Page 12 of The Devils of Saint City

Since it’s physically impossible for me to leave this house, I know exactly who did this to me. They warned me, sure. But a naive little part of me had hoped they were kidding. Had hoped that even in the middle of an episode, I’d realize who they were. That I’d say no.

Hell, I’m bleeding and covered in bruises. Maybe I did say no.

But the most fucked up part of all of this? I’m not nauseous because they fucked me. I’m nauseous because it’s turning me on all over again.

There’s definitely something wrong with me. I know that. But Asher and Manson... it’s not fair how hot they are. How possessive and commanding, how intense. If they’d treat me like a human being for even a moment, I’d probably beg them to let me quit my job and be their little sex slave.

I just hope to hell I didn’t say that out loud last night.

Preparing for the worst, I gather up some clean clothes and make my way to the bathroom across the hall. It’s a small mercy that neither of them are waiting for me, and I’m allowed to shower, brush my teeth, and get a better look at that bite mark.

From this angle, it’s easier to see they’re Asher’s teeth. All perfectly straight except for one — one of his bottom central incisors is just crooked enough to be noticeable. I can’t believe I didn’t wake up when he bit me hard enough to leave a mark. I can’t believe I slept through any of this when normally, a shock on my wrist is enough to wake me up.

Maybe it’s because I was so sleep deprived. Maybe I just didn’twantto wake up.

Or maybe it’s because of the bottle of sleeping pills sitting on the counter. They weren’t there yesterday, so did they leave them here on purpose, so I’d know that I can’t stop this?

Now that he got what he wanted, there’s a chance he’ll leave me alone. Let me leave and find somewhere else to stay. He’ll be bored now, right? The novelty is gone. But judging by the state of my body, there was more to this than just revenge. It almost looks like passion.

... Yeah, right.

Scoffing, I open the bathroom door and find the twin assholes leaning against the opposing wall with smug expressions. Shirtless. “Morning, pet. Sleep good?”

Asher never smiles at me, so the way his lips spread looks almost menacing. I keep my head held high as I answer, “Fine, actually. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Usually you go straight to the coffee machine when you wake up, so I figured you must have had some crazy dreams.”

Manson’s eyes roam the marks he can see, and I don’t miss the way they darken slightly. “Good dreams, you mean.”

“I’ve had better.” Shrugging, I move past them to the kitchen as my heart beats louder in my chest. “How soon are you two leaving for work?”

“We leave when we leave,” Ash replies flippantly, following me out to the kitchen closely. “Had better, huh?”

“Dream’s probably just a little fuzzy,” Manson cuts in. “Let her have her coffee first.”

Nodding, my annoying step-brother actually listens and backs off. The truth is, there’s no way I’ll ever remember a single second of what happened. I never do. I’ve filmed myself a few times and people have told me stories, but I have exactly zero firsthand memories of my episodes. It’s the only mercy this disorder shows me.

Still, coffee helps wake me up enough to deal with them. I make them each a cup according to our deal, then sit and try not to flinch. “How was your night?” I ask pointedly. Let the bastards admit to what they did. “Were you out terrorizing children?”

The only response I get from Ash is a snort, whereas Manson seems more than willing to actually have a conversation with me... just not about what I need to hear. “No more than usual. What are your plans for today?”

“Putting the lock on my door and working for a few hours. I have a client I regularly meet with.”

“About that lock,” Ash drawls, a sparkle in his gaze that oozes danger. “We decided to pass on that.”

“You can pass all you want, I’m still putting it on there. That was part of the deal,” I remind him sharply. “I’ll just wait until you leave and do it anyway.”

“Yeah, well good fucking luck finding it.”

Manson holds up a finger before I can respond, his frown deep. “Client?”

He really doesn’t play well with others. “Yes, a client. I do have those, remember?” I don’t bother answering Asher — it can’t be that hard to find. He’s not as slick as he thinks he is. “He’s one of my regulars.”

“Who is he? Tell us about him.”

There’s evident anger in his curiosity that he’s trying to hide, which makes me all the more eager to tell him the truth. I hope he feels like shit after.

“His name is Cas. He’s sixty-three years old, and he lost his wife twenty years ago. He never remarried because she was the love of his life. He calls me once a week, asking me to pretend to be his late wife Diana. He doesn’t want anything sexual, he just wants to tell me about his life, their kids, and that he loves and misses her.”

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