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Oh, god.
“I asked you, how’s the food?”
My dark gray bubble bursts, and I come crashing back down to reality.
“Uh, awful,” I mutter, my taste buds finally deciding to communicate with my brain. Sourness fills my throat, and I grab a cup of water and swig from it. “Really fucking awful.”
His hand feels heavy now, like an iron bar clamping me to the table. It’s hot in here, too fucking hot, and his chuckle is filling my ears so much that it fills like I’m drowning in it. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I croak, yanking my leg out of his grip. His hand lingers, but eventually, he lets it fall, watching me wordlessly as I stagger past him.
Breathe, Romy. Just fucking breathe.
What in the hell is happening to me? My legs are weightless as I float through the living space and into the bathroom at the bottom of the hall.
Within the four walls and away from the Devil, my heart rate begins to slow. I lean my palms against the sink and stare bleary-eyed at myself in the mirror.
Remember who you are.
My eyes drop to the hairline crack in the glass.
Remember the plan.
I throw my head back, staring at the ceiling tiles. Am I really going to do this? It seemed like such a good idea—the only idea—just a few hours ago. I conjured it up with a cackle and a smirk, excitement brewing in my bones.
But the imprint of his hand is branded into my thigh, like the mark of a show horse. And now…
“Fuck,” I hiss to myself, curling my hands into sweaty fists.
I needed to escape to make contact with the outside world.
Now, I need to escape before I slip under the Devil’s spell.
Switching my brain onto autopilot, I push against the corner of the glass. An edge pops out just enough for me to scrape my nails underneath it and pry it out. I hold it up to the light like it’s the Holy Grail, and in return, it taunts me as if to ask, are you really going to go through with this?
Yes.
And it’ll all be over sooner than I hoped.
Leaving the bathroom, I’m buzzing off newfound adrenaline.
It vibrates through my body, powering my feet forward.
Maybe it’s the desperate thud, thud, thud of my steps. Maybe it’s because men like Donnacha Quinn have a fine-tuned instinct for danger, but the moment I round into the dining area, he stiffens.
I’m quick, lifting my shank and aiming for his neck.
But I’m not quick enough.
The dining room spins in shades of white, and when it slows to a stop, my cheek is pressed against the tablecloth, my body pinned between it and the Devil’s heavy mass.
“I should have known you weren’t the type of girl to play happy families,” he hisses, his venomous breath dancing on my neck. My arm is splayed awkwardly against the table. He squeezes my wrist, forcing me to drop my weapon with a pathetic clunk.
“You know nothing about me,” I rasp.
“I know that you were trying to kill me,” he snarls. His voice is an octave lower than usual, his chest vibrating against my shoulder blades. I feel him pause and shift his weight so that his steel-like thigh parts my legs. “But I also know you don’t do well when faced with a dead body,” he muses, grazing his lips over the flesh of my neck. The goose bumps this creates are nothing but a bodily instinct. Not a reflection of how I feel. At all. Gah. “So, were you really trying to kill me, sweetheart, or were you trying to get this reaction out of me?”
“Let me take a free shot at your jugular, and then you can ask me that question again,” I spit, wriggling under his weight. He presses his hip bones harder into my ass. His chuckle is a million degrees colder than before. Out of my peripheral vision, I can see his thick hand creep across the tablecloth and pick up my shank. It glints as he slides it past me and out of view.
Suddenly, the point presses into my neck.
