I gripped the neck of my stretched T-shirt, pushing my glasses up my forehead and dabbing at my suddenly watering eyes. I couldn’t let Satan Junior see. Would me crying—even if it wasn’t necessarily directly related to his torture—be counted as me forfeiting my first repayment?

I glanced over at him surreptitiously. He was watching me, an odd, bland expression on his face. He shoved one hand into his pocket. If he was getting off on my mini breakdown, I was going to lose my shit at him, soul payment be damned!

But he removed his hand almost as quickly as he’d put it in there, and he strode over to the girls.

“I am afraid I must take my leave now, girls,” he said, and the true sadness in his eyes was better acting than anything I’d managed since he’d walked through that door. “I’ve other places I need to be … and I fear if Beezle and Bub stay much longer, and we get caught by one of the healers here, we might get Jemma in trouble, and she won’t be able to visit you again.”

The girls erupted into protests, which Satan Junior gently but firmly rebutted.

“You don’t want to lose your time with Jemma, now, do you?” he asked them. Tearily, they shook their heads.

“Well then say goodbye to Beezle and Bub. They have had an action-packed afternoon, and I am certain they will need a long rest after all the fun they have had with you three.”

As the girls gave the fake ferrets one last snuggle, he turned, approaching me, his gait casual, his expression … apologetic?

No, that couldn’t be right.

“Come now,” he murmured, his big hand cradling the back of my neck, his thumb swiping away a stupid, traitorous tear from my cheek. I bit my bottom lip to stop it from trembling. How had he managed to make such an emotional wreck of me?

“It hasn’t been the full hour,” I muttered, toying with the bottom of the T-shirt. His palms grazed down my arms, fingers winding through mine. “I want the record to state that I fully committed to your requirements for this task … and it’s you ending it early, not me!”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach those silvery eyes of his. “You have to pretend you like me, just until I’m gone, Jemma Bliss. That’s all. And you will have successfully made this payment. And … I might possibly have exaggerated a little earlier. There are no demonic illnesses.”

A tiny, gasping sob tore out of me as relief had me sagging. He snatched me against him, his breath fanning across my cheek as he bent to me.

“Now, kiss your fake lover farewell like a good girl,” he rumbled. “And we shall call it a day on your first repayment.”