Page 72 of The Devils of Saint City

She cries out when he makes her bottom lip bleed but I know her body so well, I recognize the way she tenses up, the way she rolls her hips with an orgasm. She was made to take the pain we were born to inflict.

And Ash knows it too.

Feeling her lose it under him has him lifting her legs up even higher so he can unleash, his hips pounding into her so hard I know she’ll feel him for days, and when that sends him over I can hear how angry he is that nothing has changed. This is still the end.

“Goddamnit, pet. Was there any world where this could have worked?”

I don’t know if he asks it expecting an answer or not, but Rhea seems to sense the sadness radiating off of him enough to pull one together.

“What do you mean? This is working. You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” he whispers, kissing her cheek, her nose, her lips. “Go to sleep, baby. Everything is going to be okay.”

If he follows through with this shit, none of us are ever going to be okay again. But the more I watch her, watchhim,the moreI realize that this might be the first selfless thing he’s ever done in his life.

Who am I to stand in the way?

28

There are some things in life you just know. A loved one’s voice, the smell of a bonfire. For me, it’s the way every single bed feels in the prison I’ve found myself in.

I’m no longer in one.

Without even opening my eyes, I know I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I feel the cum between my thighs, the soreness in my arms, the dull ache in my head — all the telltale signs I had an episode overnight. But what I don’t feel is any sort of familiarity. The air smells different here, like pumpkins and apple pie. It’s colder, too. At least ten degrees. The pillows are nice, the blankets are fluffy, but they’re not our pillows. Not our blankets.

Wherever I am, I’m not in the same place that I was when I fell asleep.

Panic trickles up my spine as I sit up and try to focus on the room around me. It’s small but cozy with a white wooden dresser, dark green walls, and a floor lamp across from the twin-sized bed I find myself on. I’ve never been in this room before. My clothes are folded neatly on top of the dresser and my boots — the new boots Manson bought me — are resting next to the doorframe. I’m wearing pajamas I don’t remember putting on, and I know without having to reach up to touch my neck that I’m no longer collared. No cuffs, either.

Maybe I’m still asleep.

But can you feel pain when you’re asleep? Real, true pain like the bite of a pinch or the sting of a slap? I try both of them, and nothing changes. The dizzying realization that I’m definitely awake and lying in some stranger’s bed has me pushing myself to my feet and heading for the door. If I got out somehow, went somewhere... Manson and Asher will kill me.

The bedroom door leads me to a narrow, short hallway with two other doors. One is shut, one is open. The dark silhouette of a bathroom sink illuminated by one of those plug-in scent diffusers tells me what’s in there, so I keep moving. The bare floors are chilly under my feet as I step into a dining room decorated with fucking swords and crossbows, and the sight alone would steal my breath — but the stunningly pretty girl sitting on top of a high-rise table just about does me in.

“Who the fuck are you?” I blurt, taking a half-step back. Her long, dark hair slides over her shoulder as she chuckles, pissing me off. “Is something funny? Who the fuck are you?”

“They warned me you weren’t a morning person. Here, have some coffee. Black, right? Because you’re already sweet enough without adding sugar?”

There’s nothing menacing in her smile as she gestures toward a coffee pot and several cute mugs, but I can’t bring myself to move. Not without knowing what the hell is going on and how she knows what I said to Manson and Asher as a joke. “Who... are... you?”

“Blair,” she replies flippantly. “And you’re Rhea Ellis, step-sister to a devil in disguise. Long as you don’t look into his eyes, right?”

I’d give just about anything to look into his eyes right now. None of this makes sense. “Blair who? Why am I here? How am I here? Where are they?”

Her expression changes to something far too close to pity, but I’m surprised there isn’t any malice behind it. “They brought you here because apparently even devils can be martyrs. Did you, by any chance, tell them your love for them would never be real?”

She holds out the cup of coffee in solidarity, politely ignoring my shaking hand as I reach out to take it. It’s just like thoseassholes to finally listen to the truth the moment it starts to become a lie. “That’s not fair.”

“I agree. Men are fucking stupid,” she offers. “That’s why I didn’t make it at that damned school. I commend the subs that can deal with them, but all I’ve learned is I never want a man. I may not know your situation fully, but I saw the truth in your eyes just now. You really did let them in, huh?”

I take a long sip of coffee and sit right there on the floor, feeling too unsteady to stay standing. So she’s from St. Andrew’s, then. That’s how they know her. “So what, they dumped me on you?” I deflect. “No money, no car, just the clothes on my back? What’d you do to deserve that? Why’d you even agree?”

“Well they paid me,” she replies. “But even if they didn’t insist, I would have helped you. Firstly, Daddy would have killed me if she knew I let a girl go homeless, that’s not how we’re made. Secondly, no. Your car is out front and they told me to tell you to check your bank account so I assume you’re not broke. Your phone is on the coffee table, and your clothes are in the room you left. You’re a hard sleeper.”

“No, I’m not. I had a fucking episode last night so they probably drugged me before I passed out again,” I snap, then remember she’s the exact opposite of my enemy right now. “I’m sorry. I just...”

I don’t want to think about my clothes being here, my car being in the drive, or my measly seven thousand dollars being returned. All that tells me is that I wasn’t good enough. Did they get bored when things were good? Did it stop being satisfying for them when they weren’t forcing me to comply, hurting me with every word, every action? Domestic life isn’t for them, I guess. I’m not for them. “Fuck.”

---