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The contract materialized on her kitchen counter as if it had always waited there. The parchment, thick and cream-colored, bore flowing script written in what looked disturbingly like liquid shadow. The words seemed to shift slightly when Cathy tried to read them, rearranging themselves to match her understanding.
Jeremy stood at the counter with the calm of someone accustomed to binding souls to eternal agreements. “There. All standard demonic contract language, with our specific terms clearly outlined. You need only sign and provide the binding agent.”
“Binding agent?” Cathy repeated weakly.
“Blood,” Jeremy said simply. “Or its equivalent. Demonic contracts require a signature in something vital. Blood is traditional. Tears work in emergencies. You witches sometimes use condensed magic, but it is less reliable.”
Cathy looked around her destroyed kitchen. The flour had mostly settled. The remains of her kitchen table lay in splinters. The burned protection charms still smoldered on the stovetop. She needed something visceral, something that would make this real.
Her eyes landed on the jar of cranberry sauce sitting on the counter, left over from last week’s failed attempt at a protective spell.
“No,” Jeremy said flatly, following her gaze. “Absolutely not. I am the High Prince of Gluttony, not some minor imp to be bound in jam.”
“It is practically blood,” Cathy reasoned, already reaching for the jar. “It is red, it is organic, it is from something that lived. Technically, does not cranberry sauce contain the essence of the berries?”
Jeremy stared at her as if she had suggested signing the contract in children’s tears and butterfly wings.
“Cranberry sauce,” Jeremy repeated, his dark eyes narrowing with what might have been curiosity beneath the disdain. “Explain.”
“Demonic contracts require something vital,” Cathy said, drawing on everything she had read in her mother’s forbidden library. “Blood is traditional because it carries intention and life force. But cranberries were alive. They fermented, transformed, which means they carried intention too. Intent to preserve. Intent to transform.”
Jeremy stared at her for a long moment. “You are applying hearth logic to infernal binding.”
“Is it working?” she asked.
A slow smile spread across his face. “Infuriatingly, yes.”
“This is ridiculous,” he said finally. “I should consume you where you stand. I should take my chances with the reserve and simply eat your aunt.”
“But you will not,” Cathy said, surprising herself with her confidence. She dipped her finger into the cranberry sauce, coating it in the dark red substance. “Because a contract is sacred, and you are going to be a respectable warlock fiancé instead of a notorious soul-eater. So you will accept my cranberry sauce, and we will both pretend this is a normal binding.”
For a long moment, Jeremy simply stared at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, his expression frozen between offense and something that might have been respect.
“Cranberry,” he said slowly, as if tasting the word. “The High Prince of Gluttony, bound by fruit preserves. When I return to Hell, my rivals will never let me live this down.”
“Then I guess you had better make sure this works out,” Cathy said. She touched her cranberry-covered finger to the space at the bottom of the contract where a signature line had begun to pulse with light.
The moment her finger made contact, the magic went absolutely wild. Black and gold light erupted from the parchment, spiraling up her arm in threads that burned cold rather than hot. Cathy gasped, nearly pulling away, but Jeremy reached out and gripped her wrist. His hand felt warm, almost unbearably so, and the moment he touched her, the burning transformed into something else entirely. It felt like coming home. It felt like hunger satisfied. It felt like standing too close to a flame and not being able to step away.
The contract’s language rearranged itself, settling into final form. Cathy watched as her name appeared in elegant script alongside terms that made her stomach clench: *Seven days of service as contracted consort. Full access to the Johnson Family Reserve as payment. The contracted party maintains authority over the FMC within the bounds of the agreed-upon role. Upon expiration of the contract, both parties are released from obligation.*
“There,” Jeremy said, his voice oddly strained. He released her wrist. The connection between them severed like a cut cord. “It is done. You are, for all intents and purposes, my fiancée. And I am bound to protect you from harm and fulfill my duties as your romantic consort.”
“Romantic consort?” Cathy repeated, reading the line again. “We did not negotiate that.”
“The contract adjusted itself,” Jeremy said smoothly, though something in his expression suggested he was being less than forthcoming. “Demonic contracts are sentient, in a manner of speaking. They adapt to the true desires of the parties involved.”
“My true desire does not involve being a romantic consort,” Cathy said firmly.
“Does it not?” Jeremy asked, meeting her eyes. “Or is that precisely why the contract included it? Because part of you knew I would be far more useful to you as a lover than merely as an actor?”
Before Cathy could form a response that would not immediately prove him right, a loud, insistent knock echoed from her front door.
Turnip’s eyes went wide. “The landlord. Oh no. The eviction timing is now.”
Jeremy’s expression shifted to something cold and aristocratic. He rolled down his sleeves, straightening his already-pristine suit. “Then I suggest you answer that door with your new fiancé at your side, little witch. It is time to establish the narrative.”
Cathy turned toward her door. The reality of what she had just done crashed over her like a wave. She had signed a contract with a Demon Prince. She had bound herself to him for seven days. The contract suggested he had authority over her. And somehow, the magic of it all had suggested that her own heart wanted something deeper than just a fake engagement.
She pulled open the door to find her landlord, Mr. Patterson, standing in the hallway with a formal-looking document and an expression that suggested he would rather be anywhere else. “Ms. Johnson, I am here to serve notice of…” He trailed off, his eyes going wide as Jeremy stepped into the doorway beside her, wrapping one possessive arm around her waist.
“There seems to be some confusion,” Jeremy said smoothly, his voice dropping into a range that somehow made the air feel thicker. “My fiancée will be paying her back rent immediately. Today. In full. With a substantial deposit for the remainder of her lease.”
Mr. Patterson blinked, opening and closing his mouth like a confused fish. “I… yes, of course. No problem at all. I will just… I will let my office know that there has been a misunderstanding about the eviction.” He disappeared down the hallway with remarkable speed.
Cathy turned to look up at Jeremy, who gazed out at the now-empty hallway with the satisfied expression of someone who had just reorganized the universe according to his preferences. “How did you…” she began.
“The contract gives me certain authority within the bounds of our arrangement,” Jeremy said, turning his attention back to her. “And one of those authorities is the ability to manifest resources to maintain appearances. Your landlord will not even remember questioning the rent. His mind will simply accept that you are a young woman engaged to someone with wealth and status.”
He leaned down. Cathy’s breath caught. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of burnt sage and cinnamon that always clung to her. “We need to prepare,” he said, pulling away. “Your aunt’s feast begins in six days. And I have absolutely no concept of human etiquette, which means you will need to teach me how to pretend to be a respectable warlock, little witch.”
“Great,” Cathy muttered, looking at the cranberry contract beginning to fade and reform in its magical binding, settling into a permanent seal. “Wonderful. This is definitely not going to end in disaster.”
Behind them, Turnip made a small, deeply skeptical noise from under the couch. “We are hiring someone to find us an escape route,” the opossum announced to the empty kitchen. “I am thinking Canada. They have good opossum populations. Nobody would find us there.”