Page 41 of Brutal Devil
“You don’t trust me?”
“You’ve been out of this life for five years, and you don’t want to be a part of it.”
She doesn’t argue, just sits there with her pouty tits about to fall out of her nightgown.
“So, no, I don’t trust you.”
“You’ve been sleeping next to me every night.”
I tuck my chin down and give her a look. “Doyoutrust me?”
“No.”
Her answer is instant, without hesitation.
I shouldn’t be disappointed, but somehow, I am. Loyalty isn’t something I’m going to get from Luna Revello. Not yet anyway. Maybe not ever.
I rub my chest again. “You should try to sleep. It’s two a.m.”
I’ve got to be up at five to meet with my men. A hell of a lot has happened on the outside since I brought her here. And more shit is about to go down.
“I’m not tired.” The tiny strap of her nightgown slides over her shoulder.
She doesn’t do anything to right it, so I do, pulling it back into place. Touching her in the process.
“You should be.”
“I’m not.”
“If you stay awake, I’m going to fuck you.”
It’s not a nice thing to say. I don’t even mean it. But she’s playing with fire, and we’re both going to get burned. She needs the reminder. So do I.
Her lips part, the sleepiness disappearing from her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
I hold her stare, letting her see everything—the darkest depths of my nonexistent soul. “Try me.”
She swallows, and for a second, she looks alone and scared, and her terrified screams echo in my head until I force them out.
I married her for power. To protect my brothers and our big, fucked-up family. She’s a pawn. She means nothing to me.
Luna gives me a jerky nod. “Good night, then.”
She pulls the blankets up to her chin and rolls away from me, presenting me with her back huddled under the comforter.
I turn out the light again, telling myself I feel nothing.
But as I lie on my back, staring up into the darkness, my dick hard as stone, I know that’s a lie. I feel way too much where Luna Revello is concerned.
And I’m going to have to do something about it soon.
Luna
When I wake in the morning, just as with every day for the last week, Priest is gone. His half of the bed is made. Not a hint of him remains, aside from the faint scent of him on the sheets that I find strangely comforting. Psychotic killers shouldn’t be allowed to smell as good as he does.
I roll out of bed and stretch, trying not to focus on the fact that I’m essentially a prisoner in a windowless dungeon.
And failing.
