Page 79 of Brutal Devil

I shiver, thinking about what Priest told me about his cousin and his crew, how they were found with signs of torture. They’d had their tongues and eyes cut out, he’d said. And how there had been a note on their bodies saying I was next.

The thought of staying in this underground bunker for much longer, deprived of sunlight and fresh air and my phone and the outside world, is enough to induce another panic attack.

“I can’t stay here like this,” I say. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home now. With Priest.”

I huff out a sigh. “But he’s not here, is he? He’s always somewhere else, while I’m stuck in purgatory, not knowing what’s going on or if he’ll even come back.”

It’s enough to make any sane woman lose her mind.

No wonder I keep checking out whenever Priest touches me. My body is desperately craving a release from here, and the only way I can achieve that right now is through pleasure. That has to be why I keep falling back into bed with him, regardless of how determined I am to keep my distance and treat this marriage like the sham it is.

“He’s the don,” Saint says as if this fact excuses Priest in every way. “He’s a busy man, and right now, he’s burning the candle at both ends trying to do everything he can to get you out of here.”

He makes Priest sound almost noble. Ever since last night, Saint has been waging a campaign to persuade me that his brother isn’t as much of a monster as I think he is. It’s not goingto work, regardless of how much I happen to melt whenever I’m in his brother’s arms.

“He could let me out of here right now,” I argue, annoyed with myself and my weakness for the man I’ve been forced to marry. “I could head to the airport and fly back to my life, and no one would ever know.”

Saint shakes his head, looking at me like I’m a child and he’s about to tell me that Santa isn’t real. “You’d be a dead woman walking. Whoever did this is sending a message, and it’s a serious one. You can’t just go back to writing smut books in Cabot Cove and bury your head in the sand.”

I narrow my eyes at him, wondering if he’s being serious. There’s not a hint of humor in his face.

“Your obscure eighties show reference is wrong.”

He doesn’t even crack a smile. “It was also on in the nineties.”

“Did you watch it when you were a baby?”

“I’ve never watched it. Jesus, what do you think I am, someone who sits around binge-watching old chick shows?”

I bite my lip, because I’m sure he’s fucking with me now. And because the idea of Saint secretly bingeing episodes of Angela Lansbury onMurder, She Wroteis all kinds of fucked up and hilarious.

“Also, Jessica Fletcher wrote mysteries, not romance novels,” I point out.

He grins. “Oh yeah? Guess I got that part wrong.”

It’s then that I realize heismessing with me. I’m not sure how much of what he’s said is true and what’s not. But Saint has also brought my heart rate and breathing back down to normal, all by distracting me in his own weird way.

A companionable silence descends, and then my stomach growls.

I flatten my palm over it. “Is there any food in this place?”

“Fuck,” he rumbles, standing back up. “Priest’s going to be pissed if I let you starve.ZiaMaria’s lasagna is in the fridge. I can warm some up for you.”

“Sounds good. Your aunt’s cooking is fire.”

“Zia’s the best,” he agrees, ambling to the fridge and taking out a silver tray of lasagna.

I can get it myself, but he seems fully capable. Besides, I’m the one being held here against my will.

“ZiaMaria is your father’s sister?” I guess, trying to make small talk.

“She is.” He cuts a square of lasagna that looks big enough to feed three people.

“A smaller piece would be fine,” I say politely.

“Eh, you need some meat on your bones.” He plops it onto a plate and carries it over to the microwave.