Page 24

Chapter 23

My Biggest Weakness. My Worst Enemy

Jemma

I was such an idiot.

I’d let myself get carried away with these funny feelings I was having for him. I’d almost forgotten that I was on a mission to seduce him tonight. He was being so nice, and asking me about my past, and acting as if he cared about my future … I’d forgotten this was war and not an actual date with a human man who I was wildly attracted to.

And here was the reality check, come to smack me right in the face.

He’d really stepped up his torture game. This was underhanded and mean, and … it was so strange, because a little voice in the back of my head kept insisting that this was out of character for him.

Pfft! He was the Son of Satan. Set to be the next Head Honcho of Hell. This was child’s play for him, most likely. And I was about to get a very uncomfortable reminder of that.

The trolley rolled over to the table, and I could already feel my stomach cramping. This was not the standard antipasti of a five-course Italian feast. There were no plates of cheese and meat and olives and all the other delicious things that were safe for me to eat.

Oh, those items were all there. Melted onto big, thick slabs of crusty white bread. Scrumptious white bread. Glutinous white bread. My biggest weakness. My worst enemy.

Alessio placed a plate with three large, bready slices in front of me, and then another in front of SJ.

“ Buon appetito ! I’ll return with your second course in a little while.”

When the door closed behind the man, I narrowed my eyes at the big, beastly … gallingly beautiful blond across the table.

“Let me guess.” I lifted one of the melts, eyeing him over the top of it. “In order to win tonight, I need to get through this entire meal. Eat everything on my plate. Am I right?”

He didn’t respond, his eyes dropping to his own plate.

“Am I right, Satan Junior?” My voice was sharp, and he lifted his face to mine. He smirked, but it seemed pasted on. His eyes were the opposite of smiling. He looked like he was in pain.

Good! Because by the end of the night, I was going to be in pain, too. So much pain. I stifled a wince at the thought of it.

He seemed to rally himself, lifting his own food to his mouth. “Tonight, Mouse, you need to enjoy a five-course meal with me. And when people enjoy their food, they tend to finish it, do they not?”

“You know,” I mused, lifting one of the melts and eyeing him over the top of it. “What I like about you, compared to other … men … I’ve known, is that after you tricked me into this whole FiendPay scheme, you’ve been very upfront. You told me to expect four tasks, at your discretion, and you’re clearly committing to your bit.”

I took a bite of the melt and wanted to moan at how good the bread was, but I also wanted to cry, because I knew exactly how tonight was going to go down. And it was going to be from my worst nightmares.

But it was the lesser of two evils compared to not finishing this task. I swallowed the mouthful.

“It would have been nice if I’d gotten a little heads-up on your specific plans for tonight. I probably wouldn’t have worn this dress if I’d known the details.”

“Why not?” he asked, his eyes skating over me in a way I should have hated … but I really didn’t. “You’re so beautiful … in the dress, I mean. You look beautiful in the dress.”

I bared my teeth viciously. “Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t wear this dress for any old guy … and it seems that while you are absolutely not ‘any old guy’ … you’re not the guy who deserves me in this dress.”

He certainly wasn’t the guy I had been plotting (and stupidly hoping) would be peeling me out of this dress later tonight. I would be in no state for anything sexy after this meal … and after this stunt, I shouldn’t be interested in him in that way at all!

His expression turned bitter, and he took an angry bite of his own melt, the provolone cheese oozing off the bread. I watched his eyes slide closed for a brief second. Okay, so maybe I was still the teeniest bit interested in him in that way … stupid hormones!

“This is delicious!” he mumbled around another mouthful. I grunted, taking another bite myself.

Yes, it was delicious.

It was also poison to me.

But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. All I had to do was make it through the dinner before any symptoms appeared. And hadn’t Joe reminded me the other week that it had been years since I’d eaten gluten? Maybe my body wouldn’t rebel against it as viciously as it had in the past.

* * *

Joe was definitely wrong. I clenched my teeth through the pain of another stomach cramp. This was just as bad as it had been before I knew I was allergic to gluten.

Actually, it was so much worse. These pains were much stronger than what I remembered. And I couldn’t recall them ever having started so soon after eating an offending food.

Yet here I was, forcing another forkful of pasta into my mouth. I imagined I was in the same sort of zone that a competitive eater went into, a gobbling trance, just to get the food into my belly as fast as possible.

I figured the quicker I finished, the sooner this ‘date’ would be over, and I could go home and be miserably, violently unwell, safe in the privacy of my own apartment.

But my stomach was not playing fair.

“I find myself … enraptured by this novel food source,” SJ remarked, twirling his fork expertly in the pasta. He’d figured that trick out far too quickly for my liking. Then again, everything he was doing tonight was annoying to me. The rotten jerk! Enjoying his beautifully cooked pasta with no painful side effects.

“In Hell, we mostly eat roasted meats. Goat is my sister’s favourite.” The expression on his face told me that he was not a fan of goat. But apparently he was a fan of linguine puttanesca.

“I wish you’d taken me to Hell for dinner and fed me goat instead of this,” I muttered, forking up yet another bite. Why did my plate seem like it wasn’t getting any emptier?

“What was that, Mouse?” he asked, setting his fork down, dabbing at his mouth and reaching for his wine glass—red now to complement the dish.

“Did you do some tricky devil magic on my food?” I asked instead, then bit the inside of my mouth to keep from groaning as another spasming cramp clawed at my insides, this time accompanied by a wave of rolling nausea that had my mouth getting that sticky feeling that told me I was not far off vomiting.

He watched me, his face inscrutable. “I … no. Why?”

“I can’t seem to make a dent in this pasta,” I snarled, the pain making me cranky. His trickery making me cranky. The ruination of a ‘date’ that could have actually been quite pleasant if it wasn’t part of a scheme to torture me and steal my soul. That made me extra cranky.

“Are you feeling a bit full?” he asked, frowning. “Maybe a little bloated?”

“Oh my God!” I snapped. “You’re the absolute worst!”

He set down his fork, his brows furrowing. “You’ve gone quite pale, Mouse, I?—”

“Don’t you dare call me Mouse right now.” I shovelled another mouthful in, chewing furiously. And then another, and another. I was going to finish this plate, and then I was going to excuse myself to freshen up, empty my stomach, and hopefully be ready for another round.

There was no alternative. I had to complete this task. I had to win this challenge.

Another bite, and another, and there were maybe three mouthfuls left on my plate when I realised that I simply wasn’t going to make it until the end.

“Is there a … a bathroom?” I gasped, standing up, pressing two fingers to my mouth. “I need to … freshen up.”

He stood, immediately taking me by the elbow. “Come, let’s find one.”

I shook him off, but the pain rippled through me again, and I couldn’t stifle the moan this time.

“Mouse—Jemma … what’s wrong?” His voice was filled with concern.

“As if you don’t know!” I hissed, clutching my stomach. He reached for me again, but I shoved him away, racing for the door. It opened into a long walkway that overlooked the main floor of the restaurant. Down there it was buzzing with happy diners. Thankfully none of them even glanced upwards as I staggered along the walkway, one hand pressed to my aching stomach, the other clamped over my mouth. Finally I spotted a toilet sign and, almost whimpering in relief, I flung myself through the door.

There was no time to lock it. I wasn’t sure I’d even make it to the toilet on the far wall. I fell to my knees, crawling, finding the bowl, tugging myself closer, just in time for the meal to come hurtling back out of me.

I heaved, and cried, and hiccupped, and vomited again. And again. And again. My skin felt clammy, my head ached, and the pain just wouldn’t stop!

“Jemma, are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” I lied and vomited again. Nothing much was coming out now, but my stomach seemed intent on trying to expel itself from my body through my mouth.

“I’m coming in!”

“No!” I protested, but my throat was scratchy and stinging, and my mouth felt swollen.

“You’re obviously unwell. Please, let me help you.” His voice was shaking. Was he laughing at me?

“Go away! I’m fine, I just … I need a moment, and then I’ll be back to finish the—” I vomited again.

The door opened.

“Get out! This is private!” I protested. And heaved again. Nothing came out.

Warmth bloomed behind me, his breath on the back of my neck.

“I will not leave. You’re sick, Mouse.”

I had no voice left to protest his use of that damned nickname or to question why he sounded so agonised over this. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d planned? To ensure I couldn’t possibly win this task because my stupid body hated me and hated gluten more.

And then his warm hands were gently drawing strands of hair away from my face, and a cup of water was handed to me. I sipped at it, my stomach so tender from all the retching. I gagged, and I was over the bowl again, the water coming straight back up.

“Have you … are you poisoned by the food? That can sometimes happen to humans, can it not?” His fingers fluttered over my bare back. “Please, Jemma, tell me how I can help you!”

“You’ve already done enough,” I grated, sipping some water, rinsing my mouth and spitting into the toilet rather than swallowing—my stomach couldn’t handle anything just yet. “I just … I need a little while, and then I’ll be fine to continue the meal.”

My stomach chose that exact moment to cramp so painfully that I cried out, doubling over. And then I was scooped up, cradled in his arms. His warmth was annoyingly soothing. I didn’t want to be soothed by him. I wanted to finish his stupid task, even if it hospitalised me.

He wasn’t going to win. I wouldn’t let him.

“You are not eating more. You’ve clearly had something that hasn’t agreed with you.”

Fury burned away some of the nausea, and I twisted in his arms until I could glare up at him. “Are you kidding me right now? Of course I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me—you made it impossible for me to avoid it!”

His face paled, his lips parting on a shocked inhale. “This is … is this because of your gluten intolerance?”

I huffed. “Don’t pretend this wasn’t your aim. Make me so sick that I couldn’t possibly complete your sadistic task.” I sucked in air, refusing to cry out again as another bout of cramping struck me … lower down this time.

“Seriously, SJ, you need to leave. All that ‘delicious’ food? It’s about to start coming out the other end of me, and you are absolutely not invited to that party!”

“We’re going.” His voice brooked no argument. “I’m taking you home.”

“No!” I cried, even as my abdomen clenched again. “I might be about to crap myself, but I am not done with this crappy task of yours!”

But he ignored me, getting to his feet with me cradled in his arms as if I weighed nothing at all. With a wave of his hands, a portal opened in front of us, and I had no energy to fight him off as he stepped through with me in tow.