Lucifer’s Daughter(17)

We chatted about inane things while he cooked–and I behaved. When the smells became mouthwatering, he finally scooped his masterpiece onto plates and carried them over to his scarred wooden table. I dug in and groaned in pleasure.

Sautéed chicken, mushrooms, onions, some veggies, and angel hair pasta. The man was a god of the kitchen.

“Oh, I hope you"re a chef in real life, because you"d be wasted doing anything else,” I said when I"d finished my plateful and leaned back to sip at the wine he"d served us.

“Cooking is my hobby.”

“So what do you do for work?” I asked, leaning forward.

“This and that,” he answered vaguely.

I frowned at him. “That"s not an answer.”

“I"m not at liberty to say, or I would.” He shrugged. “Besides, I"m more interested in you.”

I admit, while I found his air of mystery exciting, it also bothered me. Did he have something to hide, or did he mean what he said about wanting to know more about me? “Let me ask you something first. Is this a date?”

Auric"s brows lifted. “What else would it be? We"re in my apartment, eating a home-cooked meal with dim lighting. I"m a man, you"re a gorgeous woman.” He smiled at me wickedly.

“Where I come from, we call that a date.”

I almost blushed. How hilarious, and unlike me. “Oh, in that case then, what do you want to know about me?”

“You"re not one to mince words are you?”

“Nope.”

Auric chuckled. “Just who are you, Muriel, virgin and hellhound banisher?”

Having made the decision to test him, I gave him a quick and honest run down. “I"m twenty-three and a Libra. I have a ton of brothers and sisters.” Now there was an understatement. “I live alone. No pets. I like to read corny romances. Watch adventure movies. Love fast food and pizza, hate seafood. Hmm, what else? Oh, my favorite color is pink and my father is Satan.” I knew it was probably too soon to tell him that part, but considering how he made me feel and judging by his lack of panic at the appearance of hellhounds, I figured he should know. After all, if Dad ever found out about our little tȇte à tȇte, it wasn"t inconceivable that he might pay Auric a visit.

Auric choked on his wine. “I"m sorry,” he said laughing. “I think I misunderstood the last part.”

“What, that my favorite color is pink?” I said being deliberately obtuse.

“No, the part after that.”

“Oh, I"m Satan"s daughter.” I declared this proudly. I usually hid my identity for safety reasons, not out of shame.

“You"re not serious, are you?” he said his brows drawing together almost close enough to touch.

“Yes, serious. My name is Satana Muriel Baphomet. My dad is Lucifer, and as for my other half, I have no idea; but from what I"ve gleaned over the years, she wasn"t a hundred-percent mortal.

Is this going to be a problem?” I held my breath as I waited. His answer here would make or break this fragile relationship we"d forged. I could change a lot of things about myself, except my family; they were forever.

“I don"t believe this,” he muttered. “You can"t be a princess of Hell.”

“Listen, you can believe me or not. I don"t really care, truth be told, but I thought I should tell you the truth before this went any further.” And it looked like it had been a good idea to get this out in the open now, instead of later. He had reacted like I feared he would.

“And just where do you think this is going, Muriel, daughter of Satan?”

I didn"t like his tone. “You know, I was beginning to think you might be the one. It"s why I agreed to come to dinner with you. I should have known better.” Annoyed at his reaction to a parentage I had no control over, I got up and put on my jacket. I was headed for the door when an iron grip grabbed my arm and stopped me.

“You can"t just drop a bomb like that and walk away,” he said, sliding his hands from my arms to settle loosely on my waist.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell people who I am?” I hated the tears that pooled in my eyes. I didn"t want his pity. “As soon as I tell people who my dad is, suddenly they can"t run away fast enough, or out come the crosses and knives.”

“I haven"t run,” he said softly.

“Yet,” I replied, refusing to allow myself to hope.

“I won"t kill you.”



“I"ve heard that one before, too,” I whispered dropping my head.

“I"m sorry you"ve been hurt.” He lifted a hand and brushed at the wet tears that clung to my lower lashes. I wanted to turn my cheek into that hand, but pride–and fear--stayed me.