Page 43 of Brutal Devil

“I’m not okay,” I blurt. “I’m never going to be okay again. And that’s your fucking fault.”

His, my father’s, and whoever pulled that trigger.

It could have been Priest. Not literally, of course. He was standing right next to me when it happened. But he could have given the order. This isn’t the first time the thought has occurred to me, and I know it won’t be the last.

He catches my chin and tilts my face toward his. “That mouth. You need to watch it,topolina.”

He’s staring at my lips, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he does something even more surprising, gently running his knuckle along my cheekbone, to my temple. Like a caress.

I must be staring at him stupidly, naked and wet, my breasts pressed into his T-shirt, because he cocks a half grin at me.

“Shampoo.”

It wasn’t a caress, then. He was just wiping away some suds. Still, the gesture was strangely intimate and caring.

“You okay?” he asks.

And I have to blink hard against the stinging rush of tears because I’ve already cried in front of Priest too many times. I’m not about to humiliate myself again. The dichotomy of this man is perplexing, part rough gangster, part gentle lover. I never know which side of him I’m going to get.

“I’m fine,” I bite out. “You can let me finish my shower now.”

A dark brow kicks up. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“Positive.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Priest steps away from me, and the look he gives me is scalding. Then he calmly leaves the shower, soaked and hot as fuck. When the bathroom door closes behind him, I exhale and press my forehead against the cold, slick marble wall. I feel like I’m on fire.

Everything about this situation is wrong.

The water runs down my back, and I finish rinsing, trying to forget that Priest just saw me bare-assed naked. And not for the first time either. Worse, my ovaries are insistent little bitches. They don’t care that he is a kidnapping Mafia kingpin who’s been holding me captive in a basement bunker for the last week after forcing me into marrying him.

With a low groan of embarrassment mingled with frustration, I scrub my face under the warm water. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’m finally starting to get my hunger back and Priest had mentioned breakfast.

I turn off the shower, wring out my wet hair, and then step out to towel off. My makeup is in a travel bag on the marble counter, another reminder that he is in control of what I’m allowed to have. He’s thorough, and his connections are alarming. It’s a sobering thought, how trapped I am.

How reliant upon him.

I should probably try to stay on his good side, at least until I get out of this hellhole and back into the real world where I have a chance of actually escaping. The first moment I’m alone, I’m going to run as fast and as far as I can. He’ll never catch me.

I get dressed, then throw my damp hair into a messy bun using the lone hair tie I have. I’m about to put on makeup when I realize that’s stupid vanity. I don’t want to look good for Priest. I want to smother him in his sleep.

I want to make him pay for what his family did to my brother.

For what they’ve done to my father.

Except, I’m more confused than ever. Because I don’t know for sure who was responsible for Leo’s murder any more than I know who was behind my father’s.

I throw open the bathroom door, ready to fight. But the scent of pancakes is in the air, and I instantly go soft, like a cat picked up by the scruff of her neck.

Priest set the small table, and he’s standing at it, partially obstructing my view. But I can see there are silver domes dotting the center, plates for each of us. And OMG, do I smell… No. Couldn’t be. Could it?

“We’ve got bacon,” he says, as if he read my mind. “Pancakes. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Hash browns. I think there’s even a Danish. Those are hard to sneak past Saint.”

It’s like Thanksgiving and IHOP had sex and made one amazing breakfast feast of a baby. For the past week, I’ve been existing on the protein bars he left me on the nightstand every morning. I could almost cry again, but this time at the prospect of a proper breakfast. It’s my favorite meal of the day.

“Coffee too,” he adds.