Page 47 of The Devil's Obsession (East Coast Devils 3)

Gah. Why is that so fucking sexy?

“My darling sister-in-law doesn’t know why you’re here in the first place.” Neither do you. “She thinks you’re an innocent little bird that I’ve captured for my gilded cage.” Smirking, he pours out another glass and slides it across the countertop. “She doesn’t know what you’ve done and that you’re here to be punished.”

Punished.The word triggers a ripple down my spine. I trace my finger along a vein in the marble, simply to avoid the intensity of his gaze. I feel like I’ll catch on fire if I meet it. It doesn’t stop the question from tumbling from my lips, though. “About that punishment,” I croak, “when can I expect that to be dealt?”

My question is met by a heavy silence. When I glance up, Donnacha’s expression has completely changed. His features have hardened, his eyes glazed over. It feels like I’ve angered him more than usual, and I have no idea why. “Forget about it,” he growls with such quiet venom that I almost drop my wineglass. Features softening, he nods over my shoulder. “What’s for dinner? Water and air?”

His reaction puts a crack in my cool demeanor, and I struggle to claw it back.

Feeling like I’m wading through syrup, I turn back to the stove, where there’s now more water on the countertop than there is in the pot. I grab the handle and take it to the sink, filling it up again.

“Pasta. Spaghetti Bolognese, to be exact.”

Stealing a glance at him, I see him pick up the jar of sauce I’d left on the island and frown. “Very Martha Stewart.”

The sarcasm brings heat into my cheeks. “If you wanted a wife who can cook, darling, then perhaps you should have asked for my resume before kidnapping me. Besides, I can’t make a sauce because you’ve taken away every sharp object in the entire building.” To prove my point, I tug open the cutlery drawer and brandish a plastic knife. The type usually accompanied by paper plates and a funky-colored napkin at birthday parties and cookouts. “See? This thing wouldn’t even cut through soup, let alone a tomato.”

He works his jaw in amusement like he’s trying not to laugh. He has very nice eyes, and I can’t help but like the way they glitter when he’s amused by something. With a smirk, he slips his hand into the breast pocket of his suit and pulls out an object.

My heart beats double-time against my rib cage. My knife.

Then he pulls out a Zippo lighter from the pocket of his slacks, ignites the flame with a sharp flick of his wrist, and slowly runs the length of the blade along it. “What vegetables would you like me to cut?”

After a beat or so, I disappear into the pantry, coming back with the first vegetables my hands touch, and drop them in front of him on the counter. His eyes dart between the broccoli and the avocado, but he draws his lips into a hard line as if that’ll stop him from making a smart-ass comment about my ingredient choices.

Over the rim of my wineglass, I watch as he slips off his jacket and drapes it carefully over one of the barstools. He rolls up his sleeves. Adjusts his watch. Then he pulls a cutting board across the counter and begins to slice. Slowly, methodically. Each chop creating another note in a hypnotic song.

It’s probably the wine overflowing in my veins, but watching the Devil doing something so…human makes my mouth water. All of the nerve endings between my thighs tremble. It’s only when he pauses and raises an eyebrow at me, do I realize I’m practically drooling.

“The pot is overflowing again.”

“Shit,” I mutter, snapping out of my Devil-induced trance and lowering the heat of the stove. I wipe down the soaked countertops and bury my pink face in the pantry again, searching for pasta.

It takes a few flustered minutes to realize the methodical chopping has stopped. With a sense of unease creeping up my neck, I turn around.

The Devil is pinning me with a hard stare. One with several impenetrable layers, each more complex than the last. It freezes me in place, hand outstretched toward the wineglass, spaghetti noodles in hand.

“You’re nervous.”

The Devil has a habit of choosing statements over questions.

I find myself looking at the very tip of my own penknife as he points it over the island. It glints under the recessed spotlight, mirroring the sharpness of his tone. “You’re up to something.”

His growing suspicions fill the lines of his face like a spiderweb, and I can feel that familiar sense of panic scratching its way up my throat. Steadying myself, I sip my wine and pin him with a stare of my own.

“Of course I’m nervous,” I say seriously. “In the space of a week, I’ve killed a man, been forced to marry another, and now I’m destined to roam the halls of this godforsaken apartment like a ghost for the foreseeable future. So, forgive me if I’m not quite myself right now.”

In the silence, I can hear my heartbeat thumping against my ears. The tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the room. It feels like forever until Donnacha stops assaulting me with his eyeballs and returns to chopping vegetables.

When he speaks, it’s so quiet that at first, I think I imagined it.

“It won’t be forever,” he murmurs darkly. “It won’t be long at all.”

His words burn hot in my heart, but I ignore them.

“All done,” he drawls, plucking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping it along the length of my blade. My fingers twitch to reach out and grab it. Wrestle him for it. Curl my fucking hands around his throat and choke the life out of him for it. But it disappears into his slacks in a flash, accompanied by a smug wink. “Anything else you need from me, sweetheart?”

“No, unless I’m not to be trusted around boiling water and fire,” I reply, as sweet as I can muster.

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