Page 47 of Wild Devil

That thought consumes me as he presses my body to the floor, his voice so guttural I can barely make out any words at all. I don’t know what comes over us both, but I feel a connection to him as real and vital as my heartbeat.

He must feel it too, because his lips nudge my ear, and in a hoarse voice, he whispers, “I love you, Frey.”

And just like that, he fulfilled my request in the worst possible way.

He paired agony with pleasure, just like I wanted.

SEVENTEEN

DAZE

Fuck. There’s something wrong with me. As I tiptoe through the darkness to find some clean clothes for us both, I have no right to feel…content. Relaxed, even. This part of the warehouse is empty—no doubt because of Ben who had greater foresight than I do, apparently. He’s also the one I presume is responsible for the neat pile of clothing I find a few paces away—jeans and a shirt for me, and sweats for Frey. When we’re both finally dressed, she’s silent, adjusting her oversized clothing while I linger around her like a damn idiot.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I choke out. Voices from the front of the building trickle back to us. It’s only a matter of time before some nosy bastard wanders this way, eager to catch a glimpse of her. “I’ll show you where you can sleep,” I grate out.

She just nods, eyeing the remnants of that wedding dress lying in a heap on the floor. There is nothing else I can do except lead her into the back part of the warehouse, cordoned off by plywood strips nailed to support beams.

It’s certainly no fancy manor but, in all honesty, this is the gist of what I could ever offer her—a shitty corner in a proverbial dump. The thought never used to sting like it does now. I’ve never felt so damn out of my element with a woman before. Even without a trace of judgment on her face, she still seems out of place. An angel who landed in hell.

“I know it’s not much, but you should get some sleep,” I say, inching toward the main warehouse. “There’s another place we can crash at later. It’ll have a bed, at least.” Before I can take another step, she reaches over and brushes her hands against my chest.

“It’s okay,” she says, and I stop dead in my tracks. Damn. In my gut, I know she’s talking about more than this. Like the fact that I spilled my guts out back there, and she said nothing in return.

Not that I expected her to. It’s too fast. Renna and I rarely traded the words, and we’d been together for nearly a year before Sam came along. I’m not an expert in emotional attachment, but I think it should take longer than a couple weeks to develop something as strong as love. Right?

Wrong. It’s not in my nature to play games. I know what I want when I want it. Growing up in a world where a prison sentence or bullet to the head could end your life at any moment, long-term wasn’t part of my vocabulary. I’m used to fucking for one night and moving on to the next.

No one else has ever had this kind of hold over me.

I can’t lie. There’s something inside me that itches to lash out at her and demand an answer. Yes, she feels the same? No, she doesn’t? I tell myself I can handle whatever she says, as long as she gives me something. Something other than a polite, blank stare I can’t get a fucking read on no matter how hard I try.

“Alright, I’ll let you get some sleep?—”

“Wait.” Her back is to me, her hair falling limply down her spine. My fingers are itching to run through it. She is so damn beautiful. My heart beats in sync with hers, bound by some invisible thread. She has me in the palm of her hand, hers to crush or destroy at a moment’s notice.

And I fucking hate it.

At the same time, I can’t imagine living without this bitter sting. I’m addicted to her like nothing else…

And she knows it.

“Can you stay with me?” She looks back at me through a fringe of white-blond hair. “Just for a little while.”

In all honesty, the answer should be no. With Heywood’s plans alone, there are so many moving parts to coordinate. Ben would kill me if he were here to see how easily I relent with a nod.

“Of course.” I sink onto the narrow mattress beside her, throwing my arm around her waist. Now would be a good time to force the issue about my previous confession. I consider it.

Then I feel her body go limp in my arms, and bothering her at all becomes the furthest thing from my mind. I don’t need an answer, I decide.

It doesn’t matter if she feels the same way or not. I may not be an expert on love, but I can recognize it when I feel it. How she may feel in return doesn’t matter.

I love Frances Heywood, and that’s a fact.

Maybe she’s smart enough to see that as more of a curse than a blessing.

After she’s deep asleep, I finally disentangle my limbs from hers. When I step out from behind the makeshift screen, Damien is already there to block my path, arms crossed, scowl fixed.

“It’s about damn time,” he mutters. “I know you two needed to reconnect and all, but did you forget that you’re kind of in the middle of something right now? I don’t know, like tracking down a psychopath before he potentially blows up all Westpoint City to score political points?”

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