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That thought hurt more than it should have.
I was struck by the impulse to rebel, to push my luck and engage him further. I wanted to see if he’d reveal his opinions of me and where we stood with each other.
Or maybe I had a death wish.
Maybe both reasons were at play as the internal war waged between the girl I was, the monster I was forced to become, and the woman I could never be.
I held out my hand, insisting on its steadiness. “I’m Willa.” I batted my lashes. “You must be my future brother-in-law.”
His strong hand swallowed mine whole, the contact shattering my brief resolve. The callused skin riddled with cuts, both aged and fresh, felt ... calming ... grounding. I’d once known a similar set of hands whose appearance also told a story of violence, but they’d only ever shown me love and gentleness.
Da . . .
An invisible warmth swaddled me from head to toe.
“Lucifer.” His name had barely fallen from his lips when he released me. “You should go to your room,” he added, his eyes hardening.
I’d been dismissed. Emotion burned my throat.
Without making eye contact or so much as bidding him good night, I turned to escape to the illusionary privacy of my bedroom.
In one interaction, I’d been reminded that the devil wasn’t an angel disguised in a red cape and horns.
He was danger veiled in temptation.
A Flynn.
My enemy.
In the end, it would be for the best.
Willa
“Where’s Lucifer?” Raphael’s tone had turned sharp somewhere between Liam’s arrival and discussing Boston’s dismal weather with Cillian.
I shoved a mouthful of Irish eggs Benny in my mouth and tried to focus on the salty taste of corned beef. Perhaps it would help me to ignore the fact that against my better judgment, I too had woken up curious about how the stupid devil spent his mornings.
Morbid intrigue—it was the only logical explanation.
Had it been naive of me to believe that Lucifer would remember little Willa Callahan from Allston, with her big guileless blue eyes, who wanted to be Taylor Swift when she grew up? The Willa who’d believed her father was the strongest, bravest man alive and would always be there to protect her from the monsters? The Willa who’d believed that her mother was a real-life Barbie doll with a contagious laugh and bad taste in music?
Apparently so.
Last night, Lucifer destroyed the decade-long daydream. The one man who’d risked his life to stand against his own family trying to protect her father couldn’t even acknowledge her existence. He’d forced the real Willa to show up, all her damaged parts clicking back into alignment and replacing what once was and could never be.
Liam slid into the seat across from me at the breakfast nook. The guard with the rugged good looks offered me a polite nod. “Morin’, Mrs. Brennan.”
Forgetting myself, I replied, “It’s Willa. The Mr. to my Mrs. is pushing up shamrocks these days.”
Cillian’s hand shot out. His viselike grip clamped around my arm, and I gave a pained gasp. My perfectly rehearsed facade had slipped, and he’d make me pay for it. “Ye won’t speak that way again if ye know what’s good for ye, cunt.”
I blinked back the sting of tears and the death glare I wanted to give my brother-in-law. Instead, I resorted to my default expression: meek widow. “I apologize. I was out of line.”
Raphael cleared his throat.
Cillian’s grip loosened. His narrow gaze slid to Raphael, who folded his napkin, placed it on the table, then set his dining knife on top for all to see.
Raphael glowered at Cillian. “If you lay a fucking hand on my fiancée again—I will cut off each of your ten fingers and shove them up your asshole—you fucking cunt. Ye got me?”
