Three Demons Ch 07

I TRIED TO MAKE IT LONGER THIS TIME. PLEASE TELL ME IS GOOD.

Also, thanks for waiting everyone. I really do appreciate the patience. As always, comments and feedback are what I long for. And if you're ever looking for news on the status of the next chapter, I will keep good on posting updates for the series to my profile. Enjoy!

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A couple weeks had passed since the incident with Erik. The way we were, you would've never guessed that anything had happened between us. If I ever had suspicions that the others knew, it was the morning after, when Erik said something along the lines of, "Every girl gives in to me at some point," and the two of them both stared right at me, gauging a reaction. But after that, there was no change in conduct.

Erik was the same as ever; flirty in a passive aggressive way - holding true to his statement about waiting for me to make the next move. His patience was impressive as well as unnerving. I was always on my toes, wondering when he would spill the beans. When I felt safe, he gave me a sort of look that had only one thing perceivable in its gaze: that he knew my secret. When I started to get anxious that he'd tell Everett or Oliver, he would get me alone and rekindle a sense of trust and friendship. I don't know exactly why I am so worried about the two of them finding out. Am I worried that they might not take me seriously? Yes. Why? Because I didn't want them to think that they could pass me around or lose all respect for me as a woman. It was annoying to me, thinking that what they felt and thought about me actually mattered, but it did.

"Freya, you ought to make something for Oliver and Everett. They're running late," Erik mumbled, breaking me away from my thoughts. He was sitting at the dining room table. An ice pack was stuck to his forehead thanks to a thin rubber sash that wrapped around his head, kind of like a sleeping mask. His head was on its side, resting on the table, all its weight on his cheek. His hair wasn't in its usual gelled glory but stuck in an number of angles from an undoubtedly restless sleep.

"Maybe they shouldn't have gotten so screwed up last night when the three of you went out," I replied, my tone colder than was fair.

"Freya, just fucking do it," Erik groaned. His words were forceful at first, as though he was giving a command, but it turned into a plead by the end with his voice but a whimper.

I sighed. "Why don't you take something for that headache, hon?" I asked, resigned.

"I did," he mumbled, "Please make them something. I would do it but I'm indisposed. I'll owe you one." I turned away with a disapproving shake of my head and pulled out some cereal, milk and toast. "Freya, make them a real breakfast," he groaned.

I exhaled forcibly. "You're annoying when you have a hangover," I whispered under my breath.

"So are you, sweetheart, hangover or no," he mumbled.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. "How did you even hear that?"

He paused for a moment, silent. Then he said, "I'm especially sensitive to light and sound right now, babe. Give me a break."

I tried to analyze what he said. I was barely audible, especially to him when he was 20 feet away.

Whatever, its not important. His senses are probably acute right now, like he said

, I thought dismissively. "I'm not annoying," I grumbled, while pulling the ingredients of a "real breakfast" out of the fridge, as Erik had requested. I beat some eggs with a whisk in a bowl, humming a tune to myself cheerfully while bacon sizzled in a pan on the stove.

"What are you humming there, Freya?" I heard Oliver ask. I turned my head to look over my shoulder at him. He was leaning his hip against a counter, arms crossed with the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt exposing two flexing forearms. The top few buttons of the shirt were undone, revealing the base of his neck and, with it, his collarbone. He looked very...appetizing.

"Nothing worth naming, just a simple tune," I said quietly, smiling to myself. I loved living with excessively attractive men.

I heard the sound of his footsteps as he drew closer to me. I could feel the heat radiating off his person when he leaned in to look over my shoulder at, I'm assuming, the state of his meal. He slid a hand around my waist and said, "Looks delicious. I can't wait to taste it." There was something about the way he said it. Perhaps it was the hint of a growl in the undertones of his voice, perhaps it was his heated breath hitting my neck as he said it. Maybe it was the way his hand was sliding down my side along the curve of my hip, inch by achingly slow inch. "But," he began, breaking my reverie with a clear and poignant tone to his once sultry voice, "you're making a little too much for just me. Everett already headed out."

That was confusing as it was only six in the morning. "When?" I asked.

"At four or so. There was a problem at the construction site."

"Oh. The boss called him in?"

The corners of his lips twitched up in a smile. "Something like that."

I was a bit puzzled by his reaction but quieted my curiosity, lest the bacon burn while I idled away with something that wasn't really my business in the first place. "You can have Everett's share of the bacon if you want," I said, changing the subject.

"You don't like bacon?" he asked, a little surprised. I wanted to say duh but he and Everett always left too early in the morning to see what I ate for breakfast.

"I'm not a big fan of pork," I said, adding, "Honestly," in reaction to his astonished expression.

"What about beef?" he asked.

"Maybe. When I'm craving iron," I responded, my shoulders raising with my level of discomfort. I'd had this conversation many times before whenever I expressed my distaste for the holy grail that was bacon. I poured the whipped eggs into the pan and started mixing them with a spatula.

"So you don't like red meat?" he asked with the heaviness of disbelief weighing on his voice.

"No, not really. Well, not domestic," I explained, trying to plead my case.

"Domestic?" he inquired, obviously bemused.

"Yeah, domestic. Like, raised by people on a farm. The meat is too fatty and tender. Whenever I see those vegan commercials," I began, waving the spatula in my hand as I spoke, "you know, the overly depressing ones," I continued, he nodded in recognition, "you see the animals in these crates, unable to move a muscle. They sit there crowded and filthy. Too cramped to move, unable to run around and grow strong muscles. I can taste that when I eat the meat."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Erik groaned. I turned my head to look at him clutching his abdomen as he hurried out of the room. I chuckled and focused my attention back on the eggs.

"I suppose you can," Oliver murmured, having withdrawn his hand from my side as soon as I began and only now I noticed its absence.

"But," I continued, rambling at this point, "I love wild game."

I turned to give him a glance, wanting to maintain some sort of eye contact through our conversation while I cooked. I saw his eyes spark at my statement and his mouth widen into a grin. "Do you?" he asked.

"Oh yes. I think it delicious. Its very lean and, just, I don't know. Tasty," I said with a laugh.

"Perhaps Everett and I could hunt something for you," he said, rueful. "Everett would love that, even more than I," he chuckled.

I scoffed, using the spatula to deposit the eggs onto our plates. "Oh, really? Is Everett trigger happy or something?"

His resounding sigh was troubling enough for me to turn my attention away from the meal I was preparing and look at him. He leaned against the countertop, hands gripping the edge of the granite and his shoulders were hunched, exaggerating their size as a result. "No, Everett's not too big on guns," he finally said, as I deposited the eggs onto our plates.

"So what does he use?" I asked, genuinely curious. "A bow?"

"No, no," he said, with a shake of his head.

"Then what?"

"Something sharp."

"Like a hunting knife?" I picked up the plates and handed him one, heading toward the silverware drawer to grab some forks.

He exaggeratedly chomped his teeth. I paused, frozen, and stared at him for a moment as my brain processed that. "Sometimes he uses these too," he said, gesturing at his fingernails.

I scoffed. "Yeah, right. So I'm suppose to believe Everett goes Teen Wolf on a rabbit every time the opportunity strikes?"

Oliver chuckled and followed me to the dining table. As he was sitting beside me he said, "I guess that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? No, Everett's picky about what is ultimately his prey. Rabbits are more my thing," he explained, winking at me with an amused smile. I pursed my lips and playfully shoved at his chest, to which he laughed before gently pushing my hand away. We started to engage in our meal, both out forks clanging at clanging softly against the plates as we cut out eggs into bite-sized chunks. We were silent for at least ten minutes as we ate and I started fiddling with my phone to preoccupy myself. I could hear the sound of the bacon being crushed by Oliver's teeth as he ate. "This is really good," he said, his words slightly indiscernible from the food in his mouth.

"Thank you," I said, smiling with gratitude at the compliment. It was definitely the first time anyone had complimented my cooking.

"Erik told us you were a horrible cook, I can see now that he was definitely wrong."

My mouth puckered with slight embarrassment. "I was," I admitted, "Until he started teaching me. In fact, I've been making breakfast every morning for the past week," I remarked, gloating over my accomplishment.

"Well, that explains those two mornings when our bacon was burned," he mused.

"You shut your mouth," I quipped lightheatedly. I turned my head to look at him, he was smiling slyly, his dimples denting his cheeks. Despite the boyish grin on his face, his gruff beard gave him a very mature look. He blinked his blonde eyelashes and looked me over with doe brown eyes, only then did the tank top and pajama shorts I wore feel like scarce coverage.

He sighed and turned back to his breakfast, altering the once progressive atmosphere into another dull morning. I picked at my eggs with my fork, a little bummed. Then I chastised myself.

What exactly were you expecting, Freya?

"It seems you and Erik have had plenty of opportunity to get close," Oliver murmured.

I panicked at the true meaning of his words. Was I wrong before? Was it obvious that something had happened between us? "I guess we have," I commended, exercising caution. I didn't want to give anything away in the off chance that Oliver

didn't

have a hidden agenda.

"I regret," he began, "That you and I haven't had the same chance."

I felt my tense body relax at his words. He didn't know, thankfully. He looked a little sad despite the crooked grin he dawned. "Well, its understandable," I began, trying to console him. "You and Everett work so hard. You leave early in the morning and get home late in the evening."

"Yes, that's true," he said, "but you're a part of us now, Freya. Perhaps you don't feel the same, but we see you as family. My working hard is no excuse for the lack of time I've spent with you." He watched me intensely, his eyes burning as he spoke. He leaned in close then and I was made acutely aware of his masculine scent. It was sandalwood, I realized.

"There's no need to be hard on yourself for my sake," I said, eyes wide at his proximity.

"I like being hard on myself when it comes to you," he said, subtly leaning in further still. He smiled a cheeky grin and continued, "But as I was saying before you started making excuses for me, I regret that you and I haven't grown closer. Which is why I took it upon myself to take the day off. But don't tell Erik."

"Why not?" I asked.

"He'll hover around, tease me, get possessive over you," he listed, explaining, "its what he does."

"And is that what you do?" I inquired, wondering if he was made jealous easily.

He licked his bottom lip when he smiled. "That's not really my style," he said.

"And what is your style?" I asked with a smile, hoping my questioning didn't come off as an interrogation.

"I think a girl ought to do as she pleases. For example, if you were mine, I wouldn't hover around as a constant reminder that I'm the only you can have," he leaned back against the chair, putting his hands behind his head. His biceps bulged in the sleeves of his shirt, contouring each strain of muscle in a perfect outline.

"How would you keep me, or any girl, from straying with an attitude like that?" I asked, playing along. "Some women would take advantage of the situation."

"I would give you memories," he replied.

"Memories?" I repeated.

"Oh, yes," he began, with a smile. "I would train your mind and your body to crave me. Perhaps we're with company and I slide a hand on your hip. You'll remember how I grabbed them the night before as I fucked you from behind."

We were silent for a moment. Both breathing a little harder after that. I was watching his chest rise and fall, or rather, watched his shirt tighten and loosen on his body as he breathed. Our knees were touching under the table, of which I was suddenly hyper aware. I licked my now parched lips and swallowed my nerves. "That's very explicit," I muttered, my eyes meeting his.

He smirked, obviously pleased with my reaction. My cheeks heated under his gaze. Without another word he removed his hands from behind his head and used them instead to clean up our dishes. He got up and carted them away. I watched in wonder as he cleaned the dishes at the sink, seemingly having no issue at the chore of keeping tidy. He even washed up the stop top under my observance. Only now did I notice the dark, indigo jeans he wore which fit him very nicely.

I heard footsteps coming from the hallway and saw Erik still wearing the ice pack strapped to his head except now sunglasses were shading his eyes. He weakly fumbled to the fridge, opening the drawer to the freezer and leaned over it. He stared at the contents of it intensely before pulling off the ice pack on his head and replacing it with a fresh one. He took a deep breath as he stood, leaving the freezer door open. "I'm going to Stella's," he announced, standing blank faced in the middle of the kitchen.

"Erik, its eight o'clock in the morning," Oliver tutted.

Erik turned in a circle, almost losing his balance as he did. He looked up at the clock on the wall. "Actually,

Olison

, it is 7:46," he corrected in as snooty a tone as he could muster amid the hang over.

"Either way-" Oliver began.

"Either way, more alcohol is the answer," Erik interrupted. Then he trudged to the door, slumping against anything that could take his weight on the way out. He shut the door behind him.

"Is he safe to drive like that?" I asked, a moment after he'd left.

"Oh, no. Erik doesn't drive," Oliver chuckled. Kicking the freezer drawer closed with his foot.

"Why not?"

"He's a horrible driver," he said.

"Can't be

that

bad."

"No, it is," Oliver countered, "He's failed the driving exam eleven times. He walks or runs everywhere. He bikes too, if the weather permits it."

"But we live in the middle of the woods. It takes a long time to drive anywhere, it'll take eons to reach wherever he's going by foot," I said, astonished.

"He's going to Stella's, the night club in the metro area. Which, yes, is very far even by car. So he'll be gone for a very long while," he stated, quietly finishing up the dishes. He wiped his hands dry with a kitchen towel which had been hanging on the oven door's handle. He walked over to stand next to the dining table and sighed. "He's probably left a huge mess in his room. I'm going to go tidy it up a bit. Want to help?" he offered.

"Sure," I agreed. Perhaps this was his way of spending time with me. Much to my surprise, it seemed Oliver was a busy body. We walked to Erik's room, Oliver opened the door, and the room was indeed a mess. The sheets had what looked like claw marks on one side and the blankets were ruffled. There were a couple of beer bottles on the floor, but not too many. Definitely no where close to how many bottles my mom would have lying on the floor after a drunk night. There were a few food wrappers and empty chip bags here and there. Two drawers of his dresser were open, clothes was hanging on the edge or deposited on the floor. There were a couple glasses of assorted beverages like coffee and juice on the end table beside his bed, as well as an ashtray with a couple cigarette butts - one was still smoking.

"Damn it, Erik," Oliver cursed, rushing to the ash tray to put out the hazardous cigarette.

"Is it always this messy?" I asked, the unkempt state of the room making me anxious.

"Oh, no," Oliver replied, "He and Everett aren't as tidy as me, that's for sure. But they're no where near what this mess suggests. Erik isn't a slob normally, but he does turn into one after a night out. I don't know what it is."

"Huh," I mumbled. There was a trash can, ironically empty, next to his dresser. Oliver and I began to pick up the trash all over the room. He dumped the ash tray's contents into the waste bin. I picked up the three beer bottles from the floor and deposited them in the trash with the ashes and cigarettes. We started to pick up his clothes and place them in the laundry basket, then made his bed.

"Looks like we're done," Oliver said, looking around and admiring our handiwork.

"I guess we are," I agreed with my hands resting on my hips. He stared at me with an absentminded smile, a flickering glow in his eyes though there was no light shining on them. I didn't think I would ever understand why their eyes did that. He leaned over onto the bed and quickly grabbed a pillow. I watched in confusion. The bed was already made, there was no need to fix it up anymore than we already had. He threw it at my face. I gasped and stared right at him, eyes wide and mouth open. He had a cheeky grin on his face.

"What? Don't you like getting hit on?" Oliver snorted, breaking into laughter at my expression.

"Not with a pillow, you dunce!" I cried.

"Oh, that's too bad," he said reaching for one of the many other pillows still on Erik's bed.

"Don't you dare-" I said, right before another pillow made contact with my face. He stood there, trying to hide his smile with his hand, though his snickering was what infuriated me. "I'm going to destroy you," I threatened, grabbing one of the pillow's he'd thrown.

He picked another one up and said, "Bring it on, sweetheart."

I jumped onto the bed and started hitting him from above, he blocked my attacks with his own pillow before grabbing my ankles and pulling harshly, making me fall onto the bed on my back. I look toward my feet and saw him crawling over. I tried to inch away, but he grabbed my hips and flipped me onto my stomach. He jumped onto the bed and sat on my thighs, pinning my legs so I couldn't crawl away from him to escape. I clutched the comforter in my fingers, trying to use my upper body strength to get out from under him and he used the opportunity to tickle my underarms. I cried out in laughter, utterly surprised, my nerves stinging with the sensation. My arms shot to my sides, but he quickly withdrew them and focused his attention on my vulnerable waist. I continued to laugh with funny pain, wiggling underneath him and feebly pushing his hands away. "No, stop! Please, Oliver! It tickles!" I cried, screaming laughter and violently flopping around underneath him like a fish out of water.

He chuckled, obviously enjoying himself but suddenly withdrew his attacks, lifting his hips off me and letting me free. I took no delays and sprinted out the door. He followed me, having no trouble keeping up yet stayed behind a couple feet, I'm sure, simply to toy with me. "Go away, don't tickle me!" I called out, as I ran toward the kitchen, hiding in refuge behind the dining table. He was on the other side, his eyes glowing brilliantly, his shoulders were a little hunched as he stalked me like prey to the other side of the table, his smile was big and wide, exposing his white and, in this moment, intimidating teeth. His canines seemed a little longer than usual, but I attributed that observation to fear of a very attractive tickle-monster.