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Romy
What choice do I have but to let the Devil in?
I do it with caution. Hand curled around the brass knob, safety chain still on, I crack open the door a couple of inches, leaving me just enough room to assess what’s on the other side.
The sight makes me recoil, and in my fear-fueled haze, I can’t immediately put my finger on why.
A man. A very large man with a black beard and wolf-like eyes. Those eyes graze over me scorchingly slow. And it’s under the heat of his gaze that I realize what’s off about him.
It’s his grin.
A demonic grin that splits his face in two with a row of Hollywood-worthy whites. It doesn’t belong here in my own personal hell.
It’s him who slices the silence.
“Cleanup in Room 368?” he says with an easy drawl. Eyes never leaving mine, he props his elbow against the doorframe and leans his weight into it.
“No, everything’s fine.” My voice is small, pathetic. My words unconvincing. “We’re fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “We?”
“Y-Yes,” I say, confidence edging its way back into my voice. Maybe I can make him go away. “My friend and I. We’re fine.” I follow his eyes to my fingers, curled around the edge of the door. They are stained with blood, smearing the oak panel. “Oh, that. Yeah. Just a small accident. It looks worse than it is.”
The speed at which his grin melts into a thunderous scowl snatches my breath away. He stoops, nose almost brushing mine. “The one thing I hate more than a liar is a bad liar,” he growls, low and dangerous. “Now, let me in.”
Shock, more than anything, makes me slide off the safety chain and step aside, letting the Devil in.
If you let him in…
His eyes linger heavy on mine for a few more seconds before he strides past me and into the center of the suite. I slam the door shut and press my back against it, watching him slowly pivot his body, silently absorbing the mess I’ve made for myself.
I hate that, even with blood dripping from my hands and my future hanging in the balance, I can’t help but think how gorgeous the Devil is. He’s a mountain in both stature and presence, and despite the chaos that surrounds him, I can’t take my eyes off him. His expensive-looking suit clings to each angle of his enormous frame, just like his beard hugs the sharp lines of his jaw. His hair, only a fraction lighter, hangs in thick waves, and as he studies the body on the bed, he rakes his large fingers through it. The way he moves, the way he holds himself. You don’t see men like him on the streets of New York City, hailing a cab or waiting in line at Starbucks.
He takes his time, plucking out the red silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. Then he swipes it over the desk before perching on the edge of it.
Clasping his hands in his lap, he eventually tilts his head up to me. We lock eyes.
“You’re naked.”
Fuck.It’s a knee-jerk reaction to fling my arms over my chest and lower stomach. My cheeks burn with shame. I scan the suite for something to shove on.
The mystery man picks up a pen from the pot on the desk and uses it to lift a towel slung over the armchair. With a smirk, he dangles it in front of me. I snatch it from him and turn away to wrap it around my trembling body.
When I turn back around, he’s studying the man on the bed again.
“Bite marks on his neck. Scratch marks down his arms and back.” He pauses for effect, dragging a knuckle through his beard. “Either you fuck like an animal, or he really pissed you off. Which one is it?” I don’t reply. He cocks his head, eyes tracing my face as his lip curls into a smirk. “Who is he?”
I pause. “A client.”
His smirk hardens. “A client?” he repeats. I’m not sure if he believes me or if he even cares.
“Why are you here?” I croak.
He drags his attention away from the bloodied body and back to me. “What if I told you I could make this all go away?”
I release the stale air in my lungs and turn to face the window, clutching the cotton fabric of the towel close to my body. The storm shows no sign of letting up, the black clouds snaking between the skyscrapers, releasing their wrath on the streets below us. Breathe, Romy. Breathe.
I’ve weathered worse storms, and I’ve weathered them alone. I don’t rely on anybody, especially not strange, handsome men who find my predicament amusing.
