Page 87 of Deal with the Devil

Then my husband makes love to me. Again, and again, and again until neither of us can stay awake a moment longer and we fall into bliss wrapped up in each other. The way I know I’ll fall into sleep for the rest of my life.

thirty-five

Nevaeh

I’ve spent the last three days posting regularly to social media, something I never do. But I’ve been doing it religiously and with intent. Photos of me at home alone, photos of me with just Kane. Photos of him touching me, kissing me—me in general being happy.

The first day I started posting, I’d gotten an email from one very unhinged Jacob Yancey. I hadn’t bothered to watch it, because Ian told me the gist and that was all I needed.

But today is the day. I sense it.

Standing at the door with my new husband, I take a candid short video of him kissing me goodbye at the door before I post it with a#hardworkinghubbie. Aside effect of posting things with Kane is a slew of quick-fans that adore seeing Kane with hiswifey.

This posting thing has a purpose right now, but I just might keep giving his fans what they want—a harmless glimpse into our life.

“Stay safe,” Kane’s eyes hold mine before sliding over my head to the empty room behind me.

“I will,” I promise as I walk him to the door. Then I watch, standing on the front step as Kane drives away.

I glance around the property, careful not to look too long in the direction of the game camera Kane spotted the other day. After a thorough inspection of the property by drone with a detection device crafted by Ian’s security company, we found it was the only one. And we know who put it there, more than likely, while we’d been in New York and the property had been mostly unguarded.

Giving the back of Kane’s truck a final wave, I walk back inside.

I make myself a sugar infused latte which I sit next to my laptop before taking a quick photo, posting it with#workingwifey.

Then I sit and do just that, with my back to the wall. I have a view of the whole main floor, and the glass doors that look out over cliff and sea and a steep set of stairs that lead to a sandy private beach below.

Then, unable to work, I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

I’m on my third latte when I hear it. The click of the door I’d left so foolishly unlocked; the house unarmed.

My spine pricks as cold sweat beads there, and I call, “Babe, is that you?”

It’s not Kane. I know exactly who it is, and it’s definitely not my husband.

I’m proved correct when a handsome man appears in the room with empty eyes. Unlike the last time I saw him, and in all of his videos, he’s unmasked. Just the fact he’s showing me his face is a bold telling of what he intends for me in my near future. I have to bite back a shiver, push down the fear and tighten the bolts pinning my game face in place.

I make a show of being confused and afraid as I scramble from my chair at the table, scurrying like a frightened, traumatized little mouse. “Who are you?” I blink big, doe eyes at him. “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“Hello, little slut.” I let fear fueled recognition bleed into my eyes and the sick bastard grins. “Yes, it’s me.”

Loosing just a little tremble, I ask, “What do you want?”

He strolls deeper into the house—my house—as though he has a right. I want to use claws and teeth and every blade in my kitchen on him. I want to carveout the fear he left buried deep inside me after his last attack and shove it into the wounds I ache to sculpt in him.

“You, of course.”

“Why?” I demand, my voice louder and steadier than I intend.

“I told you. When you failed to do as you were told, returning to your fiancé, a man who loved you enough to hire me to bring you back to him—things got personal.”

“So, you think you can have me for yourself?” I scoff, like the idea is the most ridiculous thing in the world.

He takes instant offense, his shoulders pulling back as a sneer curls his lip. “I’ll take you, kicking and screaming. This is personal, little slut. And you’re mine.”

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