Page 38 of Brutal Devil
“We’ve been over this.” His voice gentles again, and there’s a new expression on his handsome face that looks almost like pity.
Except it couldn’t be.
Priest Andriani is a heartless, ruthless, stone-cold killer.
“I’ll do it on my own.”
But Priest clamps his hands on my waist and spins me, so quickly that I don’t even have time to react. The sound of the zipper being undone zings through the silence. I instinctively hold the dress to me, keeping it from falling, but then I see the blood and my stomach lurches and I let go.
The once gorgeous Oscar de la Renta falls to the floor, ruined.
I’m standing there in a lacy bra and panties, feeling far too exposed. It’s getting warm and steamy in the shower, thanks to the running water. I feel hot and slightly light-headed. I’m still panicked, but now there’s an added element of something I can’t define.
“You don’t need to do it on your own,” he says at my back. “You have me now.”
And then I feel his fingertips grazing my back as he unclasps my bra with one deft move. It gapes, leaving me more exposed. I flatten an arm over my breasts and the lacy demi cups, keeping it from dropping to the tile like my dress.
“I’ll take it from here,” I protest.
“You’re in shock, baby. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
I don’t understand what he means. Does he think I’m suicidal after my father’s murder?
“You could pass out,” he adds.
“I’m not going to shower with you.”
“Take off the bra and the panties, or I will.”
Panic rises, clawing at my throat. I can’t do this.
“Priest, no.”
“Fuck.” He blows out a breath. “We’re going to wash the blood off the both of us. That’s all. You’ll feel better when you’re not covered in it. Trust me.”
I almost ask him how he knows, but then I remember. He’s a murderer. Killing people is how he made his living as the top Andriani confessor until he became don.
“Do you promise you’re not g-going to try anything?” I demand, the chill coming back to me now that I’m thinking about death again.
Death.
Blood.
My father.
The limp way he fell into me, the screams. Mine and others’. The terror.
Around me, the room suddenly spins.
Priest is there to catch me against him, to keep me from falling with an arm banded around my waist. He grunts.
“You see? Don’t be stubborn. I’m not going to fuck you in the shower. I’m going to get you cleaned up.”
His crude words light something inside me on fire. The dichotomy is so strange that if someone else tried to describe it, I wouldn’t believe them. I’m freezing cold and completely aflame at the same time.
I give up, letting go of the bra just in time for him to hook his thumbs in my panties and pull them down. His hands glide over me, a caress that somehow, strangely, isn’t sexual. He’s all business as he helps me into the shower.
The door closes softly, and I’m engulfed in the hot spray. I lower my forehead to the cool marble wall, feeling the water sluice down my spine, and start sobbing yet again. I hear another low curse from his direction, followed by the hasty rustling of fabric that suggests he’s also taking off his clothes.
