The Devil's in the Details Read Online Free PDF

a demon slayer, all right.
    The
demon slayer.
    A shiver descended my spine, although this time it wasn’t lust driven. Most slayers were your average humans who took up the profession and joined the Legion to make amends. To accumulate enough brownie points to get them bumped up in the Hereafter.
    Cutter Owens had no such motivation. He’d been a thief and a gambler and, some said, a murderer before he’d joined up. He was going straight to Hell and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about redemption. For him it was all about eliminating as many demons as he could before he went down.
    Talk about a reputation. We’d all heard the gossip. Stories larger than life. He was a hundred feet tall. He had two heads. He breathed fire. He shit lightning. He had six penises (okay, that came from one of my succubus buds and was probably more wishful thinking than anything else). Bottom line, he was a bona fide badass.
    And he was after the biggest kill of his career—the Devil herself. Aka Mommie Dearest.
    “Call me,” he murmured, and then, before I could find my voice, he winked one gleaming green eye, turned on his heel, and walked away.
    Shock and dismay faded into the thunder of my heartbeat as I stared at his backside, his jeans shifting across the tightest, most perfect ass I’d ever seen.
    I swallowed.
    Hard.
    Hello? Your very existence is about to go to Hell in that new Prada knockoff you just ordered. Now would be a good time to forget Mr. Buns of Steel, pack it up, and head for Alaska.
    I nixed the image of naked skin and tanned muscle laid out on a bearskin rug next to a fire. I didn’t have time to lust after a man I could
never
have, particularly when I’d sworn off lust in the first place. And I was certain Cutter Owens—demon slayer extraordinaire—would sooner chop off my head than jump my bones if he knew my true identity.
    “…getting ready to cut the cake, but they can’t do it without the photographer,” came Burke’s voice over the headset. “She went MIA about ten minutes ago to change her film. No one’s seen her since. Help!”
    I drew a deep breath, ignored the unease that told me something was about to happen—something
really
bad—and headed for the reception area. I could sort through my own problems later. Right now I was smack-dab in the middle of a happily-ever-after—someone else’s, but still—and I wasn’t going to let anything screw up my bride’s day.
    That, and it was cake time.

4

    I pulled into my driveway long after midnight, my feet aching and my stomach churning from the three pieces of cake (vanilla with strawberry filling, buttercream icing, and sugar rose petals) I’d wolfed down at the wedding.
    I know, I know. I should have stopped at one. But hey, we’re talking
months
of walking the straight and celibate. No kissing. No touching. No chocolate body paint. It was a wonder I hadn’t scarfed down all four tiers by myself. Thankfully I had the superfast metabolism of a demon, otherwise I’d be calling Jenny Craig.
    I killed the engine and stared through the windshield at the modest brick duplex I’d been living in for the past two years. It was a split-level number divided into an upstairs apartment and a downstairs apartment. When I’d first moved in, I’d had the upper level while Mrs. Evelyn White, a seventysomething retired flight attendant, had occupied the first floor. She’d eventually moved on to that great big 747 in the sky, and I don’t mean that figuratively. She’d joined a group of senior-citizen air candy stripers and was now zipping from New York to Paris every few days. She’d ditched the duplex to share an apartment near the airport with two of her fellow stripers. Meanwhile, I’d managed to scrape together enough money to pick up her part of the lease. I’d bought a used desk, a sofa, and a few chairs, and just like that my business, Happily Ever After Events, had been born.
    It wasn’t my dream setup (I
really
wanted an upscale storefront