Page 62 of Devour

“Not practically. He is.”

Maybe I sounded defensive, but I hated how I still had to argue the notion Rhory and I were friends. No one could seem to believe it at first and now, no one believed we were only friends. Couldn’t win.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said.

“Why?” I huffed. “Rhory already told me about what happened on Christmas. Which is why I’m making sure you understand we’ve been friends for almost a decade now. Best friends.”

“Yeah, I hear you. I know how our family is and your dad is the worst of them.” Mary breathed a long sigh. “Which is why I don’t ever want you to think I’m like the rest. You can always tell me anything. And if you say he’s only a friend, I believe you. End of story.”

“Mary, really and truly, we’re not together.” And a deep breath so I could get the following sentence out as quickly as possible without pauses or hesitations. “But not because I’m straight.”

“Okay.”

Mary leaned her head full of red curls on my shoulder—something she’d done since we were kids. And did I ever feel like one again, sitting here with her waiting for the light to disappear. On another summer night like this we had a similar heart-to-heart, and she gave the same response then, too. Even better, she never brought it up again.

“I think maybe you love Rhory,” she said next.

“I know I do, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Besides, deacon,” I said while gesturing at myself.

“That doesn’t have to stop you.”

“It hasn’t.”

Somehow, my quick response came as a surprise, even to me. Yes, I used my deacon excuse freely and frequently. More and more recently, I defaulted to the real reason being Rhory himself, and him not wanting more. Which made me wonder, if he woke up tomorrow and decided he wanted something, would I let anything stop me? I couldn’t even say for sure.

“Your family?” Mary asked.

My cue to scoff. “I would never tell them. I wish I could say I wouldn’t care how they’d react, but I know they wouldn’t take it well and I don’t want to do that to myself.”

“So, what’s stopping you?”

Talk about a loaded question. Rhory didn’t want a committed relationship, and I knew as much. And me? I wasn’t so sure I wanted that, either. I liked him, and sometimes I tricked myself into believing I felt something much deeper for him. Even though I didn’t doubt if he liked me, I couldn’t believe he loved me. How could I? He wanted to eat me. Still, a decade later, he would love nothing more than to get the chance to sink his fangs all the way past the skin. And all the rest he did that sometimes made me want to think otherwise—what had he called it? Protecting his investment. He didn’t love me. His emotions weren’t at stake. He only wanted to eat me.

“A lot,” I said. And I left it at that.

* * *

RHORY

Well, someone was in a bad mood. I changed into my pajamas ages ago, but every time I tried tuning into hubby—static. Oh. Boy. By the time he came back into the house for his turn to shower and change before bed, the show Eric got me invested in ended. Still nothing from Eli.

Now would be as good a time as any to pretend to go to bed. Something told me if I wanted to keep watching until sunrise, Eric would be right there with me, despite the obvious sleep deprivation. With a smile, I left the living area and headed to our guest room.

I crawled into bed with my phone and hubs left the adjoined bathroom a moment later, fully dressed but still damp. Damn if I didn’t want to lick every drop off of him until we were both dripping. He immediately raised a brow and apparently, he had been listening.

Someone’s hungry.

I vigorously nodded.

Too bad. You got to feed before we left.

Now you’re just being cruel.

Eli climbed into bed and scooted all the way over to me. Hubby really was the only other being I couldn’t always read, but the unease with him felt totally different. I never worried about what he would do or even what his motive was. Lately, I wondered more about how he felt. Something must’ve stressed him to shut me out, but what? Even if I could sense every fleeting emotion passing through him, however briefly, I kept asking myself the same kinds of questions. What inspired such affection? What did he truly desire—about me, from me, with me? And what could the love seeping off him mean?

Yeah, I couldn’t pretend as if I didn’t know that emotion’s signature anymore. But humans loved lots of things: their favorite books, their pets, and even their friends. None of those were the same as being in love. So, what did his love mean? I was his favorite demon. I was his closest friend. Was I—would I ever be—anything more? And why the fuck did I even want to know or care when I would eat him in a few years’ time?

At the very least, I knew how to get him in a better mood. I clicked my teeth at him.

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