Page 42 of Brutal Devil

To say I’m going stir-crazy is the understatement of the year. I miss the sun. I miss my life. I miss books, my phone, the outside world, the sound of birds, walking to class, the clickity-clack of my fingers on the keyboard, wind ruffling the leaves of trees. And yeah, most of all, I miss my father too. Some of the shock has worn away, but the nightmares linger.

Maybe they always will.

We weren’t close. He was a shitty father and an even shittier human. But he was stillmyfather, and I don’t know if that should even matter, given everything that’s gone down, but it somehow does.

Besides, someone put a bullet in his head when I was in his arms on my wedding day. At the very least, I need to get justice for him. I need to find out who murdered him and make that person pay.

I pad over to a dresser and open it. Inside the drawers, my things are neatly folded—all of it taken from my carry-on. I grab a pair of pajama bottoms, a tank top, and panties before headingto the bathroom. I have nothing to do here in my grim little cell. So I start the day with a long shower and try to shake the darkness that’s never far.

At least the shower is amazing. I go through the motions—even my shower gel and shampoo are here. I have everything but my phone and laptop. I’m not allowed to have them yet.

Maybe not ever.

As I scrub my scalp, I go through all the scenarios again, just as I have every day since I’ve become a prisoner. What can I use as a weapon, when can I utilize the element of surprise, et cetera, et cetera, and yet the answers are always the same. Anything with an edge has been removed. I don’t even have shoes. I know I’m no match for Priest, even when he’s asleep. And besides, if I were able to harm him, there’s no way in hell I’d get out of here alive.

I’m fucked.

Closing my eyes, I lean back and rinse the suds from my hair.

I’m almost finished when that magnetic sense of awareness hits me and I realize I’m not alone. Panic hits me, instant and uncontrollable. I start screaming.

I’m dimly aware of low cursing, the sound of the shower door being wrenched open. Then someone is here with me. He’s big and solid, a wall of muscle. Fully dressed and saying my name, pulling me into his arms like it’s where I belong.

“Luna, baby. It’s me.”

The voice is as familiar as the scent, the feel of him. It’s Priest.

Weirdly, I feel safe.

And yeah, that’s fucked up too.

I don’t look at him. His arms are tight, protective bands that somehow feel comforting instead of caging.

Touching them reminds me that I’m naked. Shit. My instinct is to push away from him, but at least this way, he can’t get a full view.

I cling to him, the wide showerhead spraying us both in water. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is glued to his chest like a second skin. Why is there something so hot about a drenched six-foot-three mobster standing in the shower with me, his blue eyes burning into mine?

“What are you doing in here?” I blurt, the panic subsiding, annoyance with myself taking its place.

He’s got this intense look on his face that I can’t read.

“I brought you breakfast. I called for you when I came in, but you didn’t answer.”

“You could have knocked.”

“I did. You didn’t answer that either.”

“Did you hear the shower running?”

“Yeah.”

Silence falls between us, punctuated by the rhythmic fall of the water on the tiles, on us.

“But you came in anyway.”

His chin goes up. He hasn’t shaved, and the dark stubble makes him look extra dangerous. “Needed to make sure you were all right.”

The emotional whiplash of the last week overwhelms me. I’m angry. I’m resentful. I’m terrified. Everything is one big, sick ball of dread in my stomach.