In the Devil’s Hands
Madeline
“You son of a b***h! That’s just rude,” I yelled.
He smirked, “Such a dirty mouth on such a pretty little Angel.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and ripped my hands free from his grasp. He didn’t fight to hold me there — though he probably should have — because the moment I was loose, I stood and slammed my fist against his chest.
What good does that do me?
The demon was a f*****g immovable brick wall. Solid muscle and warm skin that I wanted to run my tongue across at the same time. I pounded my fist against his chest in the hopes that it would shake the troubling thoughts that seemed to rise whenever he was around.
“Lux mea parva,” he murmured, almost indulgent, as if he found my fury amusing, “if you insist on leaving your marks on me, don’t be surprise
