Page 25

Chapter 24

A Super Creepy Diarrhoea Fetish

SJ

I bit back the urge to roar out my twisted feelings as we stepped out of the portal and into her living room. I set her feet on the ground, and immediately she shoved me. Her attempt was feeble—she was so much smaller than I, and unwell, to top it off …

My fault.

That thought was enough to have me releasing my hold on her and stepping back. Her expression was a gut-wrenching combination of fury and pain, and she clutched her stomach as she stumbled down the hallway.

I followed her, but she managed to make it to her bathroom, slamming the door in my face. I reached for the handle just as a lock snicked into place.

“If you even think about breaking that door, SJ …” she growled, then groaned again. I clenched my fingers into a fist, enjoying the pain of my human nails digging into the flesh of my palm.

I wanted in there. Wanted to … help her.

My own fault.

“Tell me the truth, Mouse!” I rumbled, pressing my fist to the door. Desiring to bash it down to get to her. Barely controlling that urge. “Did you know, when you saw that food come out tonight, that this would be the outcome for you?”

She scoffed angrily. “Of course I did! But that was the plan, wasn’t it?” The thunk of the lavatory lid being lifted reached my ears. She was sick. So sick that everything in my chest felt too tight, with … worry?

“Stupid,” I muttered, my forehead hitting the door with a thud.

“Did you just call me stupid?” she ground out, every word filled with the agony she clearly felt.

Because of me.

Rage bubbled up, spilling over. This was my fault, but if she had just …

“You should have said something!” I roared, thumping my head against the door again. “You should have told me that this is what would happen to you!”

She didn’t reply, but there were other … sounds … from the bathroom. Sounds I was sure she would prefer I wasn’t overhearing. But I was not leaving. What if she …

What if this could kill her? I had no idea how fragile the human constitution could be when it consumed something it was sensitive to. She wasn’t speaking. What if she had collapsed?

“Jemma, are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright, you idiot!”

I could have sagged with relief that she was well enough to insult me. “Why did you not tell me it was like this for you?”

Another moan. My fingers itched for the handle. It would be so easy to break the flimsy human lock.

But then she spoke, in a voice thin with pain. “And what? Let you win? It was this …” Another moan and panting … “Or forfeit my soul to your stupid FiendPay scheme tonight! And I’ve lost anyway, haven’t I? Because you portalled me away before I could finish my torture-dinner!”

“Damn it, Jemma!” I snarled, self-loathing making my words sharp. “He told me that at worst you’d have a night of mild discomfort!”

“He?” she shrieked. “Who … Chad? Is that why you appeared out of thin air at brunch? To interrogate my ex on ways to upset me?”

“Of course not, I wouldn’t deign to piss on that rat if he was on fire! I … the young chap at the gluten-free donut stand! He led me to believe that you’d just be a bit uncomfortable for a night. A little bloated … maybe a bit flatulent. He said that most people with gluten intolerance were doing it as a lifestyle choice!”

She was silent again. It stretched on for interminable moments. My chest tightened with each ticking second with no reply from her.

And then a faint whimper.

I couldn’t sit here and listen to her hurt like this.

My fingers closed around the handle and twisted until the silly little lock snapped.

* * *

She was seated on the lavatory, a metal waste bin clutched in shaking hands. She looked up, her face pale, sweat plastering her fuchsia hair to her clammy cheeks.

“Get out!” she hissed, but her voice was reedy.

“Let me help you,” I pleaded.

She glared at me with a shadow of that feistiness I was used to. “Help? This is all your fault! I don’t care what weird little fake dating scenario you’ve got me stuck in … I’m not interested in this level of intimacy with you!”

All my fault.

“Is there nothing I can do to … to ease you?” I longed to touch her, to comfort her. But even I knew that was insanity.

I satisfied myself with turning towards her sink, finding a small, towelling cloth and dampening it under the faucet.

“Here,” I murmured, handing it to her. She glared at the cloth as if it had offended her.

“If I take that, I’m going to spill this puke bucket all over the floor.”

She was right. And I was stupid.

“Let me, Mouse.” I reached towards her, daubing her face with the cool cloth, swiping that hair off her skin.

She let out a little breath. “I hate that this feels nice.”

“Hate it all you want. I just … I need to make recompense for tonight.”

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling remorseful?”

I swallowed hard. “I’m a Lucifer. I don’t feel remorse.”

But I did. Because these feelings in my stomach, in my chest … this prickling behind my eyes, that could only be remorse. And … maybe something else?

But I couldn’t be feeling … that way about her … could I?

“Would knowing about this have changed your mind?” she asked suddenly, catching me completely off-guard.

“Knowing what?”

“Knowing how much your task was going to …” her eyes widened, and she stuck her head into the pail, her body heaving. My entire being ached to fix this for her.

If I’d thought I felt powerless when she explained how she could never complete her degree, never realise her dreams … that was a drop in the ocean compared to how I felt now.

“It would,” I admitted quietly. “Have changed my mind, that is.” I rinsed the cloth and placed it on the back of her neck. She sighed, her body relaxing slightly.

“Do you need a healer? Should I open a portal and take you to the … the hospital?”

She tilted her head back from the bucket to watch me. “No. I just … I need to get it all out of my system. And you need to go.”

“Go where?” I asked. “You’re ill, I don’t want to?—”

“Anywhere but inside this room with me. SJ, seriously, unless you have a super creepy diarrhoea fetish, now is the time to leave! Go back to Hell … I can do this alone … wouldn’t be the first time.”

I walked stiffly through the bathroom door, closing it behind me. As for going home? There was nothing that would make me leave her right now.

So I waited. I sank to the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door. My pocket had not stopped vibrating since she ran from the dining room at Stella.

I pulled out the Soul Token. It was glowing neon pink and buzzing with the amount of energy it had absorbed from her agony. I clenched it inside my fist, hating that my stupid invention worked so well. My own stomach churned at the thought of her distress. All because of me.

“I know you’re still out there.” Her voice was soft, but it cut through my tumultuous thoughts. “You really should go.”

“I do not want to go,” I grated, shoving the offensive Token back into my pocket. “I will not leave you to deal with this alone.”

“Well … there’s a bottle of lemonade in the fridge … it’s a green plastic bottle with Sprite written on the side. Can you bring it to me? I think I should have a sip of something, see if I can keep it down.”

I leapt to my feet, practically sprinting for the kitchen. I recalled watching her place bottles into the large, white chiller the day I’d shown up unannounced while she was unpacking her foodstuffs.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Wrenching open the door, I scanned the shelves. There really was not much in the way of nourishment in there, but there was a green plastic bottle that said Sprite.

I hurried it back to her, knocking on the door. “I have your lemon drink.”

The door opened. Her skin was milky pale, but she was standing. “I think the worst of it is over.” She took the bottle, but her hands shook as she tried to undo the cap.

“Let me.” I unscrewed it, handing it back to her. She sipped tentatively and waited. I held my breath.

“I think I’ll be able to keep it down,” she murmured. “Gosh, I really need to take a shower.” Her eyes met mine. She looked worn out.

My fault.

“But I can’t reach to undo the dress.” She turned, scraping aside her sweaty hair, which had almost completely fallen from the style she’d had it in.

“Of course.” My voice was gravelly as I slid my fingers along the skin at the nape of her neck, searching for the clasp on the chain. Had it only been earlier that evening I had been fantasising about stripping her out of this dress?

This was decidedly not the way I had hoped it would happen.

“Funny,” she mumbled as I finally found the clasp and unlatched it. She clutched the dress to her breasts, juggling the open bottle of drink and turning, a tiny smile lifting one side of her mouth. “This is not the way I’d imagined you taking this dress off me tonight.”

My mouth fell open.

What?

Had she just … had she been imagining me stripping her bare? Tonight?

“So … does my soul belong to you, now, SJ?”

I dragged my eyes from where her fingers were the only thing keeping me from seeing her breasts. “I … what?” I needed to focus!

But she … had we both been having the same … daydreams?

“The contract? With FiendPay?” She managed an impressively withering look. “I failed your task tonight. I couldn’t finish the meal. Ergo, my soul is no longer mine …”

I shook my head. “As far as I’m concerned, the meal was finished. I lost my stomach for more when you got sick.”

Her brows raised, her lips parting. “So … what does that mean?” Her voice was breathy, and her fingers slipped just slightly, the dress dropping lower on her chest.

I cleared my throat, refusing to let my eyes feast on her there. “I consider your task completed. You finished as much of the meal as I, and I had no desire to continue eating. It would be … unfair for me to hold you to a different standard.”

“Well.” She hitched up the dress, her eyes searching mine. “I really don’t know what to make of you, Prince Satan Junior.”

What could I possibly say to that?

I chuckled without mirth. “I don’t know what to make of me, either, right now.”

She coughed, but I had a strong suspicion that it was more to cover a laugh than anything else. “I’m going to take a shower now. You really don’t need to stay.”

I dredged up the ghost of a smile. “Ah, but I want to, Mouse. At least until I know you’re safe in bed, and well enough to be left alone.”

Her brow furrowed, but after a lengthy pause, she nodded, turning for the bathroom. Just before she closed the door, her eyes found mine again.

“If you’re going to raid my bookshelves while you wait … you might enjoy Devirginised By The Devious Devil .”

With that, she closed the door in my face.

I stared for far too long at that closed door, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. The water was running, and a hint of strawberry-scented steam wafted out around the edges of the door. Clearly she was well enough to get into the shower.

I shook my head, turning for the living room. Devirginised … what did that mean? And what had she meant, directing me to that book specifically.

Was there a meaning? Was she making fun of me?

Or …

But no. I could not allow myself to let my thoughts go down the path that they were trying to sprint along. Because she couldn’t … and I shouldn’t want her to … have those sorts of thoughts about me.

Did that mean I was going to avoid the book?

Absolutely bloody not!

But her shelves were so packed with well-worn paperbacks, all with various filthy titles. I Slipped and Landed Butt First On A Demon’s Horn —what in the home was that supposed to be about? I pulled it off the shelf, finding a graphic image of two males—one human, one a very muscular demon—on the cover.

No, SJ, do not get distracted. You need to understand why she directed you to the erotica about the Devil.

I was scanning the shelves with increasing urgency, unable to find the tome I was looking for, when all the light was doused, and darkness flooded the apartment.

And she screamed.