Page 47 of Higher Demon

“What a charming way to phrase it. Please feel free not to include any extra remarks when you tell the Education Committee that I accept their offer. I wouldn’t want them to think I’ve gone native.”

He looks me up and down, his eyes speaking volumes about my suit. “Believe me, nobody’s ever gonna think that.”

Chapter19

Ian

With Marcso thoroughly disgruntled by the idea of having to teach humans—not that I can blame him—this doesn’t really feel like the right time to bring up the need for more photos. It was hard enough getting the last ones. The way he griped about it and insisted on approving them all, you’d think he was famous or something and I was a paparazzo.

But if I don’t ask for more photos, the only other thing for us to talk about is The Kiss. And the fact that we both seem to want more kissing. And other stuff. Which… that would be a bad idea, right?

Although Dylan’s comment from last week keeps slipping through my thoughts—when he said that getting Marc a girlfriend would “humanize” him. Why not a boyfriend? Why not… me?

Not that I want to be his boyfriend. We’d drive each other insane. I don’t even like him. I just want his insanely hot body.

He’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to either talk or leave, so I blurt, “We should have sex.”

Marc freezes.

“I mean…” Shit. “I don’t mean that. Exactly. Uh, Dylan wants some more photos.”

“Of us having sex?” He sounds faintly intrigued, and my dick twitches.

“No! That wasn’t something I said. The photos are for Insta, and… just no. But you know what? I can get some of you teaching. That would make you look approachable and, uh… community-minded.” I stand. “So I’m just gonna go.”

“I thought you’d gotten past being a coward,” he says softly, and I groan and sit back down.

“This is a disaster.”

“Agreed.”

“It’s just hormones.”

“Also agreed.”

I sigh. “Okay, fine. Let’s talk about it.”

He leans back against the couch and studies me like I’m a bug under a microscope. I’ve always hated that… but it’s also kind of… sexy? Ugh. Like, he genuinely thinks he’s so superior. It should make me want to kill him, not turn me on.

Maybe it would if he actually treated me like I was inferior, but for all his dismissive gestures and cutting comments, he still listens. Even six years ago, before he was the ambassador, before the Battle for the Barrier, he didn’t just take over. He was—is—a condescending asshole, but he (condescendingly) listens to our—my—input and takes it on board. He consulted me on how to make friends and, even though he complained, went along with all the plans we’ve made. It might not always seem like it, but he respects me.

He just has a weird way of showing it.

“What, precisely, are we talking about?”

Screw being sensible. “We kissed. It was hot. We both wanna bone. I think we should do it.”

He says nothing.

“Hello?” I wave at him. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” He nods. “But you’ve changed your mind about this several times already today, so I’m waiting for you to panic and do it again.”

“Fuck you.” I hate that he’s right. My brain is already panicking. “This is a good idea.” It’s totally not.

He raises an eyebrow, and I resist the urge to rip it off his face.

“It is,” I insist. “Aside from the fact that we both want to and we’re both fully informed, consenting adults, this would be good for the truce.”

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