Page 41 of Demon Hunter

“I’m totally cool with not coming furniture shopping,” I say honestly.

“I’ll keep him company,” Ian offers hastily. “He shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe.”

And just like that, the light mood dissolves.

“You’re both coming,” Dylan orders. “We just won’t get Matty in any pictures.” The smile that was on his face a minute ago is gone, but he seems really set on this refurnishing project.

I want him to be happy, so I nod. “Okay. I can take the pictures.”

Ian’s glare is boring into the side of my head, but I don’t look at him. He might have wanted me to fight harder to get out of it, but Dylan’s more important to me than… oh fuck. Furniture shopping?

The things I do for love.

“How charming,” Marc drawls, managing to make it sound anything but. “What a delightful expedition that will be.”

“Shut up, you live for that crap,” Ian chides. “I’ll even let you terrorize a sales assistant—but only if they’re snooty and treat us like dirt because we’re not dressed fancy.”

Looking down his nose, Marc informs him, “There’s a difference between ‘fancy’ and ‘presentable,’ Ian.”

My bestie turns to look at me. “Do you see what I have to put up with?”

I’d feel more sorry for him if he wasn’t voluntarily fucking the guy. I mean, when he was just stuck with him for work, he had my sympathy. Now, not so much. “Dude, youchooseto spend extra time with him.”

“He says he loves me,” Marc informs us, shaking his head. “I believe he may be defective.”

Silence falls, because… did Marc just crack a joke?

“Oh my god,” Ian whispers. “I’ve finally turned you. You’re becoming human.”

I laugh so hard, my stomach hurts, even as Marc glares at Ian. Dylan comes to sit beside me again, curling up against my side, and I lift my arm and wrap it around his shoulders so he can get closer. My hand rests on his sleeve, and I note that his T-shirt feels a little crisp. Mine’s been like that too, lately. Maybe we need to switch brands of fabric softener. He doesn’t need rough fabric against his skin all day.

Marc, done with glaring at an innocent-faced Ian, reluctantly perches on the edge of the armchair’s seat cushion—but only after giving it a thorough visual inspection.

“Enough already,” I snap at him. “It’s clean—Dylan might not care about his furniture matching, but he’s the tidiest one of all of us.” I always thought computer geeks lived in a hoard of old fast-food containers and grime, but Dylan’s fanatical about getting rid of anything that might attract vermin—apparently rats and cockroaches are bad for computers. And he’s rabid when it comes to dust. The whole apartment gets cleaned from top to bottom every week to minimize the amount of dust that might get near his computers. I made the mistake of asking about it once and got a fifteen-minute lecture about respecting your tools, and would I let my sword get dirty and rusty?

“It’s fine,” Dyl tells me. “We know what he’s like. You can inspect the bedroom later,” he informs Marc. “I changed the sheets this morning so you and Ian can sleep there. The bed’s not secondhand—I bought it a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry, they what now?” We’re being kicked out of our bed? I turn to my bestie-brother. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“I knew nothing about it,” he protests. “Dylan, you don’t need to give up the bed. Where are you guys gonna sleep?”

Dylan shrugs. “The sofa folds out.”

Ian closes his mouth on his planned offer. We all know Marc won’t sleep on a sofa bed. “Uhhh…”

“If I may offer a solution,” Marc suggests smoothly, “Ian and I can return home to sleep and?—”

“No!” Dylan’s voice is sharp, and I blink at him. What the hell? “I mean… then we can’t have the full houseguest experience.”

“The what?” Ian asks. “Dyl, are you okay?”

I was just about to ask that myself, but looking at my boyfriend’s anxious face, I choke it down. I’m not sure what’s going through his head right now, but this is clearly important to him, so…

“He’s right,” I agree. “We’ve been looking forward to the houseguest experience.”

“What the fuck is in the water up here?” Ian mutters, reaching out to put his palm against my forehead. He seriously needs hand cream or something, because his skin is as rough as sandpaper. I knock it away.

“I don’t have a fever, idiot.”

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