Hunting Fiends for the Ill-Equipped (The Guild Codex Demonized #3) - Annette Marie Page 0,59

golden brown.

I picked up the plate, carried it into the living room, and set it on the coffee table with a flourish.

Zylas looked over the top of his landscape book—and another head appeared from behind it. Socks’ furry black ears swiveled as she sniffed the air.

“Buttercream whirls,” I told him. “Try one.”

He sat forward, and Socks braced against his legs so she wouldn’t fall off his lap. Plucking a cookie off the plate, he examined the delicate shape, sniffed it, then popped the whole thing in his mouth. His jaw moved with a few chews before he swallowed.

“Well?” I demanded.

He flicked me an unreadable look, then moved the plate to the sofa arm for easier access. Socks stretched her nose toward the cookies and he waved her away before taking another icing-filled whirl.

Snorting—but secretly pleased—I returned to the kitchen to clean up. A few minutes later, I settled on the sofa beside him, the grimoire and my notebook balanced on my lap. Earlier today, I’d found Myrrine’s next entry and I had a few hours to translate it before meeting Ezra at the crime scene.

The thought of that appointment triggered a wave of anxiety—the prospect of interacting with the unnerving and dangerous demon mage was as intimidating as a potential conflict with the sorcerers. I huffed out a breath, fighting back my apprehension.

As Zylas ate his way through the plate of cookies, I focused on Myrrine’s ancient words. Bit by bit, the translation came together, and with each phrase and sentence I completed, new unease gathered in my chest. As the sunlight outside the window dimmed and disappeared, I set the grimoire aside and gripped my notebook with both hands, my translation filling the page.

My heart hurts.

This day was the worst kind, sister. Where the sky was dark, where the wind blew cold and cruel, and where our enemies came for us.

This day they found us, and my Vh’alyir fought them. We live, and they are dead.

I should rejoice, but sister, my chest aches. I saw him bleed. I saw him fall. They died, but my Vh’alyir … I feared he would die too. I feared he would perish in this unfamiliar world of mine, his strength consumed, his eyes black as night, his fire spirit gone cold.

And I would be without him.

The madness in me has not abated, and now a new insanity grows. I no longer question why I want to touch him. I question whether he will let me.

He reveals so little. He does not stare like a besotted boy, nor does he pant or paw or grope like a human man. Does he feel the burn of desire as a man would? Does he crave my womanly shape or am I too human to arouse him?

These questions! I debate if I should strike them from the page.

The yearning in my bosom strains to reach him. Can I bear it alone? Do I guard my heart or tempt the Fates?

Pride or passion, sister, and I know what I must choose.

– Myrrine Athanas

I gulped. Was Myrrine saying what I thought she was saying? She was thinking of revealing her feelings to her demon?

My hair swished against my cheeks as I shook my head. That couldn’t possibly be her intent. After all, she had no idea how her demon felt about her—or about human women in general. She’d said herself he showed no signs of attraction toward her. For all she knew, he thought women were ugly compared to females of his own kind.

I must be misunderstanding her meaning. Or I’d translated wrong. Myrrine wouldn’t be so foolish as to lay her heart, not to mention her dignity, on the line by telling a demon she was in love with him. I still wasn’t sure if Zylas understood empathy; no way would a demon understand love.

Even if Myrrine’s demon could comprehend the concept of love and attraction, what did she think might come from sharing that with him? What result was she hoping for? Did she simply hope her demon could return her feelings in some way, or did she want … more?

Did she want her demon to reciprocate her attraction? Did she want to … with a demon?

My throat moved with a harsh swallow, my throat inexplicably dry.

“Vayanin?”

I jumped half a foot off the sofa. Zylas peered at me, the last cookie in his hand and crumbs scattered across the plate.

“I’m fine,” I chirped, voice too high. Snapping my notebook shut, I gathered up the grimoire. “I need