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All me.
The lines in Lucifer’s face deepened. “You believe their intent was to kill you—aye?”
“Aye.”
“Not kidnap you?”
I shook my head.
The tendons in his neck flexed. “Cillian didn’t—”
“He did not.”
Rape. Had Cillian raped me? That is what Lucifer was going to ask—but I’d saved us both the trauma of considering what could have been.
“They found you unconscious outside the gates.” Lucifer always returned to this curious detail. It was the moment where my memories sputtered.
“I don’t remember anything after the foyer.”
Lucifer’s concerned expression lingered. He was still dissecting information to determine if the Brennans had help other than Grifin.
The rat had given them intel and access to the Flynn armory, but did the Brennans have the support of another stateside organization?
Lucifer wouldn’t rest until he’d answered that question.
The Flynns and the Brennans were engaged in one of those fucked-up Mob scenarios where opposing families each had justifiable cause for retaliation, but it wasn’t necessarily the next best move.
There had been an attempt on the life of the boss’s wife. But the Brennans’ dead heir count had doubled.
Would it be called a stalemate? Not if I knew my husband.
But he wouldn’t strike until he’d taken full measure of his prey.
Lucifer threaded our fingers and guided me back to the Range Rover. As we climbed into the backseat, I knew this story was far from over.
The safe house wasn’t as grand as the mansion, but what it lacked in extravagance, it more than made up for in nostalgia.
I felt like I’d stepped into a time machine when we arrived three days ago. The Beacon Street brownstone was a carbon copy of Da’s old apartment.
Hiding in plain sight, a mobster’s how-to guide.
I shimmied my way into the narrow shower, then wrapped my arms around Lucifer and pressed my naked breasts to his back.
He was clean and slick and smelled like cypress and cedarwood. My fingers parted the curls on his chest as a groan rumbled up from its depths.
“Good morning,” I murmured, trailing soft kisses across his tattoo.
Was my husband a fallen angel? Not even a wee bit.
Lucifer peeled my hands away. He took a moment to press his lips to the inside of each wrist before releasing me.
Our lives were suspended in a state of tribulation, but the energy that simmered between us was unparalleled bliss.
He spun around. His dashing grin was already in place.
“Don’t get any ideas, nymph,” he warned, but the glint in his emerald stare said something else. “Doctor’s orders.”
Okay, maybe bliss had been too strong a word.
