Page 100 of Brutal Devil
Two more young men appear before me, each of them hefting a box onto their shoulders wordlessly. I assume the first one told them what to do. I’m left standing here in the doorway to what was my bedroom for the last little while, hugging myself and trying not to allow even a hint of the tears burning my eyes to fall.
I stare down at the carpet and bite my lip hard.
A pair of big feet in Italian leather loafers stops before me.
I know who it is before I even glance up to see Saint looking at me like I imagine he would a puppy who’s just been kicked.
“Morning, Luna.”
No Jessica Fletcher. None of his nonsensical trolling. He’s somber.
I clear my throat and force a cheerful smile. “Good morning.”
“Sleep well?”
I don’t think I slept at all.
I spent the night thrashing in the covers, waking and thinking Priest was by my side, only to reach for him and find nothing but twisted sheets.
“Like a baby,” I lie through gritted teeth.
“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me. You look like hell.”
I glare at him. “Go fuck yourself, Andriani.”
He raises a brow. “You had breakfast yet?”
“No, and I don’t want it either. I just want to get out of here.”
Because as much as I loathed this mobster dungeon, it also started to become something more, especially when someone else was in it.
Someone I refuse to think about now.
Because fuck him.
Fuck Matteo Andriani.
Fuck his mouth and his gorgeous face. Fuck his tongue and his long, tatted fingers and his eight-pack and his big, magical fucking dick.
“It’s going to take a bit to get back into the real world,” Saint warns me gently. “We have to wait until the morning shift change to get you out of the casino, and then there’s traffic at this time of the day. You probably won’t make it to the penthouse until noon.”
I huff out a sigh at this information, because Saint isn’t wrong. If I won’t get to Priest’s place until lunchtime, I’m going to be starving.
“Fine, but I’m not going to eat anything ifhe’shere.”
Saint gives me a pitying look. “I assume you’re referring to Priest?”
I give him a jerky nod.
“He’s not here. He left late last night.”
Late last night.
After we argued.
My bruised heart squeezes.
“Where did he go?” I ask before I can stop myself.
