Page 77 of The Devil and His Sparrow

His black-and-red eyes widened, and he stopped breathing. “You—You feel bad? For me?”

I nodded.

He gave a disbelieving chuckle. “Iyla, I’m a demon. I’m the last creature on earth you should feel bad for.”

I frowned. “So what if you’re a demon? More than that, you’re Zagan.”

Yes, he was a demon. But he was also surprisingly thoughtful, fiercely supportive, and kind to someone he didn’t have to be. I’d thrown his world one hell of a curveball, keeping him from indulging in a new body each day, making him move to Tennessee, and forcing him to supply my sister with his blood. Yet he did it all—and more—with a smile.

“You’re a really good friend,” I said, letting my hands slide down his chest where they stayed.

His demonic eyes never left mine as the warm water continued to rain down on us. I didn’t know what he was looking for or what was going through his mind, but without a word, he walked me backward to press me against the tile, hiked my leg up and over his side, and sank his hard length into me.

He fucked me hard and rough like he was trying to find the answers to all his questions inside my body. I wasn’t sure if he found them, because we didn’t stop making the other cum until I passed out in my new bed.

Chapter 24

Iyla

SOMETHING MOVED OVER MY FOOT. My eyes snapped open, and a scream lodged in my throat as I yanked my foot up to my chest and threw my blankets off me. Coldin slithered over the mattress, unfazed by my reaction.

I gripped the front of my t-shirt and tried to calm my erratic heartbeat. “Coldin,” I snapped. “You can’t do that! You scared the shit out of me! You shouldn’t … slither across people while they’re sleeping.”

His forked tongue flicked out in response, and he continued his trek along my sheets until he disappeared back under my blanket.

Not wanting to share my bed with the unwelcome guest, I got up and went across the hall to the bathroom. My entire body was hella sore from a night of unrelenting and mind-blowing sex. The lingering satisfaction of each release still burrowed in my limbs, and when I walked, I really felt the aftermath of it.

Zagan and I went multiple rounds last night, and guilt over not returning to our friends tried to nuzzle its way into my chest. I shot each one a message, explaining mine and Zagan’s sudden departure, which earned me the excitement I was starting to expect when talking to my friends about my sexual endeavors.

I went back to my room after relieving myself and doing my morning routine to fish some yoga pants out of my dresser to slip on with the shirt I wore—something Zagan must’ve put me in during the night since I hadn’t fallen asleep in it. It was a band t-shirt with his face front and center. I smiled to myself.

Of course, he chose this one.

My first night in my new room was memorable, to say the least. I wondered if it would feel awkward, like when you stayed at a hotel or a friend’s house. That unsettledness never came, though. I felt more at home snuggled up in those sheets than I did in the bed at my apartment. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Zagan’s smell on the blankets or if it was because I knew I was no longer under Mom’s thumb. Either way, I’d slept better in my new room than I had slept in a long time.

I crept into the hall and down the stairs when I heard music coming from the lowest level. Figuring Zagan was down there dancing or something, I continued to that floor. I was surprised to find him, not in the dance room, but in his writing and recording studio.

Zagan leaned back on the couch in his human form. He wore black silk lounge pants and a matching robe, which was open so that I could see his tattooed torso and pierced nipples in all their mouth-watering glory. His pierced brow was furrowed as he stared at some music sheets in his hand.

I cleared my throat and crept slowly into the room. “Hey.”

He looked up at me then, and there was no missing the defeat in his eyes. “Hey.”

“Whatcha up to?” I probed, sitting adjacent to him on the couch.

He sighed and held the papers up. “Working on a new song.”

The disdain in his voice was pungent, and it was punctuated by the way he glowered at the sheet music. I knew he’d been struggling to write a song he enjoyed, and despite not liking the latest song they’d just recorded, he let the group use it to appease their demands.

We were our own worst critics, so, eager to relieve some of that self-loathing clouding his features, I asked, “Can I hear what you have so far?”

He looked reluctant, maybe even a little embarrassed, but he grabbed the guitar next to him and began to sing. I listened, fully swept away with the melody and the beautiful sound of his voice. I held my breath as he sang, too afraid to even move out of fear that I’d somehow miss a sound.

He stopped abruptly and looked at me. “That’s all I have so far.”

I immediately grinned. “I like it!” I glanced at the music sheets spread out on the table as the lyrics replayed in my mind. “It has a nice sound, and the lyrics are fun. Very on brand for you guys.”

“But …” he encouraged, staring at me like he knew the word was right there on the tip of my tongue.

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