I Knocked Up Satan S Daughter A Demonic Romantic Online

"You knocked up my daughter," he said. Not a question. A death sentence.

"I—sir—Mr. Morningstar—it was consensual?"

The Horns of a Dilemma

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go build a crib that doubles as a summoning circle. The instructions are in Aramaic.

I was a nobody. A bass player in a band that couldn't get a gig at a funeral. But that night, she slid into the booth across from me, her shadow moving a full second after she did, and whispered, "You look like a guy who's never been afraid of the dark." I Knocked Up Satan S Daughter A Demonic Romantic

Panic is not a strong enough word. Have you ever tried to have "the talk" with the Prince of Darkness? He doesn't have a phone number. He has a hotline you dial with your own blood. When I finally got through—after sacrificing a goat and a perfectly good slice of pepperoni pizza—his voice didn't boom. It slithered. Like snakes on a linoleum floor.

It started, as most catastrophes do, with cheap tequila and a full moon the color of a fresh bruise. "You knocked up my daughter," he said

You know what? It's not all bad. Her dowry is a small principality in the Seventh Circle, and she makes a mean grilled cheese. Plus, when we tell our kid the story of how they were conceived, it'll beat the hell out of "we met at a grocery store."

Two drinks later, the dark wasn't so scary. Four drinks later, her tail—yes, tail —was wrapped around my calf under the table. I figured it was a costume. A very committed goth thing. "I—sir—Mr

"Bring me the baby shower registry by Friday," he growled. "And it better not have any of that pastel, woodland-creature nonsense. I want black lace, obsidian rattles, and a onesie that says 'Daddy's Little Apollyon.'"