Dominique stalks across the living room and mutters out a “baby Henderson,” in greeting as soon as he sees me.
My shoulders stiffen. He knows how much I hate when he calls me that.
“Satan,” I respond, lifting my cup in salute.
He stops and turns toward me, a single arrogant brow raised in question. “Satan?”
I shrug. “Self appointed Devil,” I remind him.
He snorts. “No one’s called any of us Devils since Highschool.”
Another shrug. “I know. That’s why I gave you an upgrade. Satan is much more fitting, don’t you think?”