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I threw my hands up on pure instinct.

Gold light exploded from my palms, a ward I had not consciously cast slamming into place between us. It would not hold. I knew it would not hold. Kitchen magic was not meant for combat, not designed to stop things that could crash through ceilings like they were tissue paper.

He stopped anyway.

Not because my ward forced him. Because he chose to. His hand hovered an inch from the shimmering gold barrier, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Not normal heat. Hellfire, barely contained.

"Interesting," he murmured.

I was going to die. I had summoned something far beyond my ability to control, and it was going to consume me in my own kitchen while Turnip watched and probably judged me for my poor life choices.

The demon pulled his hand back slowly, deliberately. Studying the ward the way a cat studied a mouse it was not quite ready to kill. His eyes had returned to green, though shadows still lurked in their depths. Hunger, barely leashed.

"You have magic," he said. It was not a question. "Real magic. Not the parlor tricks I expected from someone desperate enough to summon me with cookies."

"They are very good cookies," I said faintly.

His gaze flicked to the plate in the center of the ruined summoning circle. The cookies had survived the explosion, still arranged in a perfect circle, still glowing with the magic I had kneaded into them.

Something shifted in his expression. Still dangerous. Still predatory. But curious now, instead of purely threatening.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the plate.

"You are asking permission?"

"I am always polite before I take things." His smile was sharp enough to cut. "It makes the taking so much sweeter when they say yes."

I should have said no. Should have used his momentary interest as a chance to run, to escape, to do literally anything except stand here negotiating with a being that radiated power like other people radiated body heat.

Instead, I lowered my hands. The ward dissipated. "Fine. Eat the cookies. Then we can discuss why you are in my kitchen and how quickly you can leave."

He moved like water, fluid and inevitable. One moment he stood on the other side of the circle, the next he was lifting a cookie from the plate. His fingers were long, elegant, tipped with what might have been nails or might have been claws.

He took a bite.

His eyes went black again. Completely, utterly black. But this time it was not hunger for my flesh. It was something else entirely. Something that made my heart stutter and my magic flare brighter in response.

"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, you are dangerous."

"I am a kitchen witch with student loans and an eviction notice. I am the least dangerous thing you will encounter this century."

"You are an alchemist." He ate the rest of the cookie in one bite, his gaze never leaving mine. "Transmutation magic. Intention made manifest through creation. Do you have any idea how rare this is?"

I blinked. "I make food taste good. That is just cooking."

"That is power." He reached for another cookie. "May I?"

"Why are you still asking?"

"Because these are yours." He held my gaze as he bit into the second cookie. "I do not take what is not freely given. I have no need. People always give me what I want eventually."

The apartment groaned. The eviction spell, momentarily forgotten in the chaos, reasserted itself. My furniture shifted another few inches toward the door. Cracks spread across the ceiling where he had entered, plaster raining down in a fine powder.

Turnip made a small, distressed sound from his perch.

The demon looked up, assessing the damage with mild interest. "Your home is collapsing."

"I am aware."

"Because of me?"

"Because I am being evicted. You are just accelerating the timeline."

He finished the second cookie, then turned his full attention to me. The black receded from his eyes again, leaving them that impossible green. Beautiful, in the way a forest fire was beautiful. Deadly and mesmerizing in equal measure.

"Evicted," he repeated slowly. "And yet you summoned me. Knowing this." He gestured to the destruction around us, the hole in my ceiling, the ruined summoning circle. "Why?"

"I need a husband."

Silence. Long enough that I wondered if I had broken him. If demons could experience surprise, or if I had simply said something so absurd his ancient brain could not process it.

Then he laughed. Deep and rich and genuinely amused. The sound filled my tiny kitchen, making the remaining dishes rattle and Turnip hide his face in his paws.

"You summoned a Prince of Hell," he said between laughs, "to play house?"

"I summoned someone desperate enough to accept a terrible bargain in exchange for access to powerful magic." I crossed my arms, trying to look authoritative despite being covered in flour and plaster dust. "Are you desperate?"

His laughter cut off. In an instant, the amusement vanished, replaced by something colder. More calculating. His eyes flicked to the plate of cookies, then back to me.

"What kind of magic?" he asked quietly.

"The Johnson Family Reserve. Fifty acres of apple orchard built on a convergence of ley lines. My family's ancestral land." I took a breath. "If you play my devoted fiancé for one week, convince my family we are engaged, I will share access to the orchard's power."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you go back to wherever you came from, and I lose everything." I met his gaze steadily. "But I am guessing you do not want to go back. Not immediately. Not when you just tasted what I can do with simple cookies and desperation."

He was silent for a long moment, studying me. I could feel his magic pressing against mine, testing, probing. Looking for weaknesses or lies.

Finally, he smiled. Slow and dangerous and full of promise. "Give me one reason I should not consume you where you stand and take your magic anyway."

My hands blazed gold. My magic rose to meet his threat, inadequate but defiant. "Because I can cook."

His smile widened. "Yes. You can."