My gaze trailed to my left and I commanded myself not to look. I looked anyway.

Zylas was sprawled across the living room sofa. On the plate beside him, what had been a stack of a dozen mini apple pies, their tops sprinkled with a cinnamon and sugar crumble, was almost gone—only two left. He’d shed his armor, which he only did when he was feeling particularly relaxed, and the overcast light streaking through the windows bathed the reddish-toffee skin of his bare torso. His head was reclined on the armrest, face pointed toward the light, eyes closed.

Embarrassment twinged through my center and I pointed my hot face at the sink again. I was so lame. He wasn’t stammering and blushing every time he looked my way. I’d been hypothermic, and he’d warmed me up. Big deal. I couldn’t have been more awkward about this if I’d grown up in the Antarctic with penguins for company.

But I really wished Zylas hadn’t picked today to lounge around the living room with half his garments missing—and he didn’t even wear much clothing to begin with. Then again, I supposed it was my own doing. I’d baked for him.

Movement out of the corner of my eye had me snatching my hands from the dishwater. I dove out of the kitchen and scooped Socks up by her furry tummy.

“No, little kitty,” I cooed. “Stay out of the living room. There’s a scary demon in there.”

She mewled in complaint as I set her down in the kitchen by my feet. She was finally eating well, so I’d let her out of her crate to explore the apartment. For most of the morning, she’d lurked in my bedroom, but her confidence was growing.

Eyes half-lidded, Zylas watched me rescue the kitten. Yawning—and flashing his pointed canines—he reached for another mini pie. Crumbs scattered across the rug as he broke it in half and shoved a piece in his mouth. He crunched it once, then swallowed it down in a single gulp.

I shook my head. Chew your food.

He didn’t acknowledge my loud thought, but I felt his annoyed stare on my back. Smirking only because he couldn’t see it, I resumed washing dishes, stopping every few minutes to scoop Socks off the floor and move her out of the living room before she got too close to Zylas. Whenever she crept into his line of sight, his crimson eyes turned toward her.

As I worked, my thoughts drifted to last night’s translation of the grimoire page. The sons of Vh’alyir will destroy you.

“Zylas,” I said impulsively. “What’s your House name?”

He cracked his eyes open. “Hnn?”

“Your House name. Is it Vh’alyir?”

“Not valyeeer,” he grumbled. “Vuh-al-yer.”

I carefully repeated the sounds. “So your full name is Zylas Vh’alyir?”

“Zylas et Vh’alyir.” He indulged in another languid yawn, seemingly unbothered by my new knowledge or where it had come from. “But I am usually called Dīnen et Vh’alyir.”

An odd shiver whispered over me. King of Vh’alyir. Before being summoned out of his world, he’d ruled his House and all demons who belonged to it—or that’s what I was guessing, based on his vague comments.

“What are the other House names?”

“Na, so many,” he complained lazily. “Lūsh’vēr, Dh’irath, Gh’reshēr, Ash’amadē …”

I choked in disbelief. Demon names were worth millions of dollars and he was casually listing them off. Though, come to think of it, summoning required the name’s proper spelling. I could barely pronounce the names, let alone spell them.

“They are the first …” He frowned. “I do not know the word. First rank? They are close in strength. Next four Houses are second rank. Last four are third rank.”

And Vh’alyir, as the Twelfth House, was at the very bottom in both rank and power.

“How did you become the Vh’alyir king?” I asked.

“I am oldest.” He gazed thoughtfully at the last mini pie, then tipped his face toward the light again. “Oldest survivor is Dīnen.”

Did that mean all the demons of his House were younger than him? Setting the last bowl in the drain tray, I grabbed a towel and dried my hands. “For a demon, are you young or old?”

“I am …” He scrunched his nose. “I have less years than the other Dīnen. Why so many questions, drādah?”

I lifted my hand to adjust my glasses, only to remember I’d lost them. I was wearing contacts instead. “How long have you been Dīnen?”

“Some time.”

Not helpful. I gave up on that line of questioning. “What does being a Dīnen involve? What do you have to do?”

He rolled onto his back, resting one leg on the sofa’s back cushions. “Too much to explain. Go away.”

I rolled my eyes. “I live here. I’m not going away.”

“Then be quiet.”

Such a friendly, polite demon. I caught Socks as she tried to sneak past me and carried her into my room. I set her beside the window, hoping the view outside would distract her, then returned to the sofa and peered down at Zylas with my hands on my hips—working hard to ignore his bare, muscular torso.

He squinted one eye open. I parted my lips, ready to fire off another question about demon kings.

“Your face is changing color,” he noted.

My hands flew to my cheeks and my gaze darted to his bare chest. I stumbled back a step, bumping the coffee table. He observed my reaction with a calculating gleam in his eyes that I didn’t like.

I hastily pointed at the last mini pie. “Hurry up and eat that. I want to wash the plate.”

He plucked the pie off the dish, but before he could take a bite, his jaw popped open in yet another wide, sleepy yawn—giving me a fantastically unwanted view of the inside of his mouth. No manners at all, but he was a demon, so I couldn’t really expect him to—

I blinked down at his face as he finished his yawn. Then I pounced.

He yipped in surprise when I grabbed his jaw.

“Hold up,” I said breathlessly as I tried to open his mouth. “Let me see.”

“What?” He twisted away. “No—”

As he spoke, his mouth opened enough for me to hook my fingers over his sharp teeth. “I want to look. It’ll only take—”

“Geh awh!” he slurred around my fingers, holding his mini pie clear as he pushed me away with his other hand.

I put a knee on his chest to hold him down and pried his jaw open. Leaning over his face, I peered into his mouth.

He shoved me off the sofa.

I landed on the floor with a thud but barely noticed the jarring impact. “You don’t have molars!”

He clamped his mouth shut and glowered at me.

“Well, okay, you have molars,” I corrected excitedly. “But they’re pointed like a cat’s, not flat like a human’s. You can’t actually grind up food. That’s why you never chew anything properly!”

“Dilēran,” he muttered under his breath. “Adairedh’nā id sūd, ait eshathē kartismā dilēran.”

I beamed, too delighted that I finally had an explanation for one of his strange quirks to let his insults annoy me.

Amalia’s bedroom door swung open. She stuck her head out and scowled at us. “What are you two freaks doing out here?”