Page 87 of The Succubi's Choice

“You are very odd,” she says, instead of remarking on the comedic scene in front of them. Testing again, she presses her side against his again, and he—immediately—returns the contact.

He sighs, a very human sound coming from him.

“Aw, fuck you too,” she says, and he smiles at her, more of a baring of teeth than anything expressing mirth.

“You’ve been rather useful at finding out how information filters through the Organization,” he says, voice turning thoughtful. “That wasn’t anticipated, though.”

“That’s almost nice.” She smiles at him, he wrinkles his nose. “You’re horrible at this whole expression thing, aren’t you.”

“It’s not something I’ve had to do often?” He stretches out, picking up the sharpie and post-it notes again. “Faking the conversation is much easier than having it.”

“Now isn’t that the exact truth,” she says, watching him as he sketches out another rune, his hands sure and almost loose, like this is the easiest thing ever.

This one she recognizes, a general one for safety, good health. One found in many houses, so many that it’s not actually certain if it does anything, or if it’s just a good luck charm, like crosses in Christian houses or cheesy statement pillows about love in the Midwest.

“Is that really...” she trails off as he nods. “Huh. I’ve seen plenty of bad things happen in houses with that one.”

“Well,” he says, almost drawling, almost bragging, “it matters who’s actually writing the rune.”

“Oh does it now,” she says, and he doesn’t quite smile as get a dimple in his cheek, and it’s so different from Thomas’s dimple.

Again, the almost prideful look, and to think that she still halfway thinks of him as expressionless is pretty amazing when he’s like this, before the look drops from his face, like he’s actually trying to look like a robot. “I do have a favor to ask of you,” he says, and the alarm bells go off in her head.

“Last favor I did you got me tortured,” she says, and he leans against her for a brief second in an obvious apology. “How bad is this one going to be?”

“I want to meet your friend Katya,” he says, and her stomach drops.

She leans away from him, fully, scooting away on the couch. “Wait, why?” She asks, not even bothering to keep the harshness from her voice. “Why and what are you going to do to her?”

“I’m not going to do anything, I just want to meet her,” he says, just as quick. “She will remain unscathed.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat, reaching to her phone, but now her heart is the one that’s pounding.

“Why?”

“She’s the one that killed the last demigod, I would rather her not turn that attention on me,” he says, which is fair, but also super fucking sketchy. “I figure if I broker her into the conversation early, she won’t.”

“You know she wasn’t the one who actually killed him, right?” Miri says, her mouth running faster than her brain, because of course they don’t know, because most people don’t know. “She was just there. She was knocked out for it.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, turning towards her, and all traces of fondness are gone, replaced instead with a businesslike, calculating look. “Really.”

“And she’s really freaked out by all stuff around him, so she’d definitely not want to talk to you about that.” She’s still talking, and it’s yet to be useful in any way. “I don’t want her to get upset, she has enough on her plate and I don’t like that happening.”

Appraisal, this time cold, closer to the looks he was giving the people running the orgy than what he’s been giving her lately, and she hates it. “And she wasn’t the one who killed him. You know who did.”

Her stomach is in freefall; horrible, emotional freefall, and she stares down at the fabric of her couch. “They don’t want that getting out.”

He hesitates, then relaxes his shoulders, intentionally, very intentionally, and she can’t help but feel that it’s calculated. “Understandable,” his voice is smooth, and it hurts to think about, when she thinks about it head on. “Well, if possible, can you let her know I would like to speak to her?”

“What’s stopping you if I say no?” She asks, too fast, too fast to be smart.

“Nothing,” he says, and it’s like a nail in a coffin, “but a connection is always better.”

“She’d probably shoot you, if you just showed up,” she says, and it’s not a joke but it feels like one. “I mean, I know it won’t stop you, but it’d mess her up and I don’t want that.”

He narrows his eyes, not out of anger or anything, but it still feels off. “And you don’t want her distressed,” he says, like he’s figuring it out, bit by bit. “And you don't want her hurt.”

“Exactly,” she says, like she’s playing some high-level poker game, something she only knows half the rules for.

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