Page 37 of Brutal Devil

“You need a shower.”

“I c-can do it myself.”

His gaze is relentless, his jaw sharper than a knife, his lips set in a stern, forbidding line. “You shouldn’t be alone after what you’ve just been through.”

He moves to the shower, opens the glass door, and turns it on. The inside is gray-and-white marble accented with brass, and it’s big enough to fit a family of four. I struggle to control myself, but my breath is hitching and I can’t catch it.

Priest turns back to me. He’s still wearing his black tux, a fine smatter of rusty red flecking the white shirt. My father’s blood. Nausea claws at me. I’m going to be sick.

I barely make it to the toilet and sink to my knees, throwing up the freshly cut fruit I ate for breakfast this morning, courtesy of Maria. When the last of the violent heaves subsides, I see Priest’s elegant, tattooed fingers flushing the toilet and realize he’s holding back my hair.

“I’m s-sorry,” I choke out, embarrassed that he’s not only just witnessed me puking my guts out, but was there to take care of me.

“Don’t be. It’s your body’s natural reaction. Can you stand?”

I nod.

Priest hooks an arm around me and helps me to my feet. Tenderly, he guides me to the sink before opening a medicine cabinet that’s flush with the wall. Inside, I see a shelf of small glasses. He grabs one, fills it with water from the tap, and offers it to me.

“Rinse out your mouth.”

I take the glass and our fingers brush. “I don’t need to be looked after like a ch-child.”

But my chattering teeth aren’t particularly convincing, I know. Or the fact that I probably look like something dragged out of the maws of hell. Or all the puking I just did.

“Rinse,” he repeats.

And I do. There’s an eerie calm in his voice, and it’s deep and low and somehow soothing, even though I know it shouldn’t be. What Ishouldbe doing is smashing this glass on the marble counter and using it to cut Priest’s jugular.

Was he responsible for my father’s assassination?

Oh God. It doesn’t feel like he was.

But who?

My cousin Amedeo? The Russians? Other families?

And whoever it was, will they come after me next?

My hand trembles as I bring the glass to my lips and take a tentative draw from the water. Slowly, as if I’m performing each task for the first time, I slosh the liquid in my mouth and then discreetly spit into the sink.

“Again.”

I do it a second time, not even bothering to use a guest towel to wipe the dampness from my mouth but swiping the back of my hand across my lips instead. He watches me, patient but intense, radiating that raw sense of barely leashed power I’ve only ever felt from him. I still feel sick, like I’m trapped in a nightmare and can’t wake up.

I take a sip of the water to distract myself and then swallow harder than necessary. “Where are we?”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Why aren’t there any windows?”

“Why do you think?”

“This is a s-safe house of some sort.” The lingering hitch in my breath is as annoying as my body’s reaction to his proximity.

“Smart girl. Now let me help you out of that dress.”

I cross my arms over my chest like they’re a shield that will keep him from me. “No.”