Page 92 of Brutal Devil

“Mine,” I tell her, rubbing myself into her skin. “Never forget it, Luna.”

“If I’m yours, then you’re mine,” she murmurs.

And I’ve never heard anything better.

Even if she won’t mean it later, when the postcoital bliss wears off.

Because, like it or not, Luna Andriani belongs to me.

And she always will.

Chapter 22

LUNA

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck?

I blink myself awake, aware that I’m naked in bed, my body thoroughly sated from the utter insanity that went on the night before, and that I once again caved to my massive weakness for the sexy asshole I was forced to marry.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As usual, I’m alone. Priest’s side of the bed is empty. Instantly, it strikes me.

He has a side of the bed.

Without my realizing it, we’ve established a routine that’s not all that different from regular married couples. And when he’s gone, I miss him. Which is why I’m rolling over onto my belly and burying my face in his pillow right now. His scent lingers—citrus and pine.

Instantly annoyed with myself for my weakness, I climb out of the bed. It’s official. I’m an idiot. I’ve never been this destroyed by a man before. Why does it have to be him?

I head to the shower, crank it to as hot as I can stand, and spend way too much time hiding from what awaits me when I step out of the room. I soap myself up, shampoo my hair, and then I linger in the steam, back pressed to the slippery marble wall.

I tell myself this is temporary and that the feelings burning inside me are some kind of psychological response to the trauma I’ve experienced. If I could see a therapist, I’m sure she would explain it all. But psychology wasn’t my major, and unfortunately, almost achieving an MFA in Creative Writing didn’t equip me for being forced into an arranged marriage with a hot gangster who moonlights as a sex god.

I’m so screwed.

So in over my head.

When I decide I can’t keep hiding in the shower, I finally turn it off and emerge. As I towel myself off and head back into the bedroom, I discover a tidy pile of my clothes, folded neatly on one of the dressers.

Apparently, more of my things have arrived, courtesy of the thugs who raided my apartment in Iowa. I still hate the thought of them going through my private space and dismantling the little world I created for myself. But I am glad to finally have something to wear beyond the handful of outfits—mostly pajamas—that I stuffed into my carry-on when I left.

I settle on a lacy black thong with matching bra and a red poplin dress that’s equal parts cute and comfy. I let my hair down and then, barefoot, leave my gilded cage. But I can only fly so far, of course. I’m still locked in the safe house, even if I now am allowed free rein.

The kitchen is empty. I spy a note on the counter, settled atop a stack of journals and pens.

Luna,

Breakfast is in the fridge. These are for you. We’ll be back by 5.

M

I realize three things in rapid succession. First, Priest signed the note M for Matteo. It feels somehow more intimate. Second, he brought me writing implements. The pens are my favorite kind, fine and felt-tip. I could fall in love with him for all these blank pages. And third, I’m alone.