The knocking wasn't gentle. It wasn't a polite request for entry. It was a sharp, insistent rapping that vibrated through the wood of the door and into the bones of my skull. It was the sound of someone who was not used to waiting.
My eyes snapped open. My entire body went rigid. I could feel the warmth in my chest, that tiny, comforting beat, constrict into a knot of dread. It could only be one person.
Angus, bless his fluffy, annoying heart, let out a muffled squeak from under his blanket. "Don't answer it!" he whispered, his voice a high-pitched thread of panic. [IT'S HIM! THE SCARY ONE! 💀💀💀]
No kidding.
I lay there, frozen in the bed, my breath held tight in my chest. Maybe if I was very, very quiet, he'd think I was asleep. Or dead. Either option seemed preferable to opening that door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. The knocking grew louder, more insistent. It was accompanied by the deep, creaking groan of the door hinges, as if the wood itself was protesting the violation.
"Open the door."
The voice was a low growl that cut through the wood and settled in the pit of my stomach. It was the demon king. And he was not in the mood for games.
I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. I fumbled with the latch, my fingers clumsy and stiff. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the entire doorway with his presence. He was still shirtless, still wearing the ridiculous loincloth, still the most infuriatingly beautiful and terrifying man I had ever seen. He looked down at me, his purple eyes burning in the dim light of the hall.
"You," he said, his voice a low growl. "We need to talk."
My mind raced through a dozen possible responses, a dozen witty comebacks and sarcastic retorts. All of them died on my lips. "Now?" was all I could manage.
"Do you have a more pressing engagement?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over my ill-fitting clothes and my sleep-tousled hair. "Some witless gossip to exchange with your feathered pest? A riveting conversation with the mold on the ceiling?"
Angus, who had peeked out from under his blanket, promptly vanished again.
I sighed. "Fine. What do you want?" I leaned against the doorframe, trying to project an air of casual indifference that I absolutely did not feel. "And make it quick. I was sleeping."
"Sleeping," he repeated, the word laced with a contemptuous sneer. "You, who have done nothing but stumble, faint, and complain since your arrival, require rest. A fascinating paradox."
I just stared at him. I was too tired for this. Too tired for the snark, too tired for the threats, too tired for the whole messed-up situation. "What do you want, Demon King?"
His expression shifted. The sneer vanished, replaced by a look of intense, focused scrutiny. He took a step forward, crowding me in the small space of the doorway. His bare chest was a wall of muscle, inches from my face. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire in the tavern below.
"Show me your arm," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous purr.
"What?" I asked, my mind struggling to catch up. "My arm? Why?"
"Do you require a reason for every command? Show me your arm," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He held out a hand, not to touch me, but as if expecting me to place my arm in it.
I hesitated. Every instinct I had was screaming at me not to do it. This was a trap. A trick. A prelude to some new and creative form of torment. But I was also exhausted, and he was blocking my only escape route, and arguing with him was a special kind of hell that I didn't have the energy for right now.
I held out my arm. My bare arm, the skin pale in the dim light. The sleeve of my borrowed tunic had ridden up, exposing my wrist and forearm.
He didn't take my arm. He just looked at it. His gaze was intense, analytical, as if he were examining a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. His own hand came up, his fingers hovering just above my skin, so close I could feel the faint tingle of energy that crackled around them.
"Your 'magic'," he said, the word a dismissive sneer. "It is not as pathetic as I first believed. There is a flicker. A tiny, stubborn spark."
I looked at my arm. I didn't see anything. It was just an arm. My arm. Freckled, a little skinny, with a small, faded scar on my elbow from a childhood bicycle accident. "What are you talking about?"
He ignored my question. He moved his fingers, tracing a line in the air just above my skin, from my wrist to my elbow. I felt a strange, tingling sensation in the wake of his movement, like a trail of static electricity. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just… weird.
"The spark is strongest here," he murmured, his gaze fixed on a spot on my forearm. "It is… irritating. Like a gnat buzzing in my ear." He looked up at me, his purple eyes locking with mine. "Why would you be keeping it in your arm?"
"That's not..." I started, then trailed off. I didn't know how to explain that I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn't know how to explain that I wasn't 'keeping' anything anywhere. My magic, or lack thereof, was a complete mystery to me.
"Don't lie," he said, his tone flat. "You are terrible at it." He reached out and, before I could react, his fingers closed around my wrist. His grip was firm, but not painful. "It is a conduit. A pathetic, weak, ineffective conduit. But it is there." He looked from my arm to my face, a strange, unreadable expression in his eyes. "Utilize it properly."