Who missed the group chat? I know I did!

The Radio Demon and his little fawn were so preoccupied with other things, and then so exhausted from said things, that they did not move back to Alastor’s—their—bedroom that night after they’d exhausted themselves and each other. 

Grace woke to find herself entangled with Alastor. Things were slick and sticky and there was some blood, some saliva, a lot of sweat, and definitely cum all over them and the bed. Loads of that last bodily fluid.

Alastor probably could have gone again at least a couple more rounds if they both hadn’t needed the sleep more. Even Grace had to admit that much.

Poor Niffty. She may have a twisted little mind but this crime scene has gotta be beyond revolting even for the likes of her. Grace couldn’t help but snort at her thought. 

Alastor stirred, she hoped, coincidentally and not because she’d awakened him.

If I still had a phone, mused Grace, I’d send a photo of this mess to Valentino. Make him weep with want.

Fucker.

Alastor shifted in his spot, made a face akin to disgust—likely noticing the wet and slick and sticky all over everything—and then met Grace’s gaze. In a heartbeat, his smile brightened and eyes softened. “You’re here,” he breathed, his voice steeped in disbelief. “My dear, decadent little darling.”

“I’m here,” Grace confirmed. 

“I was so afraid I’d wake to find I’d dreamed you came back.”

That was telling about the nature of his dreams recently.

“Don’t run away again. Please.”

“I didn’t run away,” Grace said softly, dragging her fingertips down the center of his chest. “It was … a … tactical retreat.”

“What was tactical about your retreat?”

“Forced distance to make your heart grow fonder?” She smiled weakly.

“That was hardly necessary.”

“I beg to differ.” Maybe my heart was the one that needed it. Grace swallowed hard in the following silence, suddenly having the unwelcome recollection of Angel’s wince when he saw her eyes. “I don’t know how you can look at me like this.”

Alastor’s eyebrows crimped. “What do you mean?”

Oh fucking shit. “Do you … not notice? The … color?” If he hadn’t, she wished she hadn’t drawn his attention to it.

He caressed her face but said nothing, which was answer enough to her question. She dropped her gaze to his chest, bringing her hands up between them and once more tracing the hint of the scar there. Grace regretted being unable to help him with that sooner, and yet it was part of him. Part of his history. It was a contribution to what made him the Overlord she knew and desperately loved. Maybe even to some degree a defining component of who he was now. 

“I love the way you kiss me,” she murmured. “I know it’s not your favorite thing but I can’t help wishing you’d do it more.”

“I love to kiss you. Why would you think it’s not my favorite thing?”

“Because of how rarely you ever do it?”

Alastor drew in a deep inhalation. “It’s … complicated.” But he took her cue and kissed her lips softly, briefly—for probably only as long as he could stand it to appease her.

Grace reached up to trace the outer edge of his ear. “I love your ears. They’re so soft.”

He closed his eyes, taking a long inhalation. “I love how you touch them.”

She moved her fingertips from his ears to his cute little crescent-shaped black horns. “I love your horns, too.”

“And I love yours.” Alastor stroked hers in response, eliciting full-body tremors from Grace. "Tell me, Little Fawn: what did you do all that time in Vee Tower to maintain your sanity?"

"Oh, I undoubtedly lost at least a little of my mind being trapped there!" Grace then regaled him of the antics she was most proud of, although for obvious reasons, omitting the far-too-close-call of being forced to fuck Travis. She punctuated the stories with, "Y'know … I'd think an Overlord would need to be clever to gain that kind of power, but it was shockingly easy to manipulate them … to turn them on each other! I was certain they were pretending to let me undermine their relationship for some ultimate plot twist, but no!"

Alastor chuckled devilishly, raking his fingers through her hair. "I don't think I could have done that any better, myself, sweetheart."

To Grace's deep annoyance, her stomach growled just then. It would take more than a few bowls of gumbo to compensate for weeks of veritable starvation.

He suggested, “Let’s go get breakfast."

“Nuh uh, don’t wanna.” She shook her head, burying her face against his chest.

With a deep chuckle, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tightly. “I’ll make it worth your while,” said Alastor in a sing-song voice. “Blueberry and sausage casserole, beignets, and some New Orleans style coffee?”

Grace glanced up and met his gaze with large eyes. “You’re using my weaknesses against me. That’s hardly fair.”

“Do you want those things?”

“Only always!”

“I’ll do it.” His smile turned sly. “But only if you ask me nicely.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” She leaned back as far as he’d let her. “I have to ask when you offered it to me in the first place?”

His glowing eyes narrowed on her. “Grace.”

She shivered with delight and prayed that being wildly turned on by his derision would never get old. “Please, would you make me breakfast, Radio Demon? I love your cooking.”

His smile grew into a cocky smirk but he admitted, almost humbly, “I love cooking for you.”

Grace sat upright slowly, assessing the damage from last night. In addition to the dried cum, the insides of both her thighs were covered in scratches and bites where Alastor had gotten a shred too frisky with her in their fourth and final round.

And as for the bed, Niffty might be better off just burning the whole hotel down and starting it over from scratch rather than attempting to clean this up. She remembered when the shredded sheets happened. She remembered most of the holes in the headboard she’d made with her horns and a few pairs of holes that were actually Alastor’s contributions. There was a huge single tear in one of the pillows. That, she couldn’t recall the origin of.

“You’re a beautiful mess.” Alastor caressed her bare arm from shoulder to elbow. “Now go get cleaned up. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

Gooseflesh chased his touch and all Grace was able to say in reply was, “‘K.”

Angel Dust greeted Grace with a huge grin when she entered the dining room. “You look …” His gaze swept her frame, head cocking to the side. “Loved.”

Grace’s cheeks warmed. “If that’s a euphemism, then I would say it’s an astute observation.”

“Get over here.” He patted the empty chair beside himself.

Against her better judgment, Grace joined Angel Dust at the table as he pulled out his smart phone and set it on the table beside himself.

“He missed you so much,” Angel commented.

“How do you know?”

“Wanna know why I almost choked during dinner last night?”

Grace looked at him warily. “I dunno … Do I?”

“He was excited to see you.”

She frowned. “That’s what he told me last night after he showed up at my bedroom door.”

Angel leveled her with a pointed stare. “No. Grace. He was excited to see you. I don’t need to ask you about his dimensions anymore.”

Grace slapped her hands over her mouth, heat flooding her cheeks in second-hand embarrassment on Alastor’s behalf.

“I glanced over to see him watching you eat his gumbo and he had the most raging hard-on.”

“Oh, my god!” She was fleetingly regretful she hadn’t seen it for herself. In retrospect, however, at that point in time, it would not have been the welcome and flattering sight it would be now. “Was he … like … even aware of it or like …?”

“He did clasp his hands over it but not before everyone else saw.”

“Do you think he noticed that you all noticed?”

“If he did,” Angel said with a fleeting smile, “you and I both know he’d never admit to it.”

“Too true,” Grace said with a small sigh. “So. You know something of a personal nature about Alastor.” Actually, you know a lot of things about him, Angel. “It’s your turn to tell me something.”

“Husk talks in his sleep.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “That’s not the kind of ‘something’ I was referring to, and you know it.” Although that would seem to indicate Angel and Husk had shared a bed. Which, knowing Angel Dust, meant they were sharing more than space to sleep.

“He’s got this recurring dream where he’s the president of the United States.”

“What!” she laughed. “How do you know? What’s he say?” 

“Oh, stuff like, ‘I’m the goddamn president of the United fucking States!’ And ‘I’m president of the United Assholes.’ He's apparently got an advisor named Nathan.”

Grace leaned toward him, utterly rapt. “What else, what else!”

“I heard him once call himself reverse giraffe.” 

“What the fuck’s a reverse giraffe? Is it a sex position?”

Angel shrugged and said, “I dunno!” but quickly grew more distraught. “I should know that, why don't I know that?!”

In addition to being terribly entertaining, Grace knew Angel’s redirection of the conversation was a blessing. Do I really wanna know anything of a sexual nature about Husk? She knew more than she wished to know about Angel, as it was. “Have you ever asked him about these dreams?”

“Nah. He doesn’t even know he talks in his sleep. So … hush.”

“Got it. Hushed.”

“You’ve missed … a lot,” Angel said. “I’ll show you, but first I need to send an update.”

“Ruby Rochester,” Grace murmured, shaking her head.

Angel Dust looked at her blankly.

“Mr. Rochester was the romantic male lead in Jane Eyre. Also, ten percent battery first thing in the morning? Really? Charge your fucking phone; it’s triggering me!”

It was odd to feel like she was snooping when—had she still been in possession of her phone—she’d have seen all these messages, herself. If they’d wanted to hide anything from her, they all knew well enough to not send the messages to their group chat.

Having sent the—apparently necessary, not to mention ridiculous—update, Angel scrolled back through his messages a couple weeks.

Angel scrolled down the conversation a bit, explaining, “This is just stupid shit that doesn’t have to do with anything.” He stopped at a chunk of messages in all-capital letters.

Valentino interrupted Angel Dust’s scrolling with a message that opened with, “Hey SugarBush.”

Shrinking into his seat and red-cheeked, Angel Dust dismissed the notification before Grace could read any more of it.

Grace turned a wide-eyed gaze at Angel Dust. “He! Did! Not!” With each exclamation, she smacked him against his closest bicep for emphasis.

Angel glanced down at his arm before meeting Grace’s gaze with a confused, “Ouch?”

“What exactly did he say?!”

“Well—it was —more kinda—a conceptual confession? Like … it wasn’t so much what he said but how he said it.”

“Ha! You’re such a fucking liar. He doesn’t, and he did not.” The hair raised on her arms. And he’s approaching. There was an odd sense of relief in feeling that prickling of her skin with Alastor’s proximity. She feared being in Vox’s thrall might have eliminated that altogether. Even if she could do nothing with that sensation, it was nice to have it as a way of reassuring her that no matter what, she was still in some way connected to the Radio Demon.

If I can get out of Vox’s contract … would I even want to go back to Alastor in that capacity? She swallowed a groan, hating herself a little for wondering that. She felt like there was no good answer.

“Grace?” Angel prompted.

Perhaps she hadn’t swallowed that groan as thoroughly as she thought she had.

Alastor walked into the dining room tailed by pretty much everyone else at the hotel. Grace suspected they’d been lured to the dining room by the heavenly scent of the food he’d made. They took seats around the table while Alastor presented the food to Grace. The breakfast casserole, a plate piled high with beignets that were more powdered sugar than pastry, and of course a carafe full of coffee with her I ❤️ DIKS mug hooked around his pinkie finger.

He pressed a hand to her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Grace turned her head to meet his gaze reluctantly, deeply self-conscious about her eye color, and he left her with a little kiss on the lips before sitting in the chair beside hers and pouring her some of that coffee.

“I shudder to think you’re trying to make me fat,” Grace remarked about the cache of food Alastor set in front of her.

Alastor replied without a second to think first, “I’m doing nothing of the sort, sweetheart. I’m just trying to make you you again.”

Angel rested his phone in his lap and ducked his head to type another message furiously on his phone—no doubt texting Cherri a play-by-play of the action unfolding beside him. Complete with live commentary.

“So … are we … just … ignoring the fact that we have a minion of Vox’s in our presence now?” Husk asked. “And … we’re all okay with that?”

“She’s nothing of the sort!” Alastor roared through heavy static, his neck cracking nightmarishly as his head whipped around to level a radio-dialed stare at the bartender.

Husk shrunk back in his seat.

“Is this something we can help with?” Charlie asked in the ensuing silence.

Grace plucked a beignet from the plate primarily to give herself a few moments to formulate a reply. Between bites of  the fluffy sugary pastry, she replied, “No, Charlie. It’s my fight.”

“I beg to differ,” Alastor said as if there would be no begging involved. “It’s ours.”

Boy, he seemed to favor that word lately. Ours.

Our room.

Our bed.

“I’m not arguing this with you,” Grace said stiffly and had a sip of that delicious coffee, refusing to meet Alastor’s gaze.

“Of course you’re not, darling, because there’s simply no argument that it’s our fight.”

Our fight.

“Al—” Grace whispered, still keeping her focus on the food in her hand. Let’s not do this here. Now.

Kofax interjected, “May I please have a moment alone with Grace?”

Alastor’s gaze darkened but when Grace stood without setting the beignet down, he didn’t stop her.

Kofax took Grace by her free hand—a brazen and daring move while being stared down by the Radio Demon, antlers and all—and led her to her room.

Grace took several moments to just drink in Kofax’s décor, realizing she’d never actually seen it before. It was not much unlike stepping into the set of the movie Tron: everything that didn’t glow neon pink or teal was painted black. Harsh lines and gears and grids and circuit boards covered every free surface. It brought to mind the blacklight nights at her neighborhood arcade in the 1980s.

Kofax settled Grace on the edge of her bed and then kneeled on the carpet before her. “Take a deep breath.”

Grace followed instruction, but did so quickly.

Kofax laughed wryly. “Try again, Goodness Gracious. A long, deep breath. With me.”

Grace took that breath in time with Kofax.

“Okay, listen. I know you’re frightened but I have absolutely no doubt you can get out of this contract with Vox—with help or without it.”

“He’s a powerful Overlord, Kofax,” Grace replied, her voice quavering. “I’m nothing and no one. I can’t—”

“Look at me.” When she didn’t react fast enough, Kofax repeated more sternly, “Look. At. Me.”

Grace reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet Kofax’s. Why did everyone treat her like a sub? Was her lifestyle preference really that obvious or had she turned into a doormat without realizing it? She’d never been the most assertive woman but this was getting ridiculous.

"What if nothing works? What if I'm stuck like this and Vox just finds ways to make things worse? What if—"

Kofax interrupted Grace silently, caressing her cheek in a shockingly gentle, matronly way.

Grace gasped a quiet, shuddering little breath.

Her voice soft, Kofax said, "Just because you're scared doesn't mean you're not strong."

Grace's lip trembled, her eyes beginning to burn. It was always so weird how the kindest statements from others were the ones that felt like they ripped her heart clean from her chest.

With more conviction, Kofax continued, "You singlehandedly created a spectacular rift between three powerful Overlords. Give yourself some fucking credit, Grace Bedgood! You laid ruin to an Overlord without so much as raising a finger! I saw the aftermath with my own eyes, and trust when I say Vox has nothing on Alastor. If you broke Alastor, destroying Vox should be a piece of cake once you figure out how.”

A tear slipped, unchecked, down Grace’s cheek. She laughed, and said despite her trembling lip, “You used his name, K!”

Kofax's face lit up with a grin. “Don’t worry; I won’t be making a habit of it. Now. Grace. Tell me how I can help you.”

Grace knew there was no point in arguing the question—Kofax would be as adamant about helping her as Alastor had been—so she thought a few moments and said, “You can get on the Hellish Home Shopping Club’s website and order me an Angelic Steel beskad.” If this showdown was going down, Grace would go into it armed to the teeth.

“That’s my Gracie!” Kofax said, punctuating her response with a wicked laugh. “So now for my follow-up question: do you care how I procure said Angelic Steel beskad?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Kofax brandished her smart phone like it was the weapon in question. “Cool. Hacking our way to weaponry, it is!”

“Uh—that was not my answer, K—”

“Too late!” Kofax said with a shrug and a wicked glint in her eye. “It’s a canon event. I can’t intervene.”