Page 3 of The Devils of Saint City

Green eyes flick to mine as he brushes his thumb over it so briefly, I nearly miss it. “Still plenty of canvas left.” Releasing mecompletely, he turns away to go plop on the couch like he didn’t just threaten me. “When are you moving in?”

Never, if I’m smart. I’d be better off on the streets, or in a shelter if any of them have room. Anywhere but here, with a man who already tried to kill me once and just threatened to do it again.

But there’s some strange little part of me that wants to believe he’s good. That deep down, he forgave me. He exacted his revenge already and that’ll be the end of it.

That part of me will likely be my undoing.

“Now,” I say flatly. “I’m moving in now.”

Before I wise up and change my mind.

2

My bedroom feels about twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the house. The vent isn’t blocked that I can see, but there’s no airflow coming through it whatsoever. I can already tell sleeping is going to be a nightmare — and in my experience, overheating quickly leads to episodes.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

While Asher might’ve given me a hotbox for a room, I should be grateful he gave me a room that isn’t flat out on fire. It’s a step up for him.

Once I’m unpacked, I spend a few hours cleaning up the house and finishing the laundry. I’m sweating and miserable by the time I’m done, but the house looks much better than it did when I first stepped in.

It’s nicer than I expected, especially given how plain it is. The grey vinyl flooring looks lighter than it really is thanks to the two jet-black leather couches and black end tables, and the marble in the kitchen is practically shining. There isn’t much else in the house except for a dining room table that looks like it’s never been used, a tv that spans almost a whole wall, and motorized blinds that completely cut off all natural light.

It’s like a millennial modeled their home after a cave.

I like it, even though it feels a little like a prison.

I’ve got dinner in the oven when Asher comes back home, and this time, he isn’t alone. Manson Bray is right on his heels.

They’re dressed like twins with their dark work boots, faded jeans, and zip up jackets. But where Asher’s hair is dark and short, Manson’s is almost blonde and long enough to cover his eyes when he looks down.

As Manson pulls off his jacket to reveal full tattoo sleeves on both arms, my stomach squirms. He wasn’t this covered the lasttime I saw him. “Hi,” I mumble, not knowing which version I’ll get — the Manson who told Asher to cut my brakes instead of slash my tires, or the one who cleaned my wounds for me behind his best friend’s back?

The one who said I should’ve died instead of my stepfather at his funeral, or the one who used to sing me to sleep when Asher wasn’t around?

Glancing between us, he tosses his jacket on the back of the couch and straightens. “Smells pretty good in here.”

“Thanks. I’ll go shopping after work tomorrow, but I did the best I could with what I had. It should be ready soon.” I turn my back to them to get the plates down from the cupboard, every second of silence that stretches making my heart beat harder. “H-How have you been?”

“Who me? I’ve been fucking great.” A door slams off in the distance before I ever even realize Ash walked away. “You?”

“I moved in here today,” I deadpan. “I’m fantastic.”

Laughing, Manson plops down on one of the chairs and looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He stretches out one of his legs and eyes me like he’s trying to peek under the surface, making me nervous for whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “Thought you two would get over your shit by now.”

“Tell that to him.”

His eye roll tells me he has, but there’s no use in beating a dead horse. “Whatever. So phone sex, huh? What’s that like?”

I don’t miss the way he lowers his voice so we can’t be overheard having an almost cordial conversation, nor the fact that Asher told him a little more than he probably needed to.

“It’s fine most days. People want company more than anything, and it’s nice being able to be someone’s fantasy for a little while when they want more.”

He ponders that for a moment before ultimately nodding like he agrees. “Makes sense to me. He said something about a shockcollar that confused the fuck out of me. I was a little preoccupied when he brought it up, but I don’t see a collar around your neck.”

Because I’m not a fucking dog. My cheeks heat all over again as I show him my arm and explain to him why I have it. “I’m sure he warned you.”

I have to force myself to ignore the excitement glinting in his eyes. “Yeah, okay I get it now. What are your main triggers?”

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