Page 39 of Infernal Bindings

Shit. I forgot to call him.

I scroll through my contacts and dial his number, but there’s no answer. I try again—still no answer. If he’s ignoring me, that’s definitely earned. Rather than phoning him a dozen more times like a psychopath, I respond to one of his text messages from late last night, asking if I’m okay. I don’t have it in me to lie to him or make excuses, so I settle for vague honesty instead.

I’m at Daemon’s house. Everything is fine. I’m so sorry I forgot to call before my phone died.

It’s not a good apology. I know that.

Sighing, I rake my fingers through my stringy, wet hair, then stare at the phone as if I can make him respond through sheer will alone. God, I fucked up. A lot. Daemon and I were supposed to be working last night, not having fun. It’ll be a miracle if Christopher even wants to help me anymore, let alone keep me at his condo.

What the fuck am I doing? I ask myself as I rifle through the clothes Daemon left for me. They’re modest enough—nothing I’d ever pick out for myself, but nothing embarrassing either. A black, long-sleeved turtleneck dress that reaches my mid-thigh. A pair of black designer boots with a blessedly small heel. Matching socks and underwear.

I stare at the underwear for a long time. It’s the same lacy thong he teased me with, and an equally lacy black bra that leaves little to the imagination.

As I pull them on, I can’t help but picture a repeat of last night. Stripping for him as he makes a slow circle around me, admiring the underwear he chose. It feels personal—too personal. And I’m half tempted to go commando, but that would only make things worse. Before I can think things through, I tug on the rest of the outfit and climb the staircase, past a haze of darkness and floral smoke.

The one good thing about Daemon’s bedroom being in Hell is that it’s perpetually dim and red. No bright lights. No glaring sunshine. The same cannot be said for the upper floors.

If my head was pounding downstairs, it’s practically screaming now. The second I creak open the door, the full force of his mother’s heavily windowed living room hits me, the sunlight searing my corneas. I close my eyes and wince, wishing I knew the layout well enough to feel my way to the kitchen. It takes several seconds for me to open my eyes again. And then I hear voices.

“This is the surveillance footage from the baptism. It’s got hundreds of hours of material on it.”

Dad?

Why is he in a Septem space?

Frowning, I fumble through the living room, the voices getting louder with each step until they’re agony against my aching temples.

“It’ll take too long to sort through it,” Daemon says. “It’s a waste of time.”

“It’s better than you taking my daughter to sex clubs.” Dad’s voice is fury incarnate. “Had I known what you and Christopher had planned, I would have wrung both your necks.”

“Peter, calm down.” It’s Daemon’s mother—who is apparently on a first-name basis with my dad. It feels like I’m living in an episode of the Twilight Zone. “Their options are limited.”

Something slams against what can only be a table. Metal clatters to the floor. “Review the footage,” Dad hisses. “Find out who was wearing gloves that night, then we’ll know who to check for infernal tattoos. It’s easy. It’s simple. And it doesn’t degrade my daughter.”

I come around the corner, and all heads whip toward me. On the floor is a fork from where Dad hit his fist on the table, but I barely register it. Because, while I expected there to be three people seated in the kitchen, there are actually four.

Daemon’s mother.

My father.

Daemon.

And Christopher.

19

SORDID FAMILY HISTORY

Christopher stands from his seat. Inwardly, I brace for a well-deserved lecture, but it never comes. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, and I blink at him. “When you didn’t answer, I got worried and called your dad. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

“Angry with you?” I say the words slowly, as if I’ve heard them wrong. But Christopher truly doesn’t look upset—no red face, no clenched fists, his pretty green eyes are apologetic even, which makes no fucking sense.

“Of course I’m not angry with you. I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I really should have, but—”

Christopher cuts me off. “It’s alright. I told you I didn’t mind if you stayed over. I just needed to make sure you were okay.”

In my periphery, Daemon rolls his eyes before pouring himself, then me, a cup of coffee. But I’m barely paying attention to him. There’s this warm fuzzy feeling in my chest. Whether it's brought on by the mating bond or by Christopher, I can’t tell. Besides Daemon, I’m not used to people worrying about me. It’s kind of nice, although it’s also undeserving given what happened at the club.