Page 25 of Brutal Devil
Chapter 8
LUNA
It’s dawn and I’m awake, standing at the window in a pair of slippers that are oddly my size and borrowed pajamas. They were folded neatly and waiting for me on the bed when I was returned to my prison. Likely courtesy of Maria before she left. I don’t think Priest is capable of being thoughtful. Even last night’s dinner wasn’t an invitation but a sit-the-fuck-down glare-fest just to prove he has the upper hand.
But I don’t want to think about him now. I want to soak up these few, fleeting minutes to myself. To prepare for the shitshow that lies ahead.
Below me, the city is coming slowly to life, the strains of night filtering away as another unrelenting day begins. I watch a crosswalk light up, a handful of people hustling to their next destination as they venture over the street. Cars move in a seamless blend of motion.
Thanks to Priest’s confiscation of my phone, I also have no way to check in with the world. No texts, no emails, no calls, no internet.God.No e-reader app. This might as well be 1995. I don’t even have a way to record the poem that’s stirring in myoverstimulated mind as I watch the city waking up. At least back in the nineties, people had pens and tablets.
Today is also maybe my wedding day, which is exactly as insane and terrifying as it sounds. Needless to say, I barely slept at all last night.
The king-size was comfortable, the sheets smooth and soft, the comforter luxurious black velvet, the pillow and mattress so wonderful that I’m convinced they’re made of puppies and clouds. Luxury is everywhere—no surprise—but the room doesn’t look like a mobster’s lair. It’s tastefully decorated with framed nature photographs and neutral tones.
Things I noticed after I calmed down, drunk on homemade lasagna.
I stayed up, half afraid the bedroom was his and that he’d be sleeping with me. Or worse,not sleeping. Kissing me with those sinner’s lips. Touching me. Demanding whatever it is a mobster demands of his captive bride on the night before their forced wedding. A blow job? I wasn’t sure.
Relief only came around three a.m. when I heard his familiar low voice as he passed the guard at my door. I remained alone in the inky stillness of the night, the glow of the eternally awake city seeping around the edges of the curtains as my sole companion.
A knock sounds at my door, jolting me from my thoughts and making me jump and spin away from the city.
Already?
I hold my breath, hoping that whoever it is on the other side, they’ll think I’m still asleep.
“Yo, Agatha Christie, you up?”
The voice isn’t Priest’s. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried.
Either way, I’m not answering.
Another knock. “Joan Wilder? I know you’re awake.”
Whoever it is, he’s a pain in the ass. I can tell already.
“I’m sleeping,” I call out. “Go away.”
“No time for sleeping, Jane Austen,” he persists. “You got a wedding to attend.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the door. “First of all, I don’t write mysteries. Second of all, Joan Wilder isn’t even a real author. She’s a character in a movie. And third of all?—”
The door opens before I can finish, and it’s none other than Saint Andriani strolling through, a garment bag in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other. He’s tall like Priest and has the same black hair, but his eyes are a slightly lighter shade of the same icy blue. He gives me a cocky grin.
“You can take that third of all and shove it right up your ass, sweetheart. Time’s wasting.” He shakes the garment bag for emphasis. “You need to get dressed.”
I’m peeved that he didn’t let me finish, so I don’t move. “What’s in the bag?”
“Your wedding gown.” He extends it toward me.
I cock my head at him, thinking that he’s not nearly as intense as Priest. “Wedding gown?”
“I thought you were a fancy author. Don’t you know what the fuck that is?” He tosses the garment bag at me.
Instincts kick in and I catch it. “I’m not a fancy author. And at the moment, what I’m most known for is my poetry.”
“Poetry?” He makes a face.
