Page 45 of Brutal Devil

The scent of the coffee is teasing me, and I want nothing more than to take a deep sip. But I’m pissed at the cold, ruthless Mafia don who’s watching me with icy, calculating eyes. I want to lash out, to draw blood.

“What is reality? That I’m a prisoner? So you’re going to keep me locked against my will in this basement fortress of yours forever now? That’s called kidnapping, you fucking psycho. The last time I checked, it was illegal.”

A muscle in his jaw clenches. “Watch that mouth of yours. I’ve already warned you it’s going to get you into trouble.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll put my dick in it.”

A flood of heat goes straight to my clit. I like the idea of his big cock in my mouth. I like it, and I don’t know what to do with this knowledge. With the fact that his cocky attitude ruins mypanties every damn time. What is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome on overdrive?

I grip the handle of my coffee mug so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. “Go ahead, and I’ll bite it off.”

“Oh, baby.” He laughs like I’m a stand-up comedian who just closed the show with her best line. “It’s so much more than a mouthful.”

“Says every guy who’s worried about the size of his cock.”

Priest is still smirking. “I don’t have anything to worry about, and you know it.”

He’s referring to the times I’ve felt that monster dick pressed against me. And he’s not wrong.

But I’m not about to let him get the win.

I shrug. “If you say so, sweetie.”

He goes still. “Did you just fuckingsweetieme?”

Apparently “sweetie” is a step too far for callous, kidnapping Mafia dons. I don’t give a shit.

“Yup,” I say, popping thep. “I think I did.”

And then I take a sip of my coffee finally, finally. Like I don’t have a care in the world. And definitely not like I’m currently at this man’s complete mercy, locked in some kind of underground bunker with no release date in sight.

He makes a sound that I would classify as somewhere between rabid animal and soul-stealing demon. And then he moves. So quickly that I have zero time to react. My coffee cup hits the table, and he’s on me, lifting me out of my chair, hauling my ass onto the edge of the solid marble. He invades my space, palms slammed on either side of my thighs, and lowers his face into mine.

“You aremy wife. You need to learn to show me some fucking respect.”

“Then earn it.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

I bite my lower lip, wondering if that’s an insult or a compliment. I decide it’s a compliment.

“Hashtag Guilty.”

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Say what?”

“Hashtag, like it’s a thing.”

“Itisa thing,” I point out. “It’s a hashtag.”

“But not that people say.”

I raise a brow, all soap-opera style, feeling invincible for absolutely no reason. This man could crush me with a fist, with a word, with a decision.

“I’m notpeople,” I tell him.