Sleeping With The Enemy, Carrying His Child

Diana's POV

A bored demon out for a good time came after me and my worst enemy, and locked us in a room with no door.

The rules are simple. We each have to confess three secrets the other one has no idea about, for his amusement, and only then do we get out.

Weston raises an eyebrow, that lazy, punchable smirk on his face.

“After ten years of being at each other’s throats, what could you possibly still be hiding from me?”

He doesn’t know I never actually hated him.

He doesn’t know that three months ago, at that masquerade, the woman he slept with was me.

And he definitely doesn’t know the baby I’m carrying is his.

I just finished my checkup at the hospital, my head still spinning, and the next second somebody yanks me into this bizarre room.

It looks like some old European parlor. Deep red velvet on every wall, no door, no windows. A crystal chandelier hangs overhead, swaying like it might drop any second, throwing off a dim, murky glow.

There’s another man standing across the room.

Weston Ambrose.

President of a top venture capital firm, and the man I’ve been at war with for ten years.

He’s in a sharp suit, tie already tugged halfway loose. He got pulled out of some meeting right before he ended up in here.

The moment he sees me, his eyes go cold. He crosses the room in a few strides and clamps a hand around my wrist. “This your doing?”

“Are you out of your mind? Like I could pull off something like this!” I fight to get free, but I can’t budge his grip an inch.

A round of crisp clapping cuts through the empty room.

We both turn at the same time.

On the fancy leather couch in the center of the room, a man sits there now. I have no idea when he showed up.

He’s wearing a deep red tailcoat with a neat little bow tie, a glass of red wine in his hand. But that pale, gorgeous face of his has a pair of gold slit-pupils, and two pitch-black horns curl out from either side of his forehead.

“Welcome to my theater, my two lost little lambs.” The man dips his head slightly, his mouth stretching into a huge grin. “You can call me Bal. A demon who... every now and then, likes to have a little fun.”

I freeze.

Weston just pulls me behind him, his stare sharp as a blade. “Some kind of hologram? Or is this a new spin on kidnapping? Name your price.”

Bal lets out an exaggerated sigh and wags a finger. “You crude little humans. Can’t get through three sentences without bringing up money. I have no interest in your cash. What I want is your souls. And your secrets.”

“The rules are simple.” He snaps his fingers, that nasty grin spreading. “You want out? Then confess three secrets each, ones the other person absolutely doesn’t know. And I mean the real ones. The kind that make you want to crawl into a hole and die the second you say them out loud. Any petty little nothing gets you punished.”

“Cut the theatrics.” Weston scoffs and drags me toward the wall, feeling around for a hidden door.

The second he touches it, an invisible current throws him backward. He grunts and stumbles back a couple of steps.

“Weston!” I grab his arm on instinct.

Bal is doubled over laughing on the couch. “Don’t waste your energy. In here, I’m God. Game starts now. Ladies first.”

I grit my teeth, my mind racing. That ultrasound printout is still sitting in my pocket like a ticking time bomb. I can’t afford to waste a single second in here.

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and look Weston dead in the eyes, my voice flat and cold. “Here’s my first secret. I actually can’t stand you. Every time I see that face of yours, I want to throw my coffee at it.”

Weston’s expression darkens. “Diana. You’ve got a death wish, don’t you?”

Bal just curls his lip, unimpressed. “Doesn’t count. That’s the kind of thing the whole world already knows. As your punishment, the room shrinks twenty percent.”

The words are barely out before the walls give a low rumble and slam inward. The whole roomy parlor closes in a full ring in an instant.

Weston and I are forced closer together, close enough to feel the heat coming off each other.

The walls stop moving, but the room is already crushing in on us. There’s less than four inches between Weston and me. His warm breath fans across my forehead, carrying a faint trace of tobacco and that cold, clean scent from before.

“Damn it.” Weston mutters under his breath and looks down at me, fury churning in his eyes. “That’s what you call a secret? Diana, what’s crammed inside that head of yours, growth medium?”

“Then be my guest, genius!” I fire right back, not giving him an inch.