"I’m awake! I’m not sleeping!"
Haviel shot upward like a cheap spring popping out of a broken mattress, his eyes flying open so fast his eyelids practically clicked. His heart launched into a level of panic usually reserved for missed deadlines and incoming messages from management.
Cold sweat glued his hair to his forehead. His right hand immediately began slapping the rough nightstand beside him in a frantic, uncoordinated blur, fingers desperately sweeping the surface for the smooth, comforting glass rectangle of his phone.
Where was the alarm? Why hadn’t the standard 7:15 AM digital chime gone off?
"Where is it... where the hell is the charger?" he muttered, his voice a raspy, sleep-deprived squeak. He scrambled blindly around the rumpled sheets, his brain still entirely trapped in a gray, corporate cubicle miles away from where his physical body actually resided. He needed to check his e-mail.
His fingers caught on rough, coarse wool. Not a duvet. Definitely not his bed at the apartment.
The utter lack of a digital screen, a charging cable, or the familiar hum of the refrigerator down the hall didn’t soothe him, it sent his panic into a whole new, chaotic orbit. His habits, hardwired through years of brutal morning routines and fear of mid-level management, overruled every sensible thought in his head.
"Oh, no, no, no, I missed the train," Haviel panicked, his voice rising an octave as he threw the heavy blankets off his legs. He didn’t even look at the room. "I’m late for work! I’m late, they’re literally going to fire me, I’m going to get blacklisted by HR!"
He lunged out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a series of loud, slapping thuds. He didn’t even think about the shoes. He didn’t think about his clothes. He just needed to get to the office before the morning huddle. He charged toward the door like a man possessed, grabbing the iron and flinging it inward with enough force to rattle the hinges.
He took one giant, panicked step forward, and slammed directly into a literal brick wall.
Or at least, that’s what his forehead registered. The impact was solid, heavy, and smelled faintly of something nice. The sheer momentum of his headlong rush bounced him backward, his feet catching on the threshold of the room. His balance vanished. He began to tip backward in a very undignified fall, his arms flailing as he tried to catch himself.
He didn’t hit the floor.
A hand, large, broad, and terrifyingly firm, wrapped around his waist like a steel band, arresting his descent instantly. The sudden halt caused Haviel’s upper body to lurch forward again in a violent whiplash effect. Before he could even register the trajectory, his entire face was buried flat against a broad, impeccably tailored, dark chest. He froze. Literally went static, his nose pressed into the fine fabric, his breath hitching as his brain tried to compute why his manager at the accounting firm had suddenly developed a chest like a carved marble monument.
When his eyes finally focused, traveling upward past a sharp jawline and landing on a pair of calm, golden eyes, the reality of his situation crashed down on him like an unannounced IRS audit.
It was Jevon.
The sudden, intense proximity, the casual way the man’s arm was holding him up by the waist, the solid warmth radiating through the black fabric, completely fried whatever remaining gray matter Haviel had left from his dream. He stood there, completely paralyzed, his mouth slightly open, looking like a fish that had just been pulled out of a very confusing pond.
Jevon, on the other hand, didn’t look bothered in the slightest. His posture remained perfectly steady. He didn’t drop Haviel, nor did he lean away.
"Good morning," Jevon said. His voice was a quiet, low rumble that vibrated right through Haviel’s still-pressed-together ribcage.
A profound, suffocating silence dropped over the hallway. Haviel remained entirely rigid in the Demon King’s grip, his internal clock slowly resetting itself from ’corporate deadline’ to ’fantasy world survival.’ The lingering panic about missing the train slowly drained away, replaced by a massive, concentrated dose of delayed mortification.
Jevon waited a beat, ensuring Haviel’s feet were actually holding his own weight, before naturally releasing his grip. His hand slid away from Haviel’s waist, restoring the standard corporate distance between them.
But Haviel still felt entirely unbalanced. His thoughts were lagging behind reality by about three business days. He opened his mouth to apologize, to offer some sort of rational explanation for why he was behaving like a lunatic in his nightshirt, but his voice failed him. Nothing coherent came out. He just made a small, pathetic wheezing sound.
Jevon didn’t comment on the screaming, the running, or the weird words that had just come out of his bride’s mouth. Instead, he simply adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his eyes scanning Haviel’s disheveled state with a flat, practical look.
"Clean yourself," Jevon instructed calmly. "Then come downstairs for breakfast."
"Right. Yes. Breakfast. Understood," Haviel mumbled, his voice finally finding its lower register. He took a slow, awkward step backward into his room, his hand automatically grabbing the edge of the door. "I will... optimize my appearance immediately."
He closed the door with a soft click, leaned his back against the wood, and let out a long, pathetic groan.
Twenty minutes later, after a frantic scrubbing with cold water that thoroughly shocked his system into total alertness, Haviel descended the creaky wooden stairs of the inn. He had changed into the practical, slightly stiff traveling clothes, a simple tunic and trousers that at least didn’t make him look like he had just rolled out of a ditch.
The inn’s ground floor was quiet, the air thick with the smell of baked bread, fried pork fat, and cheap ale from the night before. Sitting at a large, circular oak table near the hearth were three men. Jevon occupied the central seat, his presence naturally dominating the entire room despite his relaxed posture. Flanking him were the two officers from the courtyard fight.
Haviel hesitated on the bottom step, his hand hovering over the banister. His internal social anxiety, the classic ’where do I sit at the corporate retreat’ dilemma, reared its ugly head. Should he sit between them? Should he find a separate table across the room and pretend he didn’t know them?
Before he could slip into a corner, Jevon’s eyes snapped toward the stairs. The King didn’t say a word, he merely gave a brief, definitive jerk of his chin toward an empty seat right next to him.
Great. The executive table, Haviel thought, his stomach doing a nervous flip as he walked over.
As he approached, the two men on either side of Jevon instinctively began to shift their weight, their muscles tensing as if they were about to stand up and give a formal, military greeting to the King’s new companion. But Jevon didn’t let them finish the motion. He simply raised a single hand, a casual, flat gesture, and both officers immediately settled back into their chairs without a sound.
Haviel, having no better metric for behavior, simply mirrored the King. When Jevon lowered his hand, Haviel slid into his own seat.
"Are you feeling more recovered?"
The question came from the man sitting to his left, the one wearing the monocle. Haviel recognized him instantly. He was the one who had been standing in the garden back at Duke Elsher’s estate, looking like an auditor who had discovered a massive deficit in the kingdom’s treasury.
"Oh, yes, thank you for asking, um..." Haviel started, his voice trailing off into an awkward, hollow smile. He knew the man was important. He knew he had seen him at least five times in the last twenty-four hours, but his brain had completely dropped the name from the server.
The man with the monocle gave a small, dry smile, adjusting the glass lens over his eye. "My apologies. It seems we have not been introduced under proper administrative parameters. I am Jaeric Vorn. Chief aide to His Majesty."
"And I’m Sevrin Lorcelis," the other man broke in, his voice much louder and carrying the heavy, gravelly tone of someone who spent most of his time shouting over battlefields. He was the bulky one, his shoulders so wide they practically took up two standard seating spaces. He gave Haviel a brief, appraising nod. "Good to see you aren’t green in the face anymore."
"I’m Harvey..." Haviel caught himself so abruptly he nearly bit his tongue. His stomach dropped. "...Haviel. Haviel Elsher. It’s a pleasure to meet you both."
Right. I’m not Harvey anymore.