Page 25 of A Match Made in Hell

I knew there was a threat there I didn’t like.

I can’t stop staring at him: at the angles of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth, at the way he’s neglected to button his shirt properly, revealing an expanse of skin I didn’t need to witness.

I swallow. Wanting a second drink suddenly seems the least of my problems. I try to picture him like he is on our game nights: sweatpants, T-shirt.

An infuriating smirk on his face because he’s beating me at Scrabble, again.

It doesn’t help. In a room full of people, he’s all I see.

A demon with pale scales approaches him, carrying a tray with more green drinks, and Sath takes two glasses.

My eyes widen. One is for me. I know it is.

He won’t give me the pink wine so he’ll give me this instead; a lovely treat for lovely Willow.

I beam, shoving through the crowd, needing to get to him, get to that drink, my throat is dry, every part of me empty and bare, I need it to be filled, I need –

Sath drinks them both in two gulps.

Bastard.

I can’t work out what’s louder: the drums or my own raging breaths. He took my drink. I’m so thirsty.

And hungry.

Do they have chicken nuggets? I want chicken nuggets.

Suddenly nothing is more important, not even ogling Sath.

The room is as scattered as my thoughts, a blur of movement bathed in the streaky lights the strobes cast overhead.

I need to find a chicken demon. I can cut it apart.

Then I can have my chicken. Cluck, cluck, cluck.

I raise my hands in the air and spin, round and round like the other humans.

We’re all spinning, spinning together, isn’t that lovely –

Except they’re laughing.

They’re loud. Too loud; I don’t like it. I press my hands to my ears. I need them to stop. I need –

‘Willow!’ A hand grabs my wrist. I jerk back.

It’s hard to focus. Harper stands in front of me.

Her hair is tied into space buns again; I want to poke my finger through the middle of one, but I’m dimly aware that would be inappropriate.

I settle for staring at her brand-new nose ring instead.

She waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you okay?’

I am more than okay. I am delightful. I open my mouth to tell her, and fail. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. It hurts. I still don’t have my nuggets. The room tilts on its axis. ‘Have you seen any chicken?’

‘No . . .’ She peers at me. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Perfect,’ I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the dance floor.

Amelia and Henry are there too, and Henry is wearing the most spectacular pair of flared trousers I’ve ever seen.

Silver and glittering, like a disco ball exploded near him.

I press a kiss to his cheek, leaving an imprint of dark red on the corner of his mouth.

In return, he hands me a glass full of pink wine. ‘I was told to give you this.’

I can’t grab it fast enough.

The glass is cool against my fingers. I swirl the liquid round and round. I want it. I want it badly. Maybe just one sip. Sath won’t find out. Except –

I turn to find his eyes are on me. One leg crossed over his knee, his elbow leaning against the arm of the throne, the picture of relaxed.

But I know him better than that. I know what it means when his eyes turn golden, like honey: that the flames are only a moment behind, and it’s me making him angry, because he thinks I’m going to do something stupid, to fail –

I spill the contents on the floor. ‘I don’t want it.’

It’s a lie. I’m trapped in a desert, sinking into the sand, and I’ve thrown away my only oasis.

But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I. Am.

Delightful. We dance in a circle, and through the throng of people around us, I catch a glimpse of red eyes, a spiked tail, a feeling of burning loathing spearing in my direction.

I ignore it. Aric can’t touch me tonight, not when I’m floating like this.

Henry performs flamboyant dance moves and I laugh and laugh and laugh, Amelia’s arm linked through mine, Harper’s grin almost enough to pour warmth into that empty space in my stomach. Almost, but not enough.

I’m so very, very thirsty.

Despite it all, my gaze keeps drifting to Sath. He sits alone. Nobody, not even the demon handing him drink after drink, talks to him. He must be sad, spending an eternity by himself.

The pounding in my head propels me towards him. He has what I want. A whole tray of drinks sits next to him now. He can spare me one. He can.

I just have to make him want to.

I leave my friends behind – the only thing I need right now is Sath and his delicious tray of alcohol – and mosey over to the throne.

The charcoaled steps leading to the dais are awfully steep up close.

Sath’s lips twitch as I clamber up in a manner which cannot, in any way, be described as graceful.

I think I may be sweating. I’m certainly warm. I don’t let that deter me as I plop on to the arm of his throne and smile benevolently at him. I’m doing a good deed. I’m keeping him company.

My mouth waters.

‘Come for another drink?’ Sath takes a sip of his own.

I follow the movement of the glass to his lips, of the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

I want to rip the glass from his hands. I want to open his mouth and take the fluid right out of him.

I want, I want, I want . . . I toss my hair over my shoulder.

My neck is damp. Sath puts the glass down and gestures at my current position on his throne.

‘I could send you to Glacantrum for insubordination.’

‘You could,’ I say. ‘But you won’t. I’m the only one who talks to you.’

‘Is that so?’ The corners of his mouth turn up. A little thrill shoots through me; I did this, I made him smile, because I’m his favourite. I’ve never been anyone’s favourite before.

Then I realise he’s not smiling at me, he’s smiling because of me.

I appear to be falling into his lap.

I straighten. ‘I’m dizzy.’

‘It’s the drink.’

‘ You don’t seem dizzy.’ All the drinks next to him are green. Will wine without the venom be enough to soothe me? It’ll have to be. I lean forward, towards the tray on the other side of him, my arm reaching out –

‘Unlike you,’ Sath says, lightly pinching my elbow, ‘I can hold my liquor.’

The sting on my skin is enough to snap me out of my blatant attempt at thievery.

Huffing, I readjust, trying to get comfy.

The slit up the side of my dress spreads apart, revealing bare skin and too much thigh.

Sath stares at the exposed flesh for a second before taking another drink and observing the crowd.

I survey them with him, like we’re holding court together.

From up here, on a night like this with no violence, and the tingling, floating feeling singing in my veins, it’s almost pleasant.

I catch a glimpse of the Sorter on the dance floor, her head thrown back, grinning at a demon with antlers protruding from its forehead.

A touch on my calf jerks my focus. It’s nothing, light as a feather, one stroke then another to get my attention, but something about it sends a fresh rush of need racing through me, one that’s more all-consuming than my desire for a drink.

‘It’s not safe for you to stay too long,’ Sath says. ‘The demons will ask questions. You should get back down there.’

I stare at him, pulse racing. Willow should do this, Willow should do that. What about what Willow wants?

I want him to touch me.

My hand clamps over his, keeping it pressed against my leg. The warmth of his palm is a lightning strike to my every nerve ending, a welcome distraction from the burning in my throat. I try and shuffle closer without falling on him again. ‘But I like it here.’

He tries to pull his hand from mine, but I don’t let him.

‘Willow.’ His eyes darken. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t know,’ I whisper, dragging his hand higher, until it reaches my knee. I just know this is a different kind of desperation to the one that had me climbing up here, and I don’t want it to end. ‘Is this so terrible?’

His thumb skims, just once, over my knee, a temporary indulgence before he tugs his hand from mine, more forcibly this time, and settles it safely in his lap. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘Yes, I do.’ I pout.

‘Hm.’ His gaze drops lower, landing on the slit along my thigh, and then he clenches his fists. ‘You really should leave.’

That lock of hair has fallen over his eyes again. Before I can second-guess myself, I smooth it back, my touch lingering on the curve of his cheek. He gapes at me, shadows drifting off him in waves as I lean closer and murmur, ‘What if I don’t want to leave?’

‘Then I’ll offer you another drink.’ Despite his earlier protestations, his fingers dance around my ankle, teasing the idea he might touch me again. ‘And that would be bad.’

‘What if I want to be bad?’ My voice is raspy and hoarse. It sounds nothing like me. I don’t know what I’m saying . I only know the pounding in my head has returned, and my throat is parched, and I need something to cure all the aching parts of me.

‘In that case . . .’ Sath holds out a glass. ‘Drink.’

I stare at it. It’s everything I want. To quench the thirst, to lose control, to go down there and dance with everyone I can find, to dance with Sath , if he’s willing, to see what happens when those fingers stop teasing and start doing; I spread my legs a little wider, and I have no idea if this is a good idea or not, but I’m not allowed to drink, I’m not, I’m not, and this seems like a suitable distraction, and –

Was that a chicken?

I saw feathers. A white tuft of fur atop someone’s head. Sath’s hand stills. ‘Willow?’

I swear it was a chicken.

‘I want nuggets,’ I mumble.

Sath pulls back. My skin feels cold.

‘Go,’ Sath says. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

I whip round to face him. ‘Can’t it be over now?’

I’m already gagging for another drink, for those nuggets, for Sath – I blink, and cross my legs. I am not gagging for anything where Sath is concerned. My breaths come out too fast and too uneven to be normal as I will him to declare the task completed.

He doesn’t.

‘You have two more hours.’ He jerks his head at the dance floor. ‘Go.’

And I’m dismissed, sent stumbling into the waiting crowd, my skin burning in every place he touched me and my thirst nowhere near abated.

A thirst I don’t think a dozen goblets of venom-laced wine could quench.