When I thought of Samael these days, I didn’t picture the bone-chilling fear I’d experienced when he caught me in his club. I thought of him tenderly pushing my hair back from my face. I thought of him cracking a wry joke, entertaining Cil and Zip, and making sure my sister was okay, even after I’d told him to stay out of my life.

Every time I pulled away, he gave me that patient smile that told me he’d wait as long as it took. And I was worried that eventually I’d succumb, and I’d be in his bed for good.

Once that happened, I’d have no chance at breaking the bond between us.

And that was the problem. Samael still refused to break it. He either didn’t see how much it killed me, or he didn’t care.

If he wasn’t a demon, he’d be the perfect guy.

My mood was dark as I pulled up outside Mike Brown’s house. He lived in a small bungalow in Colonial Village. The garden was unkempt and overgrown, and the once-red car parked on the lawn was now a faded tangerine, speckled with rust spots.

Vas was meeting me here after he’d had a meeting with a few of Samael’s other demons, so I sat in the cool air and waited until he landed next to me.

Heat punched me in the face as I opened the door. That was the problem with working A/C. It made it worse when you had to go out into the real world.

We walked toward the door and Vas froze.

“What is it?”

“There’s something dead in that house.”

They’d got to Mike first. Guilt drowned me and I attempted to suck in a breath. Would this guy still be dead if I’d come straight here after learning that he stole the belt?

“We need to check for evidence,” I said. I’d already rifled through Samael’s trunk, when he gave me the car, and I strode back to the car and pulled out the huge first aid kit. I snapped on a pair of gloves and handed one of them to Vas as we made our way up the path and back to Mike’s front door.

It was unlocked. Whoever had killed him had likely just strode straight in.

“Fuck.” I slapped my hand over my nose and mouth at the putrid stench. The body was sprawled on the kitchen floor. Mike had been dead for at least four or five days judging by the bloat.

I couldn’t have stopped this. They’d gotten to him too fast.

“They slit his throat,” Vas said.

“Yeah.”

I stared at the body and swallowed. “He was sitting at the table drinking. From the looks of that bottle, he wasn’t exactly sober, but either way, he had his back turned to the killer.”