly did he have to give up to protect me? How did that exchange leave him in such a terrible condition?

They left him bloodied and beaten. And he’d suffered all that just to make sure I could go home safely. It wasn’t right, and the thought brought on the heady sensation of guilt. Of course, I should feel guilty. Because of a drunken mistake, no matter how indirect, I’d hurt him. Metice was in pain, and it was my fault.

I didn’t want to care as much as I did. I didn't do it on purpose, but it didn't change the fact that my actions had ramifications. And the demon, who was mostly an asshole to me at first, had softened. In the days we spent together, over the meals we shared, I realized he wasn’t so terrible.

And as I lay there in bed, surrounded by books, I had to accept something. In the time I spent with Metice, I grew to care about him. I shared so much of myself, it would have been impossible not to feel a developing bond. And though he'd told me very little about him, he listened. He was attentive, and he remembered things about me.

Not to mention the sex. Yes, I was drunker than I ever imagined I could get off a few sips of wine, but I wanted him. It wasn’t just that once. Over the days of talking, of growing closer, my curiosity about him increased. I often found myself watching his lips as he talked, his ass as he walked by, and wondering what it would feel like to have him hold me.

I looked around the room full of things he’s picked out just for me, and I couldn't help but feel that he cared about me. Yeah, we gave each other shit, and we would continue to do so, but something was happening there, something I'd seen in movies and read in books. There was a connection between us, one I had to sever, because there was no way in hell I was going to fall for a demon. I didn't want him to be hurt, but I sure as hell wasn’t signing up to spend the rest of eternity with him. I’d picked up that book and put it back the hell down.

There was something else bothering me. Since I admitted my truth to him and told him about my history and psychosis, I had been questioning myself. Why hadn't I called my therapist the second I saw him standing in my bedroom? Why had I just accepted that this insanity was the truth? For a long time, I wanted to believe that those lives I experienced were real, that I didn't just make it up in my head because that felt like an easy explanation for what I experienced. When he appeared, he gave me a reason to believe I wasn't crazy.

Then, I thought about those people, the ones who I came to know and love, the ones I'd been forced to mourn. Maybe they were real. Maybe they were out there, living in another world that I’d somehow accessed. Metice said it—there were magical beings on earth. Could I have inherited that ability from one of them?

Then, there was the fleeting hope that I could somehow find my way back to them. It was insane to think about, but it felt better to have talked about it, even with the one who I partially believed was just another break in my psyche. And now, he was hurt. So what did that mean? Did it mean I was breaking further? Did it mean I would have to mourn the loss of yet another figment of my imagination? Even if I believed the phone would magically work again to contact my therapist, the damn thing was dead because I’d forgotten to charge it. I was on my own, and he was hurting. I had no idea what I was going to do.

The next morning, after getting maybe twenty minutes of sleep, I gave up the effort. Metice still wasn’t awake. I showered, dressed, and waited for him at the table. When he appeared, he had no food. He looked tired, but the wounds that previously covered his body were gone. His eyes were dark and his horns, which he'd had hidden since I got there, were erect on his head.

“Are you okay?” I stood and met him at the bottom of the steps. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine. How are you feeling? Did you sleep at all?” He shifted the attention back to me.

“No. I couldn't.” I scanned his arms and lifted his shirt to check his chest.

“Excuse me?” he said, and I looked up to see his dark eyes on me. “What are you doing?”

“Just wanted to check your wounds. They were pretty bad.” He was right: he’d completely healed, not a mark on him.

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