A survivor of the occult. A demon prince with a sudden, inexplicable urge to mow the lawn.
I joined the support group for the stale donuts and the shared trauma. I just wanted a safe place to complain about the time a poltergeist hijacked my body. I didn’t expect to sit next to Malphas.
He’s seven feet of horned, terrifying muscle who smells like brimstone and danger. He should be ruling the Underworld. Instead, he’s panic-spiraling because he can’t stop thinking about cargo shorts.
Apparently, he was “reverse-possessed” by a Midwestern ghost named Gary. Now, I’m stuck with a roommate who looks like a sin but acts like a suburban dad.
He’s not stealing my soul; he’s aggressively fixing my leaky faucet and lecturing me on my tire pressure. The problem is, I’m attracted to him. Dangerous, stupidly attracted.
But it’s hard to maintain a dark, steamy romance when your demon lover interrupts a heavy make-out session to remind you that tomorrow is recycling day.
I should probably run. But he’s incredibly good with his hands, and I’m starting to realize that his version of “eternal damnation” looks suspiciously like a trip to Home Depot.
