Page 12 of His Infernal Purr
“Acceptable,” I concede. Then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “But I’m keeping the stolen federal treasure courting gift as a backup plan.”
He laughs, the sound warming something deep inside me. “We’ll need to return that. Immediately.”
“After dinner,” I counter.
“Fine. After dinner.”
We stand there for a moment, his hand still on my face, something electric building between us. Then he rises on his tiptoes and presses a quick, soft kiss to my lips.
It’s barely a touch—just the briefest contact—but it feels like being struck by lightning. In all my millennia, I’ve experienced countless physical pleasures, but nothing like this simple, chaste kiss.
“That’s a down payment,” Finn says with a grin, stepping back. “On what you can expect from a proper date. Now help me figure out how to return this monstrosity before we both end up in federal prison.”
Chapter 5
Later that evening, after the golden caduceus has been mysteriously “returned” to the Federal Reserve (with a small demonic memory adjustment for the security guards), we have our first official “date.”
I insist on doing things properly, so I conjure appropriate attire—a tailored black suit that accommodates my wings should they manifest unexpectedly—and make reservations at what online reviews assure me is the finest restaurant in the city.
“You look… wow,” Finn says when I emerge from the bathroom in my suit. His eyes travel from my carefully styled hair (the horn nubs now appearing as fashionable, avant-garde hair accessories) down to my polished shoes.
“Is this acceptable human courting attire?” I ask, unnecessarily adjusting my cufflinks.
“Very acceptable,” he confirms, looking down at his own outfit—smart casual slacks and a blue button-down that brings out his eyes. “I feel underdressed now.”
“You look perfect,” I say before I can stop myself, the sincerity in my voice surprising us both.
The restaurant is elegant—soft lighting, linen tablecloths, attentive staff. I’ve arranged for the best table, of course, and ordered champagne in advance. Finn seems both impressed and slightly overwhelmed by the formality.
“This is… really fancy,” he whispers after we’re seated. “You didn’t have to go all out like this.”
“I told you I intended to court you properly.”
He smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I would have been happy with takeout on the couch, you know.”
“We do that every night,” I point out. “This is special.”
His expression softens. “Yeah, it is.”
The meal progresses pleasantly. I discover that I enjoy watching Finn experience the elaborate dishes, his expressive face registering each new flavor with unguarded enthusiasm. He asks me questions about Hell (“Is it really all fire and brimstone?” “Only the tourist areas.”), and I find myself sharing stories I’ve never told anyone—about the beauty of the obsidian spires in my domain, the strange phosphorescent gardens, the music of the shadow orchestras.
In turn, he tells me about growing up in a small town, always knowing he wanted to work with animals, the struggle to open his own clinic and keep it running on limited funds.
“Most people thought I was crazy to open a nonprofit clinic in that neighborhood,” he explains. “But that’s where the need was greatest. People who can’t afford regular vet care still love their pets just as much.”
“Your compassion is… unusual,” I observe. “Most humans I’ve encountered are primarily self-serving.”
“Maybe you’ve been meeting the wrong humans,” he suggests. “Or maybe they’re just the ones who end up in Hell.”
“A fair point,” I concede.
As the evening progresses, I notice a change in the atmosphere between us. The conversation flows easily, but there’s an underlying current of tension—not unpleasant, but charged with anticipation. Finn’s eyes linger on mine longer than necessary. My hand brushes his “accidentally” when reaching for the wine.
By dessert, the tension is palpable. When he licks chocolate from his lips, I find it impossible to look away.
“So,” he says as we wait for the check, “this was really nice. Very… successful courting, I’d say.”
“The evening isn’t over,” I point out. “Unless you wish it to be.”
