Page 77 of Married to the Devil

She says that as if all love is built equally. I know the stirrings of my heart are not so wholesome as that. My emotions are destructive. I fear I’ve let this witch affect me too much already.

“Others may be different. But I know the weakness of my blood. We will continue as we began.” I’m already distractingly preoccupied with her even if she’s only now picking up the hints.

“Of course. You’re up early,” she says. It’s a whisper like her throat is tight, and for the first time I realize that she may not appreciate that I always strive to leave before she wakes. “Did something happen?”

“We have a lead concerning the Sova family,” I say.

Young Andrew has demonstrated a skill for this tracking work. I’ll still shuffle him around, but his technical proficiency is something I’ll be keeping a close eye on.

“That’s good news.” The tightness isn’t completely gone, but relief is taking its place.

“It’s just the two women. There’s record of them passing through a fae gate in a different city,” I say, not wanting her to get her hopes up. I keep my anger that it’s a city in Lobo’s territory to myself. “But I’m hoping we can find the children being held somewhere near to that gate. It takes much more work to smuggle children through fae gates than adults.”

It’s a time-sensitive task, not to mention everything else that must be done to continue the search for the women on the other side of the gate, and because my weakness had me admiring my prize while she slept, I’m delayed. I clench my jaw.

Stella dips her chin, sensing my intention. “Good luck. I hope you find them.”

I turn with a nod. Not allowing myself the domesticity of a goodbye kiss. Ben will be here soon. Ben will be the one to care for our vibrant firefly.

People rely on my good sense. No matter how tempting it is, or how sad her blue eyes are, I will not soften for my wife.

I can’t afford to.

25

STELLA

“Fuck you, you fucking fuck,”I whisper to the coil of wire in my hands hot with my magic, ignoring Andrew’s shock and Connors’s lips pressed in mirth. The worktable in the back room of the bookshop is clear enough, but the space around it is cramped so there’s no avoiding the men around me.

Apparently, any time I’m outside the Firefly, I get two bodyguards. A fact I hadn’t known with Ben always being with me.

I focus on the little details to keep my mind from wandering. There are a few sticky subjects that I ignore as I attempt to weave my magic. Stoneheart’s departure this morning, Ben’s awkwardness…I take a deep breath, and the scent of old paper comforts me even as I scowl at the metal.

It’s better that Ben is absent. We haven’t had much time to discuss what occurred on my aunt’s piano, but every time my gaze meets his, I remember the sensation of his body stretching mine, the look of awe that couldn’t be suppressed by the pain that he so enjoyed. Stoneheart’s high-handed directions.

My husband wanting to place a claiming bite on my demon.

It’s very distracting.

Today is a rare day where Ben has been in and out, needing to check on some things in Kalos’s territory and making inquiries of other fae magic users. There aren’t many on this side of the gates, and they don’t exactly advertise if they still have the capability to use magic.

The fact he found Rowan at all is impressive.

The fae huffs a laugh at my cursing as he places a stack of ancient looking books on the other side of the worktable from me. He still has an hour before he opens to the public, and though he’d offered to shut down his business to assist me, there’s not much for him to do after the first day we sat down and discussed the nature of fae magic.

I keep returning to work here because, even after that, I’m still struggling to comprehend how their magic system works. It seems that once anyone has decided on anything enough to put it down in a book, the magic changes. Almost like it is sentient.

Along with that super flexibility, a lot of spells seem mostly left up to chance. Rowan explained that the way the fae feel about fate and their place in the world coincides with the behavior of the magic.

In short, it’s a mess.

“You’re wanting it to be too orderly still,” Rowan says, squinting at the wire in my hands.

“Orderly is not something anyone would call me,” I grouse.

He’d been skittish when we’d shown up on his doorstep a couple of days ago, but he’s eased since then. Perhaps understanding that we aren’t Lorenzo and that we’re not going to punish him for any crimes another fae has committed.

Rowan looks to be in his forties, and under his glamour, his green skin is flecked with green speckles that makes me wonder if he’s related to a type of troll. He’s tall but lacks the width a troll would have.

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