Page 46 of Trust Me

Societal norms were never my thing.

Blood sprayed in every direction as cartilage snapped beneath the power of my blows. Only after he lay motionless, pinned beneath the knee I had crushing his sternum, did I think to check on Willa. My chest heaved from exertion, and I ignored the gurgles bubbling in the back of Cillian’s throat.

My eyes found Willa’s. “Can you get up?”

“Yes.” She blinked and dragged the back of her hand across her blotchy cheek. Spatters of crimson dotted her shirt.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

I repositioned myself and sat back on my heels, resting my raw and bloodied hands on my thighs. Cillian posed no threat, but I wasn’t getting up until Willa did. She was in some state of shock, and if I remained at her level, she was less likely to experience fear on top of whatever else she was processing.

“What are you still doing on the floor?” I asked, hoping a question that required more than a yes or no answer would give me some insight into what was happening behind those vacant eyes that regarded me with something new—a rare silence.

My gaze flicked to Cillian. He was unconscious but breathing. I would wait here until the sun came up and Cillian had drowned in his own fluids if that’s what it took for Willa to snap the fuck out of it and use her goddamn words.

“I’m learning,” she replied. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly. When I didn’t respond, she continued, “How do you do it, Lucifer? How do you block out their pain and suffering?”

Her throat clenched and contracted like a boa constrictor devouring its meal whole.

In that moment, I felt like her prey.

“Teach me,” she whispered. “Like my father taught you ...”

She wasn’t in shock; she was fucking mesmerized.

And she was misinformed.

Jack may have taught me where and how to inflict the most pain, but I was a self-made impenetrable wall when it came to feeling.

Twenty-three years of trapped emotions raged inside the cage I’d built around my heart. A choice I’d unconsciously made at seven years old when catastrophe struck. A choice my father had supported because it fit the narrative, and in time, made me the most feared man in all of Boston.

All thoughts of protecting Willa’s psyche vanished.

I got to my feet.

I left her beside her brother-in-law’s broken body while I went in search of Katarina and Grifin to clean up another mess I’d left behind on the stairs.

Willa

It had been two days since Lucifer had left me decorated in Cillian’s blood beside his beloved Virgin Mary statue. I’d caught him praying in front of it on more than one occasion.

In fact, it’d been two days since I’d laid eyes on the devil at all. He’d bolted like I’d thrown holy water on him when I’d asked if he’d mentor me like my father had mentored him. But in the afterglow of the Lucifer Flynn Show, I’d realized I was pretty pathetic as far as monsters went. Not that I’d set out in this lifetime to become one. It was more like a means to an end. And as that end drew nearer, my lack of preparedness poked holes in my resolve.

Could I even go through with it? And if I did, then what?

In other words, I’d become painfully aware of my naivete when it came to enacting justice and retribution. Two things that were fueled by righteousness and morality per Mob standards, but also required a degree of psychosis to be successful.

I had the former in spades but didn’t come by the latter naturally. And dealing with the aftermath? I already had a backlog of misdeeds I hadn’t addressed.

That’s why I needed a teacher.

A coach.

A devil on my shoulder.

“You ’bout ready to go, Ms. Brennan?”

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