Page 41 of The Devil’s Feather

An incredulous laugh bubbled out of my throat. “You’re covered in bruises, and you’re asking if you were too rough on me? You really do have a super high pain tolerance. No, you were perfect. Amazing. Right at the edge of what I can handle.” I struggled to sit up. “What do you need now, other than water and probably some NSAIDs?”

“Will you draw a bath for me?” he asked quietly, almost humbly.

I kissed his mouth and scrambled to my feet. “Of course!”

My legs wobbled. Not so easy to walk when you’ve just been fisted by a giant and you’re sore as fuck.

Rafael followed slowly as I opened the taps in the clawfoot tub. Pressing on the edge of one of the Deco mirrors revealed a medicine cabinet. He selected a few bottles of things labeled in various languages and poured some into the filling tub. They opalized the bath in milky swirls.

I patted his arm. “You ok? I’m going to get some water for us.”

“I am…excellent.” He gave me a weary smile. “Thank you. Far beyond my expectations.”

I pulled his face down to me and kissed his temple.

It couldn’t be that hard to make Turkish coffee. All I needed was the cezve pot, ground coffee, water, and heat, right? I opened half the cabinets in the massive kitchen before I finally found the coffee supplies. Water warmed on the fancy Viking stove while I searched for coffee cups in the other half. Finally, I climbed up on the labradorite countertop, praying I wouldn’t crack it, and discovered the cups at a height that only made sense for the seven-foot-two giraffe who lived there.

With my tray all arranged, I balanced it carefully back to the bathroom and tapped at the door. “Rafael? May I come in?”

“Mm, yes.”

He sprawled in the bath, feet propped on the far edge of the tub. Whatever he’d added to the water smelled slightly medicinal and obscured his body beneath the surface. Bruises striped his chest and under his arms.

“Ok, Geralt. I brought you water and some coffee, and snacks too.”

Rafael turned his head, lazily cracking open an eye. Spying the coffee on the tray, he sat up, sloshing water over the side.

“Canımın içi, you made Turkish coffee?”

“I tried.” I pulled over a small brass table and set the tray on it. “What does that mean, djuh-nuh-mun eh-cheh?”

He winced at my atrocious pronunciation. “‘Inside of my life’, literally. Means like ‘soul of my soul’.”

My heart fluttered to the ceiling. “That’s beautiful!”

Rafael brought the cup to his lips, sipped, and froze. His eyes lit on my face without moving another muscle.

I smiled nervously. “Is it terrible?”

The corners of his mouth crept upward in a rueful smile.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.”

Silent mirth built until it spilled over. He laughed, setting the cup down with exaggerated care. “It is quite possibly the worst coffee I have ever tasted, but I love you for it. Please, I will show you the correct way next time.”

1 “Hurt You” by Spiritbox

11

IF I WAS A ZOMBIE, I’D EAT YOU FIRST

Monday morning galloped in way too fast. Just as well; a director got in touch with Rafael to schedule a meeting for a new movie score. He’d leave for LA in the afternoon and stay until Thursday. I crowbarred myself out of his bed and slugged down the peninsula to the office, fueled by excellent coffee that I most certainly did not make.

My heart wasn’t in it. Coworkers repeated questions. I kept transposing numbers. All I could think about was Rafael Nazim chained and coming in his pants on my command. Fisting me on the floor. Saying he loved me and never wanted me to leave.

In a daze, I drifted around a corner, and a group of execs nearly trampled me. A tall, blonde, tanned beauty dressed in expensive, boring beige spearheaded the brigade—none other than Molly Lively. There’d been rumblings about a buyout from Extruda, and she supposedly played some role in it.

Molly’s perfectly made-up eyes scraped over and dismissed me as beneath her. Her perfume lingered as she passed: something floral and sweet. Lavender?