Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 76

**OZ**

What crime did I commit in a past life to deserve this kind of torture? Kacia looks INCREDIBLE. The kind of incredible that makes it hard to remember my own name, let alone maintain a moral high ground. Tight black jeans, a plunging neckline, boots that add just enough height as well as a little bit more of a sway to her hips… And she knows it too. Kacia knows EXACTLY what she’s doing to me. I’m fairly sure that it was a calculated move. To make matters worse, she Won’t. Stop. Flirting. Tossing out these casual, razor sharp little lines that practically BEG me to flirt back. Clever set ups. Double meanings. Sass in every single sentence. And I can’t respond. I’ve spent the last ten minutes biting my tongue, forcing myself to stay neutral when all I want to do is lean into it. To give as good as I’m getting. My tail twitches every few seconds like it’s trying to leap across the console and claim her as mine. She opened the car door for me, for crying out loud. Opened it with a flourish like she was inviting me to my doom, and then casually dragged her hand across my shoulder as I got in sending shivers down my spine and heat into my face. What is this? A seduction campaign? Because it’s working. But no. I’m SUPPOSED to be keeping my distance. I’M the one who said we shouldn’t do this. That I should leave. That we can’t be together. I hate past me. He was clearly an idiot.Why was this a bad idea again? I turn my head toward her and try to get my brain working.

“Prin- I mean, Kacia… Where are we actually going? You never said.” I ask. She gives me a sideways glance, unimpressed.

“Yeah, no. I’m not going to respond when you address me that way.” She declares. I blink. 

“You mean by your actual name?” I question. She nods. 

“Exactly. It’s not what you wanted to say, and besides, I’ve gotten used to the nicknames.” She is practically pouting. Of course she has. I let out a long suffering sigh. 

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?” I ask. 

“Nope.” She pops the 'p' at the end like she’s delighted to be difficult. I groan and throw my head back against the seat.

“Fine. Princess, will you PLEASE tell me where we’re going?” I try again. She taps her chin, clearly pretending to consider it. 

“You know, I’m not sure I WANT to be called Princess anymore. I think the nickname needs an upgrade. I’m feeling more like a Queen today.” She says thoughtfully. Another groan escapes me. 

“Alright, alright. My QUEEN, will you please tell me where we are going?” I request. She grins like the cat who just got away with knocking over the fishbowl. 

“Of course. No need to be so dramatic about it.” She replies, as if I’M the one being unreasonable. She pulls a folded slip of paper out of her pocket and hands it over. I glance at the handwriting.

“Is this from Mikey?” I ask. 

“He gave it to me earlier, It’s an address he thinks might be connected to the drainers. He just needs some kind of proof they’re committing illegal activity. Photos, names, maybe a mugshot with today’s newspaper… I dunno.” She explains then exhales slowly. 

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and my phone camera will actually work for once. Otherwise we’ll have to steal their IDs or something. Or, you know, capture them.” She adds. She’s trying to sound casual, but I can hear the tension in her voice, just below the surface. It’s that kind of false chill that only comes when she’s already halfway into planning something reckless. 

“Not happening.” I say firmly. 

“Sweetheart, you’re still injured. You need to take care of yourself.” I order and then I flinch internally, because there it is. Another pet name. Another slip. Why is it so hard not to use them now? Habit? Hormones? General stupidity? Take your pick. Kacia groans in response. 

“Ugh, fine. You know what? Maybe I DO want to be a Princess. Queens have way too much responsibility. Yeah. Princess is better. Let’s stick with Princess.” She decides. I keep my mouth shut. Smart choice. Safer that way. She clears her throat. 

“Oz.” She prompts. So much for staying silent. I sigh, already bracing for the smugness to come. 

“Yes, Princess.” I agree. She smirks. 

“And don’t you forget it.” She responds smugly. I don’t respond. I just grip the paper in my hand and look out the window. Because I already know I’m doomed. And she knows it too.

We finally pull into the neighbourhood Mikey’s address pointed us to, and the second we do, I feel my hackles rise. It’s… Nice here. Too nice. Tree lined streets. Crisp white fences. Cars parked neatly in driveways. One house even has a pastel colored birdhouse on a matching pole. Pastel. Kids are laughing as they kick a ball across one perfectly mowed lawn, while their parents lounge nearby in folding chairs, sipping from what look like overly expensive stainless steel thermoses and chatting like this is just another peaceful day. This is NOT the kind of place where illegal magical drainers set up shop. This is where people host brunch. Kacia slows the car and pulls over a few houses down from the target. She’s wearing that thoughtful little frown she gets when she’s second guessing something but refusing to admit it. The house we’re watching is two stories of suburban perfection. Pale yellow walls, big windows, one of those expensive looking front porches with columns and a perfectly symmetrical flower bed. There's even a bloody ceramic garden gnome smiling smugly from beside the mailbox. 

“Uh, Princess…” I say slowly, squinting at the address. 

“Are you SURE this is the place? It’s a little…” I trail off, waving a hand at the neighborhood of the month aesthetic. Kacia shrugs, casually flicking her hair over one shoulder. She’s calm. Annoyingly so. Like I’m the one being irrational. 

“This is what Mikey gave me. You’re right, it does look too upscale for those guys.” She admits. 

“BUT he said it’s connected to one of them somehow. While you were sleeping, he said he was digging into financials. So maybe this is a property the guy’s putting money toward. A safehouse, maybe? Or a front?” She suggests. I raise an eyebrow, eyeing the cheery blue mailbox with suspicion.

“A family home?” I say, unconvinced. 

“I sat through hours of those idiots bickering and posturing like drunk raccoons in a dumpster. Trust me, none of them struck me as the 'loving husband and father of two' type.” I point out. Kacia hums in agreement, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t really add up. But it’s weird enough that it’s worth checking out.” She decides. Then she unbuckles her seatbelt and stretches slightly, just enough to draw attention to the neckline of her top. Not that I’m looking. Okay, I’m absolutely looking. But in my defense, she designed that outfit to be weaponized and she knows it. I tear my eyes away before my tail makes another public appearance and clear my throat.

“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask, quieter this time. 

“You’re still healing.” I remind her. Kacia turns to face me with a look that’s equal parts mischief and mockery. I already know I’m about to regret opening my mouth.

“Well…” She says, her voice going silky. 

“I DID consider spending the day in bed. Relaxing. Maybe lounging in something soft, like someone else’s hoodie.” She starts. My heart skips a beat. Her smile turns wicked.

“But then I remembered that it would have been a very LONELY day. No company. Just lying around, all by myself. No one to… Cuddle with. No one to drive crazy.” She adds, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically like she is just so incredibly distraught by the idea. I groan and slump in my seat. 

“Princess…” I trail off. 

“Yes, Oz?” She says sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like she hasn’t just casually described a fantasy scenario I will now never stop thinking about. 

“Never mind.” I mutter. This is a losing battle. She grins, satisfied, and bats her eyelashes like she’s in a period drama. 

“That’s what I thought.” She responds. Then, she throws the door open and steps out, hips swaying just slightly more than necessary, and glances back over her shoulder with a smirk.

“Coming?” She calls. I consider for half a second whether it’s too late to fake an injury and stay in the car. Then I sigh and follow her out, already bracing for whatever ridiculous situation she’s about to drag me into. And trying, unsuccessfully, not to admire how good her jeans look from behind.