Page 17 of Summoning Mr. Wrong (Hotter than Hell #1)

“Not sleeping?” I asked from the hallway.

“Demons don’t need much sleep,” he reminded me without looking up. “Just catching up on my reading.”

I wanted to ask him to come to bed, to bridge whatever gap had opened between us, but something held me back. Instead, I just said, “Goodnight, then,” and returned to my empty, too-cold bed.

By morning, things seemed back to normal on the surface. Deus made breakfast as usual, teased me about my bedhead, and outlined his plan for “passing as human” during my parents’ visit.

“I’ve created a backstory,” he announced, sliding a plate of perfect French toast in front of me. “Deus Davis, graduate student in anthropology, specializing in ancient cultures and religious practices. We met through a mutual friend and decided to room together to save on rent.”

“That’s… actually pretty good,” I admitted, impressed by the level of detail. “What about the tattoos?”

“Art project turned lifestyle choice,” he said promptly. “I’ll wear long sleeves for most of it anyway, just to be safe.”

“And your eyes?”

He blinked, and suddenly his glowing amber irises were a more normal hazel color. “Contact lenses,” he said with a wink that looked strangely ordinary without the supernatural glow. “Metaphysically speaking.”

“Impressive,” I said, genuinely impressed. Without the glowing eyes and with the horns concealed, he looked… well, still extraordinarily attractive, but plausibly human. “I think this might actually work.”

“Of course it will,” he said confidently. “I’ve been observing humans for millennia. I can certainly pretend to be one for a weekend.”

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was better than trying to explain his absence or, worse, telling my parents the truth.

* * *

The next two days were a flurry of cleaning and preparation.

Deus insisted on helping me make the apartment presentable, which involved a surprising amount of actual cleaning (as opposed to his usual supernatural tidying) to avoid raising questions about how two young men maintained such an immaculate living space.

“Remember, we’re going for ‘reasonably neat’ not ‘suspiciously perfect,’” he reminded me as he deliberately left a few dishes in the sink. “Human males in their twenties don’t typically keep show-home standards.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” I said, watching him artfully arrange some clutter on the coffee table.

“I take my roles seriously,” he said with a grin. “It’s a point of professional pride.”

By the time Saturday arrived, the apartment looked appropriately lived-in but not slovenly, and Deus had assembled an outfit that screamed “graduate student”—dark jeans, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show just enough tattoos to be interesting but not alarming, and actual shoes.

“How do I look?” he asked, spreading his arms for inspection. “Convincingly human?”

Without the glowing eyes and subtle horns, with his tattoos partially covered and behaving themselves, he did look human. Extraordinarily attractive, but human. It was strange how the absence of those supernatural markers changed him—like watching a tiger pretend to be a housecat.

“Very convincing,” I assured him. “Just remember—no telekinesis, no spontaneous manifestation of objects, and please, for the love of everything, don’t let your tattoos start moving too obviously.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised, placing a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

“Were you ever actually a scout?” I asked suspiciously.

His grin was answer enough.