Page 8 of His Infernal Purr
“Morax,” I reply, slowly extending my clawed hand to carefully grasp his. “My name is Morax.”
His hand is warm in mine, so small compared to my massive claws, yet he doesn’t flinch at the contact. “Nice to officially meet you, Morax. I’m Finn Hughes.”
Our hands remain connected perhaps a moment longer than necessary. When we finally separate, there’s a strange tension in the air between us—not unpleasant, but charged with something I can’t immediately identify.
“So,” Finn says, breaking the silence with forced cheerfulness. “Hungry? I mean, do demons eat? Wait, you’ve been eating cat food for two weeks. That must have been awful.”
“Beyond description,” I agree solemnly. “And yes, in this form, I can consume human food.”
“Great! I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.” He heads toward the kitchen, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Morax? If you’re staying here, you’re helping with the clinic. Consider it rent.”
I open my mouth to protest such an undignified arrangement, but he’s already in the kitchen, humming one of those ridiculous songs he plays when he thinks no one is listening.
This is merely a temporary arrangement,I remind myself.A strategic alliance until Valefar is dealt with.
Yet as I follow him into the kitchen, watching as he moves confidently around the small space, I’m struck by an unusual thought. For the first time in centuries, I’m actually… curious about what happens next.
And when he glances up at me with that warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, I feel an unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with hellfire.
Purely gratitude,I assure myself.Nothing more.
But even I don’t quite believe it.
Chapter 3
“This is ridiculous,” I growl, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on Finn’s closet door. “I look like a corporate accountant.”
Finn suppresses a smile, adjusting the collar of the button-down shirt he’s convinced me to wear. “You look like a normal human being, which is the point. We can’t have you scaring off my clients with the whole seven-foot demon lord aesthetic.”
I scowl at my modified appearance. After considerable negotiation (I refused to appear as anything “cute” or “approachable”), I’ve adopted a more human-passing form: still tall at 6’5”, but with only slight horn nubs that could be mistaken for an unusual hairstyle, wings completely retracted, and my obsidian skin toned down to a deep olive complexion. My amber eyes remain, though less luminous.
“The clothes are constricting,” I complain, tugging at the dark gray button-down shirt and black slacks. “And unnecessary. I could simply manifest the appearance of clothing.”
“Real clothes look more convincing,” Finn insists, standing back to survey his work. “Besides, we had to cut slits in the back for when your wings… do that thing.”
“That thing” refers to my wings occasionally manifesting when I’m not concentrating, particularly when emotional. It happened yesterday when Josie dropped a stack of metal bowlsin the clinic, startling me into a defensive posture, wings bursting through the back of my shirt.
A completely reasonable reaction that Finn DIDN’T need to laugh about for ten minutes straight.
It’s been one week since my transformation, and adjusting to human daily life has been… challenging. Finn introduced me to his assistant Josie as “an old friend staying with me for a while,” a deception she accepted with only minimal suspicion.
“Remember, you’re just helping out around the clinic today. Basic stuff. Cleaning cages, restocking supplies, maybe holding the occasional calm animal,” Finn instructs, checking his watch. “Nothing complicated.”
“I commanded thirty legions in Hell,” I remind him stiffly. “I believe I can manage to refill water bowls.”
Finn grins, patting my shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Just try not to terrify anyone—animal or human.”
As we head downstairs to the clinic, I find myself increasingly preoccupied with an unexpected dilemma: I don’t want to leave.
The realization has been building over the past week. I should be focusing on returning to Hell, reclaiming my position, planning revenge against Valefar. Instead, I’m… distracted. By Finn. By his ridiculous kindness, his absurd jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how passionately he cares for even the most insignificant creatures.
I’m not developing… feelings. That would be preposterous. I’m a Duke of Hell. We don’t have feelings.
And yet…
“Earth to Morax,” Finn waves a hand in front of my face. “You okay? You were scowling more intensely than usual.”
“I’m contemplating the various ways I could dismember Valefar when I return to Hell,” I lie smoothly.
