Chapter 3 - Living Together

After Paimon vanished into thin air, I dragged myself back to work. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could finally eat. Delivering mail to every single employee in the building wasn’t a small task—it devoured hours of my day and most of my energy.

By the time I wrapped up, it was already four in the afternoon. That was usually when I took my lunch—if you could even call it that.

Before heading back to my desk, I slipped outside and bought food from a nearby stall. One sad slice of pizza, a scoop of coleslaw, and a lemonade packed with more ice than liquid. Still, it was enough to quiet my growling stomach.

This was the only break I had left. One hour until the end of my shift—my tiny sliver of peace.

But even while chewing on that rubbery crust, my mind couldn’t shake what happened earlier.

Paimon had made it very clear: I was damned.

The words echoed in my head like a curse I couldn’t scrub out.

What if Gusion showed up again?

What if Paimon did?

Would he think I was talking to Gusion behind his back? Would he fly into another fit? He wasn’t exactly known for being chill, and I really wasn’t in the mood to end up at a barbecue. That part wasn’t a joke—I could feel it in my bones.

I scratched my head, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. The more I thought about it, the more helpless I felt. I had no clue what I’d actually gotten myself into.

He was the King of Hell. King. Of. Hell.

After the deal—after giving up my soul—nothing changed. No riches, no power, no glowing eyes, or magic tricks. Just... this. Anxiety, confusion, and now a creepy, overbearing demon staking his claim.

Something had definitely changed. I just didn’t know what yet, and it was already messing with my sanity.

Worse, I wasn’t even allowed to talk to other demons? How the hell was I supposed to know who was who? For all I knew, the barista who made my coffee was a demon in disguise.

This situation was spiraling fast. If I’d known this was what I signed up for, I would’ve just picked one of the actual desires he offered. At least then, I’d be rich or successful—or something. Hell, even endless pizza would’ve been better than whatever this was.

Wealth would’ve been practical. Smart. With enough money, I could buy freedom, security, comfort—everything I’d ever wanted.

But no. I’d tried to be clever. Tried to outplay a literal demon king.

And now? I was the idiot who got scammed by Satan’s PR manager.

I sulked through the rest of my shift, mentally exhausted. When the clock finally hit five, I gathered my things and made my way home, my body moving on autopilot.

As I reached the apartment complex, I saw the landlady stepping out. She was an older woman—probably in her seventies—with silver hair pulled into a neat bun and skin like crumpled paper. Her frame was thin, her dress purple with faded floral prints. I always thought of her as a kind grandmotherly figure, mostly because she never raised rent or her voice.

She smiled at me as we passed. I nodded politely, but before I could walk by, her bony fingers caught my wrist.

“Why?” I asked, startled.

“Alice,” she said, her tone teasing. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

My brows knitted together. “I don’t.”

“Don’t be shy now,” she chuckled. “He’s very handsome—and clearly hardworking. He even asked for a spare key to your room so he could clean.”

My heart stopped.

What the hell?

I tore my wrist away and sprinted inside, bounding up the stairs. No one should’ve been inside my apartment—especially not some mystery man sweet-talking my landlady for access.

Could he be a thief?

Then again... what was there to steal? A hand-me-down microwave? A chipped coffee mug? Still, panic buzzed through my veins.

I reached the hallway, panting. My door was just ahead. I leaned against it to catch my breath before slowly reaching for the knob.

It turned.

Unlocked.

I froze.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside—and there he was.

Paimon.

Shirtless. Wearing a black apron. Completely at ease in my apartment.

My eyes widened. “You...?”

He gave me a scowl. “You’re late. Your shift ends at five. It’s past six.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me? This is my apartment. I don’t owe you an explanation for when I come home—especially since you broke in!”

But then I looked around.

And froze.

This wasn’t my apartment anymore.

Gone were the warped wooden floors, the peeling walls, and the flickering ceiling light. The room now gleamed with white tiles, smooth olive walls, and recessed lighting that gave off a soft, warm glow.

I walked further in, stunned.

My old creaky fridge? Now a sleek, stainless-steel double-door unit. The countertop had been replaced with marble, complete with a stovetop and built-in oven. A four-seater glass dining table stood nearby, surrounded by high-back wooden chairs.

A yellow sofa sat across from a wall-mounted flat-screen television. Above it all, a chandelier cast crystal light across the room.

And the bed—my lumpy, spring-stabbing single bed—had been swapped for a sprawling king-sized cushion, layered in plush pillows and luxury sheets.

I turned slowly to Paimon. “When... did you do this?”

He shrugged off the apron and tossed it aside. “Recently. This place looked like it housed a wild animal. I made it livable.”

Possessive. Arrogant. Typical demon behavior. But still... I couldn’t lie.

It looked amazing.

“Damn,” I muttered. “You’re actually good at this.”

He stepped closer, arms crossed, looking far too proud of himself. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you late?”

I crossed my arms. “Late for what?”

“You were supposed to be home by five-thirty.”

“Says who?” I snapped. “This is my place. I can come home whenever I want.”

He smirked. “Not anymore. I live here now.”

My jaw dropped. “You what?”

“I’ve said it before,” he replied. “I own you.”

I nearly screamed. This was not how soul-selling was supposed to go.

I liked living alone. Peace and quiet. Privacy. Now I had the King of Hell redecorating my apartment and issuing curfews?

No. Absolutely not.

“I can handle myself,” I said, voice firm. “You don’t live here.”

Without another word, he walked over to my bed and flopped down, stretching like a smug cat. “That’s not for you to decide.”

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s my apartment.”

“And I just renovated it. You’re welcome.”

He pointed at the couch. “You sleep there now.”

Blood rushed to my face. I was boiling.

“You’ve got some nerve!” I shouted, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it at him. “No one asked you to renovate anything!”

The pillow hit him square in the chest. He didn’t move.

I threw another. And another.

He just lay there, completely unfazed.

Eventually, I gave up, fuming.

He didn’t even blink.

I turned away, trying to breathe through the rage.

But even as I stormed toward the bathroom, I noticed something else.

The place felt... bigger. Like the square footage had literally expanded. My once-cramped studio now felt like a loft.

What the hell kind of reality-bending makeover was this?

Shaking the thought away, I pushed open the bathroom door.

And my jaw hit the floor.

The bathroom had been transformed into a luxury suite. A walk-in closet flanked the entrance, leading to a soaking tub with golden clawed feet. A rainfall shower glistened on one side, and a marble vanity sparkled on the other. Even the toilet—my “throne”—looked like something royalty would use.

The blue and white tiles shimmered with an almost ethereal glow.

I hadn’t had a bathtub before. Or hot water that lasted more than ten minutes.

I stripped off my clothes and climbed into the tub, sinking beneath the warmth like a kid on Christmas morning. I even paddled a little.

Sue me—I deserved this.

After the bath, I changed into a yellow shirt and soft cotton shorts from the now perfectly organized closet. Everything was hung, folded, fresh. It was eerie.

I returned to the living room.

Paimon was at the dining table, casually eating like he hadn’t just invaded my life.

Steak. Burgers. Fries. Fried chicken. Pizza. A tub of ice cream. Soda bottles lined up like an evil buffet.

My stomach growled.

No. Don’t trust it.

“What are you doing?” he asked between bites. “Eat. You need to gain weight.”

I turned to the fridge, yanking it open, pretending not to hear him.

Behind me, the chair scraped. Footsteps followed.

I stiffened.

“Didn’t I tell you to eat?” he asked, voice low.

“I don’t want to,” I muttered. “Pretty sure you poisoned it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I cook for you, and that’s what you think?”

I didn’t answer.

He grabbed my arm again—not hard, but firm. Possessive.

“I did this for you.”

“Who knows what’s in it?” I snapped, pulling away. “I’m just being careful.”

“Careful of what?”

I leaned in close, narrowing my eyes.

“That I won’t end up roasted on a spit,” I hissed. “Like your little barbecue threat.”