The drive was agonizing. Every time they had to slow down or stop for traffic, Selma’s pulse picked up speed, and every sound or movement outside the car made her jump.

Finally, Kain placed his hand on her knee and kept it there, only letting go to change gears. It allowed a little of her previous calm to return, her instincts whispering to her to trust that he could get her to safety.

When she’d woken up that morning, something had shifted between them. Or perhaps more accurately, something had shifted within her. He hadn’t touched her, despite her carelessness. He’d only guarded her while she slept, and now she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she trusted Kain. Completely.

As the high-rises disappeared in the rearview mirror, Selma sank back in the passenger seat, breathing a sigh of relief as she smiled at her companion. Once again, he’d gotten her to safety.

“So… the whole 'selling your soul to a demon' is a thing, then?” she asked.

“Yes. You should know—you signed a contract handing over yours,” Kain answered dryly.

Selma ignored the jab. “Have you ever… taken someone's soul?”

“I'm not that kind of demon.”

Something eased inside of her. “Oh. So what do you do? Just fight the female demons?”

He snorted, returning her gaze for a short moment—long enough that she caught the sarcastic glimmer in his black eyes. “You mean am I the good kind of demon?”

A hot blush crept over her face. That’s exactly what she’d meant.

“There’s no such thing, little one, and anyone who tries to tell you differently is attempting to deceive you. I rule the underworld in my territory—I destroy lives on a regular basis.”

Oh. Right. She bit her lip and looked away again. He certainly looked the part of a devilish bad boy, though she wasn't keen on knowing the exact details of what he meant by ‘destroying lives.’

“Then why are you helping me? I know you said my scent makes you a bit crazy, but…” But he’d gone above and beyond. There was more to it than pheromones and instinct, that much was becoming obvious.

Kain didn't answer and she turned back to face him. His decadent lips were pinched as he stared at the road.

“You said you knew of Fred because of your mother's journal. Did she go to this place?” she prodded.

“My mother is dead,” he finally said. “She killed herself because she couldn't escape my father. Or me and my brother. When I was seventeen, I went to that shop because I wanted to see if she truly could have lived in safety—happiness—had she gotten away.”

Though his voice was detached, distant, the words hit her like a punch to the gut. Before she realized she'd moved, she had pressed her hand to his arm in an attempt at alleviating whatever pain festered inside of him.