Page 55 of Obsession

“No, Aubry, it’s not. This isn’t working.”

“What isn’t working?”

“Us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m just not interested anymore. It’s time we go our separate ways,” he says bluntly.

I heard what he just said, but the words don’t make sense. “Please come over so that we can talk about this,” I beg.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I want to see other people.”

“But you told me you’re not a tiger,” I whisper, my voice sounding strange. Disembodied.

“Aubry, it’s over,” he says slowly, like I’m hard of hearing.

“The hell it is!” I hang up and summon Damion, pulling his demonic name from my mind. My mouth sounds out the unusual syllables, and Damion now stands in front of me with crossed arms. “You don’t tell me you love me and then do a one-eighty and tell me it’s over!” I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. “What’s going on?”

“I’m half-incubus,” he sighs, running a hand through his curly blond hair. “Did you really think that you could keep my attention forever? My feelings have changed.”

“Changed, or did you ever have feelings for me? Was I a game for you?” I demand, swiping angrily at the tears streaming down my face. “The challenge is over, and now you’re out?” Back when I was resisting Damion’s advances when we were bound together, I accused him of wanting me because he couldn’t have me. I can’t believe I was right.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cupping my cheek with his hand. “Keep my sigil and my name. I don’t want to risk us becoming bound again.”

“No, I’d hate for you to have to endure that kind of hell again,” I say bitterly, jerking my head away from his touch.

“Goodbye, Aubry.” He vanishes, and just like that, my heart is shredded into a million tiny pieces.

I spend the next few days crying in bed. Zazel tried to warn me tigers don’t lose their stripes. I just wanted to believe Damion when he told me he was a lion. Tricked by a demon; who would have seen that coming? So much for my gift of clairvoyance. Or common knowledge. Or hell, common sense. I laugh bitterly, but my bout of laughter quickly morphs into a crying jag.

When my tears have finally run dry, I hear a knock on my door. “Sugar pie, why don’t you come on out and eat some supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Amelia and Florence said if you want him hexed, they’re happy to help. Brenda said she’ll make a special voodoo doll if you want to strike him down. Julia said to come get your hair blown out, you’ll feel better. Sonia said Damion is an idiot. Azrael said if you kill yourself, he’s never speaking to you again.”

His sense of humor is still disturbing, I think but don’t say. Saying would require too much effort.

“Gabe apologizes on Damion’s behalf. Oh, and Charlotte left you chocolate croissants from her mama’s bakery and said to call her when you want to talk.” I’ve been getting texts nonstop, but I’ve been ignoring them all. I’m not ready to talk about this yet with anyone. “Okay, I’ll leave you a plate in the fridge in case you change your mind.”

It’s now day three of wallowing in self-pity and despair. I leave my room, only because I need a drink of water. “Hey sugar pie, can you help me?” Grandma’s in the kitchen cooking something that smells good. “Can you set the table? I have company coming over.”

“How many?”

“Including you, three.”

I don’t argue with her, as I acknowledge it’s time for me to return to the land of the living. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Excellent idea. You look a little worse for the wear.”

“You know, just because you have a thought, that doesn’t mean you have to share it,” I grumble as I leave the room. Grabbing a bar of Hell No Hangover from my bathroom drawer, I turn on the water. Not exactly a hangover, but close enough. I step in the shower, vigorously lathering myself up and rinsing off, envisioning all this pain and hurt washing off me and going right down the drain.

Exiting the shower, I’m feeling much better. Whether it’s from my visualization, the spelled soap, or the fact I haven’t had a shower in three days, who knows. Glancing at myself naked in the mirror, I cringe when I spot Damion’s sigil. A permanent reminder never to make a deal with a devil, I think with a bitter smile.

Walking to my bedroom, I rummage through my dresser. The sexy red bra and matching panties I bought for our first date are now mocking me, so I toss them in the trash can.

Choosing underwear that doesn’t make my blood boil, I next throw on a cheerful sky-blue mini sundress. Drying my hair, I decide to go all out. I curl the long strands, finger-combing the tight curls into loose waves. I sweep my face with a bit of powder and put on some pink lip gloss. There. I no longer look like I need Azrael’s services.

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