Page 12 of Cry for Help

I straightened my spine, my fingernails bit into my palms as I clenched my fists and allowed the demon to lead me to my new home.

Chapter Four

Stolas led me through the alley, away from the SUV, and into a neighborhood filled with overgrown lawns and single-floor houses, each more sorry than the last.

The streetlight at the end of the block held no color.

The human district. He’d said.

I had no idea why a demon would choose to live there. Especially compared to the inner city, which had glittering skyscrapers and an abundance of shops and restaurants.

The street was still as Stolas led me to a dark house at the end of the street.

Maybe he’d bought me just to kill me. That seemed like a demonic thing to do.

Stolas flicked the light switch, revealing the hallway and staircase. Stolas took off his jacket, hanging it diligently by the door before he gestured to the kitchen.

Too hungry to argue, I followed him.

Everything was beige. From the cabinets to the tile. Stripped of any sort of personality whatsoever.

Though I’d been in the prison system, surrounded by painted concrete and iron bars, somehow, the landlord’s paradise of a home unnerved me.

Stolas dripped with personality, from his striped thin tie to the cut of his Victorian suit. His hair stuck up in all directions like a disgruntled magpie. Even his nose, too long for his face, spoke volumes about who he was—demons could wear any form they chose if they were powerful enough.

But the beige home, without a hint of character, told meabsolutely nothing.

Stolas walked to the fridge, bending at the waist to look inside. He pulled out a wedge of cheese, holding it like an offering, his face creased in apology.

“It's the only thing I have.” He told me, reading the label. “Pepper-jack.”

I stared at the cheese as if it was the answer to all of life’s mysteries.

I hadn’t had cheese inyears—and I certainly didn’t count the burnt wood shavings Sandy Village occasionally rolled out on Taco night.

I grabbed the cheese, nearly taking Stolas’s hand as I snatched up the Pepper-jack and tore off the plastic wrap like a mad woman. I inhaled my first bite, struggling to breathe when I tried to chew.

I should have savored the cheese. I didn’t know when my next meal would be. But I couldn’t.

Some people had a weak spot for chocolate. Some for wine.

For me, I would have sold my soul for cheese. Brie, Gouda, or Stilton. I didn’t discriminate.

I demolished the block of cheese, ignoring my demonic audience. I wiped my greasy fingers against the polyester of my black dress. Rubbing my stomach and ignoring the heartburn creeping up my chest.

Okay. I nodded to myself. I could do this. Quid pro quo.

I reached down, pulling the black dress over my head with one switch movement. I knew the prison-issue bra and panties weren’t the prettiest, but I didn’t have much to offer.

I bit my lip, gesturing to my body. We didn’t speak the same language, but that was okay. I was letting him know that I’d be a good purchase. He didn’t need to hurt me. If he remembered to feed me, I’d perform.

Especially if he gave me more cheese.

Stolas froze, his eyes wide as he took in my body like a deer in headlights. I wasn’t the slimmest, even as a teenager, and prison food hadn’t been kind of my waistline.

I was soft.

It was hard not to be ashamed of the body I’d been given.

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