KILL THE VIRGIN IN YOU 7

I barely held back a curse.

- "I was just surprised," Chloe Harper said, smiling, oblivious to the demoness. "It's so unlike you."

- "Yeah, I'm shocked too," I replied, avoiding Scarlett Sullivan's direction. "I hope she deletes that video."

The medallion burned relentlessly against my chest. Where it once sparked curiosity and excitement, now it just fueled anxiety.

- "Or maybe, like old times," Chloe nodded at my laptop, "we grab some chips and have a movie night? We used to love that…"

- "Yeah, give her a show!" Scarlett grinned. "Right here on your bed—no chips needed. She's begging for it!"

I wanted to snap, "Shut up!" but Chloe would take it personally.

- "Great idea," I said, locking eyes with Chloe, "let's do it sometime. Just excuse me now—tons to do…"

- "Oh, sure!" Chloe hopped off the bed. "Let me know when you're free. By the way," she added, a bit shy, "my parents are at Grandma's today… I've got chips."

The medallion felt molten. Any more, and it'd melt my skin. I nodded, ushering Chloe to the door. She vanished the same way she'd appeared.

Closing it, I met Scarlett's stare—or rather, she pinned me with it, like a collector spearing a butterfly.

- "You're a champ!" she said. "A girl you could fuck right now, and you're not fucking her!"

The medallion finally began cooling, letting me breathe.

- "But you said," I grumbled, "it doesn't work on virgins!"

- "It heats when a girl's thinking sex with you. And yeah, it doesn't work on virgins. So your little friend had those thoughts sans medallion. Be thrilled," Scarlett smirked, "it's like a free cheeseburger with your Big Mac!"

I hated that analogy.

- "Chloe's not for that."

- "Then what's she for?" Scarlett shook her head. "Girls like boys, boys like girls—they meet, they fuck. It's natural! What's your deal? Casanova grabbed every chance he saw. He'd have taken your Chloe too. Cut it out!"

I wished I could banish her to hell, at least for tonight.

- "Though childhood friends are tricky," she mused. "Fine, a story—maybe you'll get it. They don't call me the Maiden of Dawn for nothing. I changed human history. I gave you the Renaissance!"

I sighed, slumping back at my desk. Delusions of grandeur, great.

- "Five hundred years ago, I knew folks you only read about: Giotto, Michelangelo, da Vinci—name 'em, I met 'em!"

I stared at my laptop screen, trying to focus on my essay.

- "…Drank wine with Boccaccio during the plague while he wrote *The Decameron*, nudged Botticelli into *The Birth of Venus*," her voice droned like a Culture Channel special. "And earlier, I knew a real mess of a guy. You remind me of him—Dante Alighieri. Ring a bell?"

*That* Dante? Yeah, right…

- "Doesn't mean squat," I muttered.

- "That's why your era's circling the drain," she quipped. "FYI, he kicked off the Renaissance. First guy I knew last millennium who…"

The Culture Channel rambled on, spinning hell's take on the Renaissance.

- "Can you sum it up?" I cut in.

- "Short version," Scarlett mimicked, annoyed, "same issue: he was a virgin, like you! I let it slide 'cause he was a genius. You? You've gotta fuck!"

Her relentless "fuck" mantra made my ears twitch.

- "He had a childhood crush, Beatrice. Or he thought they were friends—she barely knew him. Beyond friend-zoned! Instead of chasing her, doing something, or even meeting her, young Dante wrote poems for her. When I showed up as her to reward him, he balked. Couldn't fathom anyone banging his Beatrice! So someone else did. End of story," she eyed me. "Hope you don't screw up like that."

The medallion had just cooled fully—it'd never burned so hot.

- "Enough," I said. "Chloe's my friend, not for this."

I didn't care what Dante, Casanova, or even Beatrice thought.

- "Fine," Scarlett's voice dripped with displeasure, "one sex a day—your study quota. Tuck that under your shirt!" Her sharp nail jabbed at the medallion. "Not something to flash around. Working with me won't win you demon fans."

Ethan Miller's "joke" flashed back. Was it a joke?

- "What? What demons?"

- "No worries," she waved dismissively. "While I'm here, you're safe."

Now I really didn't like this. Demons out there hated her—and now me by proxy.

- "Couldn't you mention that earlier?"

- "Deals with hell's messengers have snags," she shrugged. "I could've skipped some details. Should've asked upfront…"

Her chats always left me feeling scammed. What else should I have checked?

- "Anyway, recap," she made a finger-gun, aiming it at her lips like she'd shoot if I balked. "Two sure bets tonight: Chloe, your ready-and-willing pal next door, or Yana Carter, the rumored slut. When girls call someone a slut, they know the score. Pick one. Coin toss?"

I'd met plenty who ignored my wants, all after something. Some got it, some didn't—but none hounded me like Scarlett. We had a deal, not slavery. She didn't pick my partners or beds.

I wouldn't mind Yana's bed—rumors pegged her as a bigger sex fiend than Scarlett. But tracking her meant sketchy bars, trouble… Worth it? It didn't beat yesterday's webcam fiasco.

- "I'll stay home tonight."

- "Chloe it is?" Scarlett perked up. "Perfect! She's waiting."

- "No," I turned to my laptop, "alone. I'm beat."

The bed creaked furiously.

- "You're slacking!" she barked, like a boss chewing out a lazy clerk.

She wasn't my boss, no matter what she thought.

- "I'll open a browser," I shrugged, "and smash the quota. Twenty girls a page. If Casanova had that, he'd stay in too."

- "So," she hissed, "I hand you this shot, and you're gonna sit home and jerk off?"

- "Yup," I nodded. "This medallion's my right, not my job. I'll fuck daily if I feel like it, or yearly. Don't set my pace!"

Silence hung heavy, then Scarlett leapt off the bed.

- "Let me break it down," fire blazed in her eyes, now crimson. "You're my familiar—you're mine! I can do whatever I want with you!"

Her voice roared from hell's depths—fierce yet cold, loud yet muffled. I flinched as flame shot from her nail, grazing my cheek. No burn—just icy dread.

- "One snap, and I'll make you do anything! You'll fight it inside, but you won't stop. I say fuck, you fuck! I say jump out the window, you jump!"

The medallion turned leaden, a boulder on my neck. I clawed at the chain, but my fingers wouldn't move—numb, locked, useless.

- "You said I wouldn't lose freedom!"

My voice quaked, fear seeping through. My hands were paralyzed; I was helpless.

- "That's up to me!" Scarlett's eyes flared. "I don't strip freedom like other demons," she added, calmer but stern. "I leave it. You can ditch the medallion if you want…"

My fingers felt the cold chain again. Frantic, before she reconsidered, I yanked it up to rip it off.

- "Just know: three women," she said, funeral-dirge style. "Your whole life—three. I saw it in your palm."

- "Enough!"

I couldn't take that tone—or her words. If she saw my future, if it was that bleak… That's not how I pictured it. My fingers gripped the chain I hadn't shed, irritated.

- "You mortals live and die," she stared me down. "Your life's finite. All you've got to make it epic is feelings, emotions. But you flee them… Dumb, right?" She paused, not expecting a reply, then added, "That's not all I saw."

I glanced at my palm's tangled lines—meaningless, muddling. Only three? But yesterday was my first, and I'm not twenty… Had I already shifted something?

- "I saw a craving to live big," Scarlett said, "you wouldn't chase alone. You wanted a less pathetic future, so I gave you a shot." Her nail tapped the medallion. "It'll let you live how you want. I don't force—that's not my style."

She extended her hand, black eyes unblinking, back to their void-like hue.

- "So, we scrapping this, or did I peg you right?"

I stared at her hand. She wasn't bluffing. Hand over the medallion, and she'd vanish forever—life back to normal, no weirdness. But each second screamed I'd lose more than I'd gain.

- "Fine!" I growled, adjusting the chain. "You'll get your quota!"

- "Knew I wasn't wrong," Scarlett chuckled, smug.

---

I spent the evening hitting the spots Sasha Bennett gave me—a wild ride. When she said "dives," I thought it was just her flair, exaggerating. Nope—actual dives. Lucky no one cared about me inside, but I was relieved to leave each one alive and intact.

One address left, one last shot at finding Yana Carter today. Barely hopeful, I pushed the door. Tobacco smoke hit me hard, mixed with stale beer and something heady—illegal, probably, but here, rules didn't apply.

Wincing, I stepped into the grimy room. Cracked round tables crammed every inch, beer mugs clinked, a football match blared from a crooked screen above the bar. And smack in the center, at a small table with two full mugs, sat my classmate. Really?

Black hair spilled over her tattooed shoulders. Her breasts strained a tight top, size obvious even from afar. Bright red lips kissed the mug's rim, leaving marks. Only her vacant stare threw me—like she was stoned, lost between worlds.

I slid into the seat across her, nudging a mug aside.

- "So why're you here?"

A flicker of surprise pierced her haze.

"Everyone's looking for you," I added. "I've been at it all evening."

She struggled to focus, consciousness teetering.

- "Who're you?" she finally asked.

Ouch. Half a year in the same group, and I was invisible?

- "The guy looking for you," I said.

- "Nobody's looking," she gulped her beer.

I unbuttoned my jacket, draping it over the chair—signaling I wasn't bailing.

- "Lila Grayson asked me to drag you back to university. Holidays ended ages ago."