Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3), Marie Johnston [books suggested by bill gates TXT] 📗

just walk away without doing something. Leaving Jim at the mercy of the sylphs still gnawed at her.

The woman pushed her hair back with a shaky hand. “Yeah.” She yanked her cart back and the corner got stuck. “Fuck.” She rammed it forward and back again.

Before the woman could draw the employee back, Sierra grabbed the end of the cart and unhooked it from the sale sign.

The woman was about to whip it away for another attempt but Sierra kept hold of the cart. “It feels like this time of year things should slow down, but they never do.”

The woman’s eyes darted left, then right. The symaster’s eyes, though, they watched her. Sierra should stop and be on her way. But she couldn’t.

“Makes it easy to forget to breathe.” The woman’s gaze focused on her. Encouraged, Sierra kept going. “Makes you forget to slow your mind and remember everything’s going to be okay. Makes you forget to quit listening to that ugly voice in your head that ruins your day.”

Sierra willed the woman to understand and forced herself to focus on the human hazel irises instead of the inhuman, dark eyes glaring at her like the demon would rip her apart if it could become tangible.

“That ugly voice . . .”

“It can be loud, right? Demeaning. Always remember,” Sierra nudged past her, “it lies.”

She kept walking and didn’t look back. If the woman listened to her and was strong enough to boot the demon from her psyche, then the risk was worth it.

Chapter 6

Obnoxious sunlight bored through the curtains. He should’ve gotten thicker curtains when he first moved in. Nothing was brighter than a cloudless, frigid winter day. The snow reflected all the rays, amplifying their assault on his eyeballs.

Most days Boone enjoyed rising with the sun. Those days hadn’t included nights where Sierra went to the bathroom at least twice. The water bill was going to skyrocket now that she was actually showering, but he didn’t care about that. Her bathroom breaks had escalated over the last three weeks.

Did she have a bladder infection or something?

He couldn’t bring himself to ask. Phoebe used to drink cranberry juice, claiming it warded off the dreaded bladder infections she’d gotten when she was pregnant. Frozen berries were in the freezer, but none of them were cranberry.

What did he know about bladder infections?

He sat up on the edge of the couch and rubbed his eyes.

Sierra was sprawled across the mattress, the covers twisted around her bare legs but not covering near enough golden skin. He averted his gaze. She wore shorts to bed, commenting that she got “hot flashes or some shit” when she never used to. The result was tossing and turning, which also woke him up.

He should’ve gotten a bigger cabin.

Every morning pre-Sierra, he’d get up and do his morning routine in the bathroom—shower and shave. While Sierra was recovering, he’d done the same, only quicker because he didn’t trust her on her own. Lately, he’d been sitting for a few minutes, talking his morning wood down.

It was the cost of waking up each morning in a small space with a beautiful woman, one who was oblivious to the way her shirts clung to her breasts. She couldn’t even hide them in a damn sweater. It was like they were growing.

She was filling out. The thin woman he’d found in the snow who could eat pheasant one day and gag at it another had put on much-needed weight, rounding her tempting hips and—

Those tits.

He squashed his palms against his eyes. He’d refrained from jacking off in the shower since he’d carried her home, but he might have to do some stealth masturbation.

Somehow it felt wrong when she was on the other side of the wall.

Her breathing changed. She was waking up. He shuffled to the bathroom, shoving a hand through his hair. He went through his routine in his normal perfunctory manner. A look in the mirror made him wince. His beard needed a trim. Badly. But it was morning and Sierra was likely doing the potty dance outside the door.

He stepped out and she popped up from the bedding. Heading straight for the kitchen, he avoided looking at her. Her short hair would be sticking up in every direction. She always shoved one side behind her ear and he was amazed that small ear could hold back the tangle of hair.

And those legs.

She wasn’t tall. Those shorts should go down farther. The hem landed way too far above her knees for his comfort. She usually changed into leggings in the bathroom, which were their own sweet hell.

He rummaged until he found toast. Her stomach was touchy in the morning. Did it have anything to do with the bladder infection?

He furrowed his brows and cradled the bread in his hands as he stood and stared at the countertop.

He’d lived with Phoebe for thirteen years. They’d met right out of college, just after he’d started with the force. Adam had come along and they’d moved closer to Chicago—a change Phoebe had been against from the beginning.

He couldn’t go down that memory lane again. He’d spent enough years on it. But it had reminded him—women needed certain things that men didn’t stock.

Was that why Sierra was in the bathroom so often? Was she too timid, too proud, to ask him for pads or tampons or whatever other products women used?

Dammit, he should’ve thought of that earlier. Now that he had, he couldn’t stop.

Sierra exited the bathroom. Her hair had been tamed by the brush they had picked up with her clothing. She’d snap his comb otherwise. A bump of hair rose higher on her right side, her preferred side to sleep on, but whatever women did to tame their locks, Sierra didn’t do. Her eyes were clear and she wrapped her arms around her abdomen.

Cramps?

For fuck’s sake. How long had he been an idiot?

He cleared his throat. “So, it occurred to me . . .”

Her light brows lifted and she drifted closer, sensing the gravity of the