Page 117 of Wicked Believer
How is it I’m onlynowrealizing exactly how good at torture my future husband can be? I throw back the sheets, and Mia’s eyes go wide at the sight of my naked body as I tear out of the bed toward the en suite to retrieve my bathrobe. I’m still not exactly comfortable with my own nudity, or with others aside from Lucifer seeing me naked, for that matter, but Iknowfor a fact becoming immortal has made me more polished around the edges than I was previously.
And I have every intention of shocking Mia as much as her being here has shocked me.
Along with that too-real dream.
“So, what are you doing here?” I ask.
She swallows, then shakes her head a bit, like the question somehow brings her back to herself. Her eyes return to my face. “Lucifer put me in charge of managing your schedule. Keeping you on track.”
“Oh, has he?” I lift a brow, wishing I felt more surprised than I do.
Of course he has.
He and I are going to have a little chat about that soon. We’re going to have a little chat about alotof things.
“I don’t need a handler.” I turn on my heel and shut the en suite door in Mia’s face. Normally, I try to be as polite as possible to the staff, but Mia strikes some kind of annoying chord in me I can’t seem to put my finger on.
Plus, the slim possibility that she had some kind of previous relationship with Lucifer still makes me jealous as all get out.
When I emerge from the bathroom nearly an hour later, my hair freshly washed and styled to my satisfaction and my collar on, all thoughts of that awful dream are gone, but Mia’s still standing there, waiting for me.
“Apparently, you do,” she says.
“Do what?” I brush past her, heading for the closet.
“Need a handler.”
I sigh. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s what I’m here for, and thanks to you, I’m already failing miserably, considering you’re going to be late for training in”—she taps her tablet—“four minutes.”
My eyes go wide. “Shit!”
Lucifer made it abundantly clear when he emailed me my new schedule details yesterday—yes,emailed, don’t even get me started—that if I’m evenone secondlate for anything he’s outlined for me, he’s going to punish me this evening. While normally the idea would hold a bit of appeal, I’m still so annoyed about him making me wait until after I’m trained to tell me everything, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Though a small part of me secretly loves what an overprotective bully he’s being.
I break into a run down the hall, heading for the stairs that lead to my wardrobe room, and to my surprise, Mia keeps pace with me, shoving a pair of workout leggings, a sports bra, and some underwear into my arms.
“Here,” she says.
Clearly, she came prepared.
I lift a brow, shocked that she did something almost ... nice for me? “Thanks, I guess?”
I stop where I am right in the middle of the hall and change into them—what does it matter now?—leaving my bathrobe abandoned on the floor. One of the maids will take care of it.
“Are your tits real?” she asks.
“Of course they are.” I glare at her as I wiggle on my leggings.
As soon as my clothes are on, I’m charging down the stairs, headed toward the first floor in hope of snagging a bite to eat, but Mia blocks me at the third-floor landing. “You don’t have time,” she shouts. “Get in there!”
The next thing I know I’m being half shoved, half tripped over Mia’s foot into the penthouse’s private training facility, the recessed lighting automatically flicking on overhead.
I stumble a few steps into the room, barely regaining my footing before I turn to face the empty space. I’ve only been in the training center a handful of times, but it’s basically Lucifer’s sanctuary when we’re not in the playroom together.
Not that I’m complaining.
