Page 104 of The Succubi's Choice

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He takes them directly to the dimly lit room, where the only two people there so far are Grant and the vampire.

She smiles at them, and they both give her twin inquisitive looks, before their eyes go to the Archdemon like an afterthought.

“You’re early,” Grant says, tentative, like he’s unsure how to broach things, and his eyes keep on straying over to Miri.

She can spot the exact moment he sees her arm, and he blanches, making a motion to stand up but aborting it.

Instead of answering them, the Archdemon just sits next to her, the arm settling over her, and with a crook of his fingers the waitress sets down drinks for the two of them, the same fizzy drink in front of her.

Grant looks at her, face pale, and each time he sees her he has a new reason to be concerned, but she tries to sit it out, settle in the feeling of discomfort, carving herself a place in it where she can rest within it.

There’s a silence, a pause in the conversation, and she can practically feel the amusement rolling off of the Archdemon at everyone’s silence, at how no one knows how to speak up, with his little disrupt in their schedule.

“Most do not show up for a little bit,” the vampire says, neutral, though their eyes trail down to Miri’s arm as well. “We were not expecting...”

Still, the Archdemon says nothing, just picks up his drink—a scotch, golden brown and thick—and taking a sip. She can see his throat moving with it, derailing her thoughts and crashing them into the ground.

“And are you well?” Grant all but blurts out, and it’s refreshing to see someone else act undignified. “You...”

“Got tortured by the Organization?” She says, picking up her drink out of something to do with her hands. The glass is smooth, lightly chilled, and refreshing against her fingertips. “It wasn’t great.”

There’s the little smile, the twitching of the corner of the Archdemon’s mouth, and it might be as big of a reaction as a laugh, and she wants to make him do that way more.

“But you work for them,” Grant says, settling back, holding an identical glass in his hand, as if forgotten. “Why would they —" He obviously cuts himself off with a glance towards the vampire, before he sits back.

“That is the question,” Miri says, as neutrally as she can, feeling like she’s about to sink into the soft fabric of the couch.

With that, the door opens, and Beatriz strides in. Her step hesitates, just a moment, when she spots Miri, but she hides it well, tucking her sensible suit jacket behind herself while sitting back.

She locks eyes with the Archdemon, for a long moment, and she no longer looks like a harmless, forgettable middle-aged woman.

“I see,” she says, finally, waving off the waitress without taking a drink. “I hope you are doing well, Miri.”

Her voice crawls up Miri’s spine, but she’d sooner gnaw off her own arm than show discomfort. “Doing better, at least.”

Beatriz’s brows furrow, for just a brief second, and it looks as much of a facade as the harmlessness. “Certainly your Lundy gave you the care you needed?” It’s a probe, a carefully worded probe, looking into what she will give them, looking for information, working on prying her open like the layers of an onion.

Miri doesn’t miss the exchanged glance between Grant and the vampire and briefly feels a twinge of sympathy but she was as confused as they were her first time, and given no real explanation and no real way of catching up, so she shakes off that feeling as quick as she can.

“I’m sure he would, if he knew everything.” Miri takes a sip of the fizzy drink in hope that it will settle her stomach. “But not much was given to him.”

The twitch of the eyebrow, the carefully curated appearance of weakness and approachability, and it curls up Miri’s back like a colony of ants, swarming over her.

She gives her a nod, like she approves of her, like she received just the answer she wanted, and Miri doesn’t trust it at all. But Beatriz sits back, waving the waitress back, who hands her what look like a plain—if large—glass of white wine. She sips it, like this is as normal as conversations come, but there’s a slight tension in her jaw, like she’s been caught out.

Miri doesn’t know which part of the contradiction to believe. She would certainly have reasons to make Miri believe that she has both won and lost, and anything in between is too vague for Miri to want to think about.

The Archdemon’s arm around her tightens, ever so slightly, and she cocks her head up to look at him, and conversation resumes around them, as if the small confrontation didn’t happen.

He leans in close, so close she thinks he might kiss her again, in front of everyone else, but instead he stays there, as if the closeness is the intimacy he wants. “Nicely done,” he whispers, his face turned towards hers, so no one else would be able to see his lips and read them in the dim light.

She doesn’t feel like it’s nicely done, but she nods, and his cheek is almost pressed against hers. Like just a hair’s breadth between them, and…

And she doesn’t know if he’s one to kiss her in front of people, or if he’s declaring whatever the hell is going on between them to others.

A question she probably should have asked before they got there, but between the continent hopping and the Romanian dressmaker, it feels a bit odd.

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