Page 120 of Trust Me

Lucifer’s leather oxford landed in the back of the driver’s seat.

Right—we wouldn’t be cracking jokes about my mortality anytime soon.

I curled into my husband, smothering my slight wheeze in his chest. His dress shirt smelled like him: bay rum and spice. When I’d been in the coma, Lucifer’s scent was one of the few things I found soothing.

“He’s trying to lighten the mood,” I whispered against Lucifer’s jawline.

Gone was the grizzly bearded man I’d woken up to. In his place had risen the sharp and sexy Mob boss I’d married.

He’d come equipped with one thought, one purpose: protect his wife at all fucking costs.

And, God, did I love him for it.

Lucifer dipped his chin and quirked an eyebrow. The severity in his expression dissolved. “I’d like to stop at home on the way to the safe house. The doctor said it might help. Are you up for it?”

Lucifer was on a quest to extract every detail about the day in question. Anything that would lead him to the unforgivable truth. He wasn’t leaving one stone unturned—literally.

I nodded.

He cupped my chin so I couldn’t escape his eyes. “Aye?”

“Aye.”

The events that took place between the time Lucifer left for the sit-down and when I woke up in the hospital were still hazy, but gradually, between my memory returning and my husband’s relentless need for justice, we’d been filling in the blanks together.

Lucifer wasn’t convinced that our immediate threats had been neutralized.

To say he’d been intense since I’d awoken would be an understatement.

Lucifer had his reasons.

His family’s home had been torched, his syndicate had been attacked, his wife had spent twelve days in a coma ... and his twin brother had vanished.

Poof. Disappeared.

Raphael was alive—presumably—but unaccounted for.

Though one could hope . . .

I fidgeted with the button on Lucifer’s wool coat.

Investigators said the lock on Raphael’s cell door had been broken with a single gunshot.

On the same day visions of killing Cillian had resurfaced in my mind, the memory of giving Cillian’s pistol to Raphael had also come back.

I’d divulged every recollection to Lucifer immediately—including how I’d intended for Raphael to turn the gun on himself. Instead, my brother-in-law had used it to shoot his way out of the dungeon.

Well played, dick.

If someone were keeping a tally in our game of cat and mouse, Raphael was in the lead.

Lucifer stroked the side of my neck with the back of his knuckles. “How are your lungs? Everything else?”

The doctors had used discretion in their medication management. I felt as sober today as I had the day we were married. My concussion, bruises, and sprained shoulder were almost healed, but the doctors had warned us that the smoke-related injuries to my lungs would take time. My first outpatient respiratory therapy appointment was scheduled for the following day.

“The same as they were five minutes ago.”

Lucifer grinned, and the corners of his eyes creased. Was this devilishly handsome man seriously my husband?

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