Page 11 of Scream (Duchess & Devils #1)

“Oh no,” she mumbles, placing her naked hands on her hips and looking around. She digs into an empty suitcase, which I was sure was full of clothes for every season and the rain. Apparently not. She's looking for something important.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," she mumbles mindlessly, turning to go to the walk-in in search of whatever it is she needs. It's when she looks up and sees me in just my boxer briefs, brushing my teeth, that she seems momentarily stunned by all the tattoos on my body. Her cheeks turn a rose shade.

She looks away. “Is that how you sleep?”

I smirk. “No, I'm usually naked, but this isn't my house. Why? You like what you see?”

She hums in disapproval, finally disappearing into the closet. I spit, rinse, and go back to watching her. She seems determined to find this thing. She kneels, going through her other suitcase.

Nothing. It's empty.

She holds her breath.

Two... three... four.

And out.

There's a light knocking on the door and she turns on her heels to answer, but I beat her to it. I open the damn thing to find her bodyguard standing just outside the threshold. "What do you want?"

Parker looks over my shoulder and finds her standing behind me. "Miss Winters, I have your ah... blanket. I had it washed."

She smiles widely, but it's not like the smiles at dinner. It's full of relief and gratitude. "Thank you, Parker. I thought I forgot it. On the sofa, please."

He nods and tries to take a step inside, but I hold a hand out to take the gray blanket from him. Why? I don't fucking know. All I know is the less he's around my… fiancé, the better.

"Mr. Giordano-"

God I fucking hate that.

"Now you don't even want me to touch your fucking blanket?" I growl, not taking my eyes off Parker.

"No, I don't."

She doesn't meet my gaze, but her thumb taps to each of her fingers, counting them over and over again, then cursing herself when I see she's noticed that I notice.

What is she hiding?

Why is she nervous?

Is it me?

"Fine." I step to the side and allow Parker to walk through the threshold, where he strides to the sofa and neatly places it over the sheets and comforter already there, folding the corner like I assume she likes so she can simply slip into it and fall straight to sleep.

He lowers his voice, and my ears strain to hear, but I can't. Whatever he says causes her cheeks to flush with heat again. Her eyes swiftly dart to me and back. Parker steps around me, leaving and closes the door behind him.

"You know I have to ask now, don't you?"

"You really don't."

"What's with the blanket, Sabrina? "

She shivers at the sound of her name on my lips. Mentally, I pound my chest in pride like a fucking Neanderthal. "I just like my things. Okay?"

I eye the blanket then her, then eye the blanket again. "It's not pink."

"They didn't have it in pink." That's probably the only truth she's told today.

She goes to the bathroom to take out her contacts (another lie - I bet she really does need the glasses).

I go to the pullout before she comes back and notice the blanket is heavy.

I get into the king-size Pepto Bismol bed and make myself comfortable.

She walks back out and heads straight to the sofa bed.

"It's weighted." I state matter-of-factly.

"Yes. Goodnight." She replies, scooting as deep into the middle of the mattress as she can, tugging it around her like a protective barrier, turning on her side, and closing her eyes.

"What's your parents' story?" I ask, turning out the light, and big fucking surprise - she has a pink nightlight in the fucking corner.

I do my best to ignore the agitation building within me.

It's fine. I can pretend it's the city lights of the skyline pouring in through the windows of my penthouse.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, like I'm unaware I shouldn't interrupt a woman when she's trying to sleep. I had a mother. I remember. I'm pretty sure it's included in the fine print of the Geneva Convention or the Ten Commandments.

Thou shalt shut the fuck up when a woman is sleepy and let her rest.

I hear her sigh from where she's curled up under that heavyass blanket.

"Mum and Derek were sweethearts from what Americans call seventh grade until their senior year of high school.

Unfortunately, my mother was arranged to marry my father when she was just twenty.

But the contract had been signed when she was seventeen. "

"I thought the Syndicate didn't allow divorces."

It's quiet for a few heartbeats but then, "When my brother died in a drowning accident, Daddy Dearest no longer had an heir to take his place as a legacy within the Syndicate’s American chapter... so the divorce was granted. She came back here and, well... it took them only three months to get married after the divorce was finalized. Derek was there for us in a way my father wasn’t.

Helped her a lot though the grieving process. "

“Who helped you?” I ask, I close my eyes, willing myself not to think of the hardest loss I ever felt.

My father could die today, and I wouldn't feel his loss half as bad as I did my mother’s.

When she doesn’t reply after a few seconds I simply say, "I'm sorry for your loss. " and it’s actually sincere.

"Yeah, me too." She replies sleepily, soft snores sounding off, letting me know she's out.

It feels like I've barely slept a wink when I wake up to soft whimpers.

They're not harsh or loud or frightening noises. But then I hear a soothing “Shh, Sabrina. You're safe. It's okay.”

I slowly grab my gun from the nightstand, unlock the safety and point the gun at the form looming over her. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” I growl at Parker who ignores me.

I stand and prowl over, gun still pointed at him, but he stays steady, mumbling more calming words as she twitches and then stops, rolling back on her side and he tucks her back in, putting the weighted blanket firmly around her.

He stands to his full height, facing me. Then walks straight into my gun, daring me.

I respect it, I do.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that if you're going to aim a gun at someone, you better mean it?"

"Answer the question and I'll let you fucking go. You and I both know I don't have to use it to kill you."

The soft glow of the nightlight shows when the corner of his lips lift for half a second."She has bad dreams when she doesn't sleep in her bed in Brooklyn Heights. That's all."

I quirk a dark brow. "Bad dreams, huh?"

He raises his chin in response. "A word to the wise?"

I tighten my grip on the gun. "And how do you know so much about her dreams? Huh? You sneak in her bed when she's sleeping?"

His eyes flick to the weapon then back up to my face. "Never mind, then. I'll let you figure it out on your own. For now, she's asleep. Don't touch her."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I grunt.A total lie, because I dream of it a lot. I dream of feeling her thighs squeeze my hips when she comes, what noises she’d make, I dream of feeling her pressed against me, soft lips against mine while I swallow every moan.

I’ll never admit to that, though.

He turns on his heels and goes back the way he came.

"When we're married, she'll be my responsibility." I don't know why the fuck I just said that, but it does stop him in his tracks, fingertips on the doorknob .

He doesn't bother looking over his shoulder at me, just dips his head a little lower, tattoos racing up his neck and into the short dirty blond hair on his skull.

"Be honest with yourself, Giordano - she'll need me more than ever once you're married," he says, opening the door and shuffling out.

The door closes behind him so quietly that there's not even a soft 'click . '

I sit my ass on the edge of the mattress, putting the gun back in its place, then resting my elbows on my knees, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Fuck.