Devil With Benefits: A Paranormal Fantasy Romance Read online

  Devil With Benefits

  A Dark Fantasy Romance

  Penelope Woods

  Contents

  About the Author

  1. Ash

  2. Raven

  3. Ash

  4. Raven

  5. Ash

  6. Raven

  7. Ash

  8. Raven

  9. Raven

  10. Ash

  11. Raven

  12. Ash

  13. Raven

  14. Ash

  15. Ash

  16. Raven

  Epilogue: Ash

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  Penelope’s Dungeon

  About the Author

  Penelope Woods

  About the Author

  For more steamy and dark fun, be sure to visit and like my facebook. More fun awaits below!

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  Penelope Woods is a top 100 Amazon author who writes dark sci-fi, horror, and uniquely gothic romance novels. When she learned about smut, it was like a light bulb clicked on in her head. She started writing in 2016 and has never looked back.

  Ash

  I need her. More than this. More than power.

  I. Need. Her.

  I wake to the sound of car tires rushing near my head. My cheek is pressed against the dirty concrete sidewalk. I hear someone curse at me, feel the weight of a soda can hit my cheek, and I'm shot out of a peaceful dream. Unfortunately, this type of cruel treatment isn't unusual for me.

  I am not someone of importance. Well, at least not in the moment. Someday, things might change. People might recognize my power. Until then, I am considered scum.

  Modern man and their rulers have turned their backs on faith. Gods have no say in the modern world. It's not that they don't believe in us anymore. They simply don't want the hassle.

  Can you blame them?

  Again, I should reiterate one small point. None of this is real because I'm fucking crazy. Bat-shit-insane. I have visions everyday. I see things. Holy images.

  Seriously.

  There is a war coming between good and evil, but no one will believe me. It's getting to the point where even I have doubts.

  I roll against the concrete and wipe my palms against the front of my ripped jeans. Gas and petrol fumes seep into my lungs. It's getting harder to breathe.

  I don't know why I live on the streets. Survival, I guess. But everyday, I feel a little bit closer to giving up hope.

  Every single day, I lose a little bit more of myself.

  Another car passes. Then another. A long and black vehicle skids around the corner, and stops on the other side.

  I look up and eye the tinted, stretch limousine. Bite down because I know that whatever is about to happen can't be good.

  The privileged few don't want people like me to exist. That's just a fact. It's why I've been beat up and mugged 137 times. People don't want to see how fragile they really are. All it takes is one single thing to go wrong to end up like me.

  Maybe this is the day I get my mind back. Maybe I'll find the girl of my dreams and live a better life.

  Fat fucking chance. This isn't a fantasy world. This is real life.

  The driver steps out of the vehicle, grinding his heel against the street. Smoothly, he pivots and walks to the back of the car without looking at me once. I swallow and prepare for the worst as he opens the passenger door.

  When I was young, my father told me I was different. As soon as I found my voice, he took off. Left my mother without an explanation. If anyone is stopping here to see me, it's not to say hello.

  The driver holds the door open as a man steps out. Tall and slender with a devious set of eyes. Short, crisp blonde hair waves around his skull like the rolling California hills. His forehead protrudes, alarming in nature. Better looking than I am by a long shot.

  He looks at me without batting an eye. It's like he expected to see me here.

  He's wearing a sharp suit, and I just know he's made of solid gold. His eyes are cold and blue, but he looks like he wants the world to burn. Just for a moment. Just for him.

  Just to see it happen.

  "Ash Crowley,” he states.

  I stare back at him, silenced by every step he takes.

  "Is that your name?" he asks.

  It takes me a second to remember who the hell I am, but when the knowledge comes back to me, I slowly nod my head. The air feels thin as I take another breath.

  He just keeps walking in my direction.

  "I've been looking all over for you," he says. "You're the god guy, yes?"

  The god guy. Sounds like me.

  He looks at me like I'm valuable and worthless all at once.

  When I don't react to his question, he says, "The man who stood on Third Avenue last week, shouting about the second coming. That was you, correct?"

  Did I do that? Every morning, my memories lay like scattered pieces of a disjointed mosaic. I'm forced to put together moments I'm not even sure exist.

  The hallucinations I experience are difficult to put into words. They're a bit like memories. Only, some of them haven't seemed to happen, yet. Or, if they did, I can't remember them.

  These days, there's a lot that I can't remember, and that's the problem. I know there's something I should be doing. Some great task with a reward at the end. In my visions, I have seen a woman with jet-black hair and round, chocolate eyes. Her lips are plump and red like raspberries. She is warm and inviting, but as soon as I get close, she disappears.

  Is she someone I should be searching for? Maybe. But it's not like I've been given a set of instructions. As soon as I come to my senses, I just try to block everything out.

  I'm not saying anything. I can barely even breathe. I'm just sitting on the street corner in an old sleeping bag like an idiot, and I'm trying to form a coherent sentence.

  He forms one for me instead. "Oh, come now. I'm not your father. You can talk to me. What exactly happened on Third Avenue?"

  My father. That bastard doesn't need to be brought up now. Not here.

  "I'm not well," I admit.

  I gave my father a pass nearly a decade ago. Right after college, I decided it was in my best interest not to dwell on hard times. I wanted an opportunity to move forward with my life.

  Yet, somehow I ended up here, sleeping on the streets with nothing to my name. I just can't remember how...

  I feel ashamed and a little bit frantic, but I manage to calm myself down.

  I wonder how much I gave away about my condition.

  "Third Avenue? Shit. I must have missed my dose again," I say.

  "Your dose," he says.

  I grind my teeth. "Are people saying things about me? Is someone looking for me?"

  The pills. They helped me breathe easier, but there's no point in breathing if you're not actually living. I don't take those things anymore.

  "Calm down," he says. "I'm only trying to understand."

  This man must have witnessed one of my routine public outbursts.

  The man kneels down to my level and smiles like a fox. His grin soon fades, but his eyes are obsessively looking for a way in. I must not let him near me.

  "I'm curious," he mutters. "No, I'm fascinated. What made you jump onto that statue? I was told you actually stood on the back of its wings."

  The statue stands in the middle of the financial district. It's nearly twenty-three feet tall and six feet wide. Made from the finest concrete I have ever seen. An unknown citizen, an artist that disappeared completely, left the monolith. The city somehow allowed the statue to stay on account of "good fortune." The story has always fascina
ted me.

  There are more of them, too. Three in total, but one went missing years ago.

  It was an odd choice to put an angel in the middle of the financial district. Maybe that's what set me off. The idea that money can somehow equate to real value or some level of intrinsic good is astonishing. It seems so wrong.

  Every day, financial advisors, gurus, and overall scam artists pass by its breathtakingly large wings. Tourists stop to take selfies.

  I've always assumed the statue is much more than a national landmark.

  "It's the only angel left in the entire city," I say. "People are making a mockery of its existence. Someone's got to do something about it."

  Somehow, I'm not afraid of telling him this. Although, I'm not sure why. It's not common knowledge that angels exist.

  I swear. They exist.

  The man stands and adjusts his tie, and now I can see how grim his face actually appears. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some kind of weapon, a variation of a pistol I've never seen before.

  The moment I see it, I crawl backward and lose my breath.

  A red snake engraving wraps around the barrel. Strange symbols have been inscribed into the body. On the handle is a downward pointing star. On the inside of the cylinder is a small apple, just barely visible enough to see. The simple act of looking at the weapon inspires a type of dread I haven't felt in ages.

  "You see, that's why I'm here," he says, eyeing the complex designs. “The angels are important to me.”

  "Please, just let me go. I don't want to die," I say.

  "Die?" he asks. "What makes you think I want you to die?"

  I swallow, and he grabs my hand. My heart races. This is it, the moment before death. I think about my life, about all of the years I wasted. I think about my father and all of the resentment I've held. I can't remember a thing, and it is at this precise second I come to the realization that my life is nothing but a cruel joke.

  I should have lived. I should have made the most of this experience.

  But he doesn't shoot me.

  Instead, he forces my fingers around the butt of the pistol. It fits perfectly inside my palm. It's almost like it was designed specifically for me.

  He lets go of my hand. "I need you to take care of something," he says.

  I shake my head. "Take... care... of...?"

  He pulls out a photograph and puts it in my hand. Immediately, I recognize those chocolate eyes.

  She's the most beautiful woman on the planet.

  "Her name is Raven. And you'll be the one to kill her," he says.

  He starts to walk away, but I quickly call out to get him to stop. "Wait!"

  The man does not pause. "Find her," he says. "Just take care of it."

  "No," I plead. "Don't do this. I can't kill anyone."

  "We both know this needs to end, Ash," he says without turning. "The chaos of your mind is wreaking havoc on your soul. It breaks my heart to see you like this again."

  Again? Do I know him?

  He steps into the limousine, but motions for the driver to stop. I'm staring at the man, but he looks like he has no face.

  Just skin and dents where his eyes should be.

  Suddenly, I hear the cacophonous sound of buzzing flies. Dark thoughts consume me. Am I hallucinating?

  Most likely.

  I can't trust what I see...

  "My name is Lucifer," he says. "Now, now. There's no reason to be afraid. I'm no stranger. I'm an old friend of yours. And if you agree to help me, I'll make all of this end for you. I will bring you the true glory of the heavens. And so much more."

  He reiterates that last part.

  My throat feels like it's closing. Head is spinning. My God, I am losing it again.

  The gun feels so heavy inside my palm. "How will I find her?" I ask.

  He chuckles and motions for the faceless man to shut the door. "Trust your intuition. You'll find her. But when you do, don't fall for her tricks. She is no saint. She is nothing but an arm for the devil."

  The faceless driver shuts the door. The limousine speeds away, and I'm left broken again.

  Shattered.

  Mad as a hatter.

  And all I can do is pray she isn't as cunning as he makes her out to be.

  Raven

  I'm hurrying through the crowds of the financial district, practically shoulder bumping every man who tries to step in my way.

  Heels slipping. Ankles bending.

  Pain.

  In the city of money, it's a dog eat dog world. But mostly, it's a man's world, and it's up to women like me to keep up the pace.

  I slide the manila portfolio out of my armpit and open it up to read the daily report.

  Not long ago, there was another major crash in the economy. Most of our firm's accounts tanked within a second. Total flash crash. Fortune hasn't favored a lot of us, but that's the way the "casino" works.

  You win some. You lose most.

  Needless to say, my team is eager to claim the rebound on this.

  I grab my phone and hit my mom's name. Right when it starts to ring, I freak out and hang up.

  The truth is that I'm mad at myself for falling into this lifestyle so hard. I never thought I'd get this far up in the company.

  I was a free spirit, someone who went against the grain of society. I was a total punk rocker. Now, I'm head of accounts.

  How the hell did I let this happen?

  I call back and let the phone ring. This time, I wait until the end.

  There's no answer. I should have expected that.

  Her voice: "It's Martha. Leave a message."

  Ten years. I haven't heard from her in ten long years.

  "Uh, yeah." I cough and clear my throat, unsure as to what to say. "It's your daughter. Was just checking in. Haven't heard from you in a while. Call me back. I know you won't."

  My body is stiff as I hang up the phone.

  This last year has been so hard, and not just on the work front. I'm twenty-seven. I live alone and watch too much Netflix. I drink too much wine. Rosé is my current pick. Any brand will do.

  All in all, it's a decent life, but the years are starting to slip away like shadows into shade.

  I don't want this life. Not anymore. As cheese-ball as the words sound inside my head, I just want somebody to love.

  Maybe I don't deserve to find love. You get what you put into the universe, right? Right now, it's all about the money.

  My heart will just have to wait.

  I get a text from someone on my team:

  Have a cold. Not coming in today. Sorry!

  My blood pressure starts to skyrocket. I feel my body brace for another pump of adrenaline. I'm two seconds away from just firing her. I swear I'm going to fire my entire team.

  That's when I get knocked off my high chair.

  Before I can react, I walk straight into a homeless man, whom, in turn, crashes into another man. A domino effect is created, and that second individual spills all of his iced coffee onto my new pantsuit.

  It would be comical if it didn't happen to me.

  In one instant, all of the power I want to exude is taken from me. I look weak; I'm on the dirty sidewalk, howling in pain from the bruise that is now forming on my ass.

  As I pathetically try to scrape the coffee off of the fabric, I only force the stain in more.

  My muscles tense up to an unnatural degree. I feel the urge to lunge, to cause a massive scene. I look up and see the tiresome image of that angelic statue, our patron saint of the stock market.

  I just lose it.

  Scream into the air like I'm some banshee.

  Right now, I'm the definition of "Let me talk to your manager!"

  I know I don't have any right to behave this way. Believe me, I know.

  I know how ugly I look. If this was a book, the reader would probably want to toss me out to the wolves. I wouldn't blame them for it.

  Really, I wouldn't.

  I don't have a Jiminy Cricke
t to stop me. There's no tiny devil or angel on my shoulders. There are only the two men in front of me, and I pick the man I ran into to yell at.

  "Are you blind? People are walking here," I say.

  The homeless man stutters, looks down, and falls into a deep confusion. He looks like he just woke up from a bender. "I was just leaving."

  I don't stare too long because I'm an obvious wreck, but he actually looks handsome.

  Like, actually really hot.

  Okay, I'm officially too tired.

  The other guy holds his empty cup of iced coffee. He's still in shock. "Ma'am, are you okay?"

  "Leave," I scowl.

  He does.

  I ask the homeless man what his name is.

  "Ash," he says. "Ash Crowley."

  I get one good look at the man and nod my head. Be nice, Raven.

  I cool down and reach into my pocket, fingers fumbling against a few coins. I pull out what has to be around a dollar-fifty, and I offer it to him.

  He looks me dead in the eyes and swallows hard. Too hard for me to be comfortable about it.

  Trembling, he puts his hand in his pocket. "You're Raven," he whispers.

  He doesn't take the money. A new confidence appears to light up his face.

  How the hell does he know my name?

  "Just... take the money," I insist.

  I have no idea how to process this information. As of right now, I'm more than five minutes late for the big Monday meeting, and I just want to get away from the busy intersection.

  "You're her!" he shouts. "You're... Raven."

  All attention is still on me. I hate attention.

  "Excuse me," I say, trying to push my way through the crowd.

  His eyes are wild and buggy. Beads of sweat cling to the thin hairs near his temple.