Page 127 of Brutal Devil

There’s a knock at my door.

I rush to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I’m not wearing any makeup, but at least my hair is clean. I’ve looked worse. And there’s nothing stuck between my teeth. I don’t know why I care about my appearance, but for some reason, the thought of Rocco reporting back to Priest that I look like I haven’t been sleeping hurts my ego.

Another knock sounds, this one a bit louder, so I leave the bathroom and head to the door. Without looking out the peephole, I disengage the dead bolt and chain.

When I open the door, it’s not Rocco standing there, holding my copy ofMy Life by Waterin his beautiful, tattooed hands.

It’s Priest.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be standing at my apartment door after he ghosted me a month ago.

His voice is as deep and delicious as I remember. A little raspy, a little rough.

“Hey,” I manage, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

I’m not wearing a bra. I’m dressed in an old concert tee and booty shorts. My heart may have been crushed by this man, but my body doesn’t care. It’s drinking in all six foot three of gorgeous gangster.

He rakes me from head to toe with a burning stare, like he’s reading my mind, and then his icy-blue eyes return to mine. “Can I come in?”

Letting him into my space is a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, horrible idea. I should grab the book and tell him to fuck off.

“Sure,” I say instead, taking a step back.

He saunters into my apartment like he belongs here, and I close the door behind him.

“So, this is your place.”

I cross my arms over my chest because my nipples are saluting him and I don’t want him to get any ideas. “This is my place.”

God, he’s so sexy. So devastatingly handsome. He’s wearing a suit that clings to his muscled body, and his hair is a bit longer than it was when I saw him last. He’s grown a beard. The beard is hot. Looking a bit closer, I see dark shadows under his eyes.I wonder if he’s had the same trouble sleeping that I have. If breaking up with me affected him at all, because it destroyed me.

“Why did you decide to stay?” he asks, his gaze intense.

So intense I almost have to look away. “Because I didn’t want to go back to Iowa. Not after…everything.”

Cid makes a small mew from over at the window, protesting a stranger in his space.

Priest frowns. “What was that noise?”

“It’s Cid.”

His cool mask shatters. He looks furious.

“Who the fuck is Cid?”

The urge to let him wallow in jealousy is strong. He’s got some nerve—he’s the one who left me. But I’m too emotionally drained to play games.

“He’s my cat,” I explain, gesturing to where Cid is lying on his kitty perch, pinning Priest with a wary seafoam glare.

“You have a cat.”

“Yup.” I pop the p, feeling awkward and raw and ragged.

I love this man. So much, it’s an ache deep inside me.

He rubs his jaw, still holding my book in one hand. He should look ridiculous, a tatted, dangerous Mafia don standing in my modest apartment, holding a book of poetry. But he doesn’t. And I want to wrap myself around him and never let go, which annoys me.

“Look,” I snap. “Not to be rude, but why are you here?”