Page 22 of Cruel Devil

“I need a fucking drink,” I mutter, tossing the flogger into Jane’s lap.

She stares at it like it’s a snake. “Please, I’m telling the truth.”

“Some of it.” I stride into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers from the cupboard.

As I walk back, I see her craning her head to look around, as if she’s trying to peer out the nearest window. I perch on the edge of the reclaimed wood coffee table, studying her from the corner of my eye as I pour us both a few fingers of whiskey.

“Still trying to figure out where you are?”

Her expression settles into an impressive resting bitch face for someone tied to a chair.

“What’s the plan? Chew through those ropes, then scale the wall to escape?” I cluck my tongue at her. “It’s like a hundred feet high.” My lip curls up on one side. “Best case scenario, you twist one of those pretty ankles.”

She flushes at the word pretty.

“Worst case scenario…” I grab her chin, digging in when she tries to pull away. “One of the seven guards patrolling the perimeter spots you, which I’m kinda sure they will since they’re so damn well trained, and they put a bullet right between your eyes.”

Her eyelashes flutter when I press my finger into her forehead.

I lean back so I can dig her switchblade out of my pocket.

She stares at the knife, then back at me. I guess you can tell I’m not a cold blooded killer, but she doesn’t have to look so bored with this fucking interrogation.

“I could use this to cut your hands free. Then we could enjoy a drink together as you tell me about yourself…or…”

Jane flinches when I touch the tip of the knife to her knee and slowly drag it up her jeans. I barely reach mid-thigh before she blurts out, “You’ve made your point!”

I tease the blade over her knuckles, and then slip it under the rope wrapped around her wrist and slice it off. She flexes her hand, her gaze alternating between the knife and my eyes as I cut free her other arm.

As soon as her second hand is free, she snatches the flogger out of her lap. But instead of using it for some weird form of self defense, she tosses it away from her hard enough that it clatters against the wall.

“But we were having so much fun.” My gaze drops to her lips, and they tighten like she doesn’t like it when I look at them.

She points at the glass beside me. “That for me?”

“I would never torture someone like that.”

“So you’re fine with flogging someone, but being selfish with your booze is where you draw the line?”

“I like you, Jane,” I chuckle into my whisky, but my laughter dries up when Jane tosses her drink down her throat in one gulp.

“That was a twenty-year-old Macallan,” I breathe in disgust.

“Probably older than the last girl you brought here.” Her eyebrows jump up like she’s encouraging me to retaliate.

This woman has bigger balls than most sicarios I’ve met.

I top up her glass when she holds it out to me.

“Did he say anything to you when you spoke?” I ask.

“We never?—”

“Before.” I wave a hand. “About the job.”

She slows down her words. “I never spoke to him.”

“Christ!” I slam the whiskey bottle down on the table just hard enough to make a loud bang without breaking it.

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