Page 18 of His Infernal Purr
The possessive knot in my chest loosens slightly. “Your taste has improved significantly.”
He laughs, rising on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips. “Dramatically. Now can we please enjoy the rest of this barbecue without you glaring daggers at my ex? Literal or figurative.”
“I make no promises regarding the figurative daggers,” I mutter, but allow him to lead me back toward the gathering.
The rest of the afternoon passes more pleasantly. I make an effort to be marginally more sociable, even engaging in conversation with several of Finn’s friends who seem determined to “get to know” me. I provide carefully edited versions of my background, claiming origins in “a very hot climate” and “a family business involving soul collection,” which Finn hurriedly translates as “debt collection.”
By early evening, when we’re walking home, Finn seems pleased with how the day went.
“See? That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” he asks, swinging our linked hands between us—a gesture I initially found childish but now secretly enjoy.
“It was tolerable,” I concede. “Though the food was mediocre and the conversations largely pointless.”
“Yeah, but you made three children cry just by smiling at them, so I’d call that a win for you.”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “The small humans are appropriately responsive to my presence. They have better instincts than their parents.”
Finn laughs, bumping his shoulder against my arm. “They’ll be telling their therapists about you in twenty years.”
“Good. The memory of my visage will ensure they grow up appropriately cautious.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few blocks, the evening air pleasant against our skin. These simple moments—justexisting alongside him in quiet companionship—have become unexpectedly precious to me.
I never experienced this in Hell. This peaceful contentment.
As we near his apartment building, Finn glances up at me with a speculative expression. “Can I ask you something? About… Hell stuff?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You can ask. I may or may not answer.”
“Fair enough.” He hesitates, organizing his thoughts. “When we first met—when you transformed—you said you were going back to Hell. To your position and your legions and everything. But it’s been weeks now, and you haven’t mentioned it again.”
I keep my expression carefully neutral. This is a conversation I’ve been avoiding.
“Are you…” he continues carefully, “in trouble for staying away so long? Is there like, demonic PTO you’re using up, or are you AWOL, or…?”
Despite the seriousness of the question, I can’t help but snort at his characterization. “Hell doesn’t have ‘paid time off,’ Finn.”
“So you’re playing hooky. From Hell.”
We reach his building, climbing the stairs to his apartment in thoughtful silence. Only when we’re inside, door closed behind us, do I finally address his question.
“My absence has likely been noted,” I admit, removing my jacket and hanging it carefully on the hook by the door—a human habit I’ve adopted. “Valefar will have spread rumors about my defeat or demise. Others will be maneuvering to claim my territories and legions.”
Finn’s eyes widen as he absorbs this. “So you’re basically letting your enemies win? Because of… me?”
There’s a note of distress in his voice that catches me off guard. I move closer, taking his face in my hands.
“Nothing is ‘won’ permanently in Hell,” I explain. “Power shifts constantly. Territories change hands. Legions transfer allegiance. It’s the nature of the infernal realm.”
“But your position—”
“Can be reclaimed when I choose to return,” I interrupt gently. “The question is whether I want to.”
He stares at me, confusion evident. “But… it’s your home. Your… everything. For thousands of years.”
I consider my next words carefully, wanting him to understand. “Hell is where I existed. It’s where I held power and commanded fear. But it was never… home. Not in the way you understand the concept.”
His expression softens, hands coming up to rest on my wrists where I’m still cradling his face. “And now?”
