Chapter 14
LUNA
What the fuck have I done?
Oh, that’s right. I’ve fucked Priest.
That’s what I’ve done.
It’s so mind-bendingly stupid that I can’t even wrap my head around what happened in that casino viewing room.
During the walk of shame I take back to my prison, I blame it on my ovaries.
On the fact that I’m skating closer to that time of the month and my libido is raging out of control as usual.
I blame it on Priest’s cologne. On that fucking shirt that showcases his tatted, muscled arms. On the wine. On his tongue.
On his finger.
OM-effing-G, his finger. In my ass. And I liked it.
I liked what he did to me, what he said to me. The way he took control. The way he dribbled wine all over me and then licked it off. The way he fucked me, standing up, against a glass wall, while hundreds of unsuspecting people made him richer below.
Fuck my life. I’m not even on birth control.
I dodged the appointment for my last shot because I’d been having really bad migraines and I was trying to narrow down the source.
As it happened, the headaches stopped with the shots.
I let them lapse because I was single. I had no intention of sleeping with anyone; I was focused on my thesis and the last year of my MFA.
I wasn’t thinking about the potential complications that could arise from stopping the shots and not taking any additional steps to be safe.
All of which means I could have a gangster baby on board.
Right. Fucking. Now .
I feel like I may pass out.
The urge to whip out my phone and text Isla hits me, and I’m slipping a hand inside my pocket before I remember I have no phone. Well, I do. But it’s no longer in my possession.
Everything is a blur until we reach the elevator that brought us up from the bowels of his safe house.
Sleek doors greet us, along with a pad for his thumbprint and a retinal scanner.
The doors are flanked by two armed guards who are careful not to make eye contact.
There are cameras overhead, following our every step.
Security is tight.
No one is going to get into the safe house who doesn’t belong there.
“Good evening, Mr. Andriani,” says one of the guards as we wait for the elevator to zoom to our floor.
I can hear it whirring, coming closer.
“It is a good evening now, Joey,” Priest says, sounding more chipper than I’ve ever heard.
And then he presses a possessive palm to my lower back as if to make it clear, in case my sex hair and rumpled clothes aren’t an indication, that he just fucked me in the observation room.
I want to crawl into a hole. No, I want to crawl into a bed and pull the covers up and not come out for a week.
Not just any bed. My bed. The bed I left in my apartment in Iowa.
Now that my mortification’s complete, the doors open with a ding to reveal the cavernous private elevator with its mirrored walls, gilt sconces, chandelier, and marble floor.
It looks like something out of the Palace of Versailles.
“Tell your uncle Giuseppe I send my regards,” Priest adds, sweeping me into the elevator.
“Thanks, boss. He’ll be happy to hear it.”
I half expect the guard to give Priest a salute, but he doesn’t. Just turns back to his station like the cold killing machine he’s designed to be.
The elevator doors close, and I move to the opposite side, keenly aware of Priest’s nearness and of the fact that he smells like mouthwatering cologne and sex and that his come is still inside me.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem. I was caught up in the moment, allowing my body to rule over my brain.
Stupid, stupid Luna.
“Something wrong?” Priest asks quietly after he punches in a code he doesn’t allow me to see and the elevator jolts into seamless motion, taking us into the belly of this beast.
Yes. I just fucked the enemy.
I can’t tell him that, though.
“You may as well have made an announcement about what happened in the observation room,” I snap instead.
“All they had to do was take one look at you to know exactly what we’ve been doing for the last hour, which is exactly what everyone expects newlyweds to be doing.”
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling defensive because I gave in too easily. “The last hour? Try fifteen minutes, tops. And we’re not newlyweds. We’re soon-to-be-divorcees.”
He chuckles and rubs his stubbled jaw. Priest looks way too damn good in a white shirt and jeans.
“What’s so funny?” I demand when he doesn’t say anything.
“You.”
“You’re laughing at me after you…after we…” I wave my arm wildly in the general direction of the scene of my crime and then start looking for a weapon.
My feet are bare, so that won’t be an option.
“Looking for something to bludgeon me with, baby?” He grins, and it’s sexy and devastating, and I want to throw myself at him and kiss him, but I also want to smack his handsome face for making me surrender. “This is why I haven’t given you shoes yet, yeah?”
With a sound that’s embarrassingly animalistic, I launch myself at him. But it’s the rough equivalent of a kitten charging a bull. He catches me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me to hold me there.
I hate him and I want him and this is so fucking confusing.
I’m also emotional. About to cry, tears pricking my eyes. I blink furiously, trying to clear them before they fall.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I manage tightly.
“Hey.” He catches my chin in his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his.
“I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at how adorably stubborn you are.
You can’t bear to accept what just happened between us, how bad you wanted it.
You can’t even say it.” He pauses, his look shifting, going curious. “Fuck. You weren’t a virgin, were you?”
I think of my high-school boyfriend and the sweet, furtive fumbling in the back seat after prom. Then the college boyfriend who lasted until someone better came along.
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s just been a while.”
“No one since the asshole who made it to the NHL?” he asks.
He’s talking about Jackson, my college boyfriend who dumped me for a puck bunny after he led the team to a championship, and who—last I heard—plays for the Baltimore Blades in the NHL and is dating a very famous pop singer.
My mouth falls open with shock in the same moment the elevator doors open. “How do you know about that?”
His cruel mouth kicks up in a half grin. “I make it my business to know everything there is to know about you.”
“Exes I haven’t seen in years?”
“Social media, topolina . It’s painfully easy to find out almost anything.”
“You two lovebirds going to come out of the elevator, or do you need a minute?” intrudes a familiar voice.
With a jolt, I turn to see we have an audience. Saint is standing there, watching us with undisguised curiosity. His nose looks better. It’s not even crooked. I do regret headbutting him, but not taking the chance to escape, even if I failed.
I jerk myself out of Priest’s arms, my face on fire, and glare at his evil brother as I march off the elevator. “We’re not lovebirds.”
“Didn’t look that way to me, Jessica Fletcher.”
“Do I look like an elderly Maine mystery writer to you?” I demand, throwing up my hands.
“Aw, shit. I think I meant that other one.” He scratches his chin, the intricate ink on his fingers dancing. “The one who writes the romance books they made into movies with Dakota Fanning.”
I shake my head at him. “Oh my God. It’s Dakota Johnson in the Fifty Shades of Grey movies, and the author of those books is so not Jessica Fletcher, who isn’t even real, by the way.”
Priest strolls up to me, all calm and smooth, oozing sex. “Ignore him. He’s a shit-stirrer. Nothing entertains him more than riling people up. Basically, he’s an internet troll in real life.”
I narrow my eyes at an unrepentantly grinning Saint. “Everything makes complete sense now. You’re all a bunch of crazy motherfuckers.”
“Welcome to the family, sis,” Saint says.
“I’m not a part of the family. I’m getting out of here before I lose my mind.”
Which, judging from what I just did with Priest in the observation room, maybe I already have.
Priest’s hand flattens on the small of my back again. “Any word from Lucky and Scorpion?” he asks Saint over my head.
And it’s like a switch has flipped. Saint’s grin fades. “Yeah. We do need to talk when you’ve got a minute.”
Priest nods. “Give me five.”
He starts steering me back toward my prison, but I put on the brakes. “Wait. Priest, please. I don’t want to be locked in that room again.”
He pauses, his expression pensive. Like he’s actually mulling over giving in to me. I didn’t have sex with him to gain leverage over him, but I won’t turn it down if that’s what caused it either. At this point, I’m so desperate not to be trapped in a room that I’ll take anything I can get.
“You can stay in the living room if you promise to behave.”
“How about giving me back my phone?”
He shakes his head, his jaw tense. “Living room. There’s a TV. You can stream some chick shit.”
“So you trust me enough to…do what we did back there, but not enough to give me my phone? And by the way, calling something chick shit is super sexist.”
He chuckles, the sound dark and sinful. “You still can’t say it, can you?”
I look around wildly to make sure Saint isn’t within earshot.
He isn’t. He’s standing back down the hall, by the elevator where we left him, looking at his phone.
How nice that someone around here is trusted enough to have one.
I’m starting to feel like Edmond Dantès, trapped in the dungeons of the Chateau d’If and closed off from the outside world.
“As far as I’m concerned, it was a one-off. And it certainly won’t happen again.”
Priest cups my face, his eyes intent. “You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better, but we both know the truth.”
And then he kisses me, hot and hard and possessive.
I’m so taken aback that I do nothing for a second, just stand there in the hall with his mouth on mine.
And then some stupid, instinctive part of me snaps to attention and kisses him back.
I kiss him like this is our last goodbye before he goes off to war, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing our bodies together.
Why do I want him so much?
Why does kissing him feel so perfect, his hot, muscled body pressing into mine with such perfection?
It dawns on me I still taste myself on his lips, the knowledge making a flare of heat go straight to my pussy, before he ends the kiss.
He takes my hand, his expression inscrutable, and laces his fingers with mine. “Come. I’ll show you the living room.”
“I mean it, Priest,” I insist weakly as he pulls me down the hall and into a living area that’s as cavernous as it is ornate.
If I thought the elevator was palatial, this so-called living room is next level. Marble floors, a huge chandelier, an impressionist painting flanking the biggest flat-screen I’ve ever seen, and a massive black velvet sectional.
“Here we are,” he says, releasing my hand and going to a marble-topped table where a remote sits neatly in the center. “If you need anything, call for Basil. Say ‘Hey’ first. That’s his wake-up phrase.”
I blink. “Wait. I’m sorry. What?”
“Basil’s our virtual assistant. He can turn lights on and off. Same with the TV, the volume. He can even call me if you need me, which is why you don’t need a phone.”
This shit just gets weirder by the moment.
I don’t know if it’s the post-sex oxytocin that’s making me feel light-headed and confused or if it’s the parallel universe I seem to have fallen into.
The one where dangerous mobsters locked me in an underground bunker and they have a virtual assistant named Basil .
“Somehow, I feel like this is information that would have been helpful, oh, I don’t know, maybe a week ago? Also, the reason I need my phone has nothing to do with you. You’re the last person I plan on calling.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “From now on, I’m the first. I’m your husband.”
“Temporarily. It’s a formality that will soon be rectified.”
He gives me a look that’s dark and dangerous and yet somehow makes something deep inside me melt. “You’re my wife, Luna. Mine. And I protect what’s mine. So sit down, prop up your fucking feet, and watch whatever you want to watch like the good, nerdy little poet you are.”
“I’m not a nerd.”
“Yes, you are, and it’s hot as fuck.” He kisses me again, aggressive and fast.
I like it way more than I should.
“Sit.”
I glare at him. “I’m also not a dog.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up into a half grin. “Oh, I know that baby. Believe me, I know. Sit. I’ll be back in half an hour or less.”
He’s bossy, but I don’t feel like putting up much of a fight. Suddenly, I’m tired. Maybe it’s the after-sex glow descending. Orgasms will do that to a girl.
“Please,” he adds when I don’t respond.
Is it wrong that I think it’s kind of adorable he’s trying to persuade me rather than barking out orders? Yes. I need to have my head examined.
But I relent anyway, settling myself onto the couch.
He leans down and brushes a kiss over my forehead, then grabs a plush throw and tucks it around me like I’m a child. “Stay here until I’m back.”
I raise my brow as if to say really ? Where can I possibly go?
Also, it’s not lost on me, the tender way he’s taking care of me.
Even if he’s keeping me here against my will, there are unexpectedly tender sides to this brutal devil.
I just can’t keep forgetting that he’s my enemy.
That despite what he said about Leo, it’s entirely possible the Andrianis did kill my brother.
He straightens and starts to leave.
“Hey, Basil,” I call out.
A disembodied male voice with a British accent answers, “Yes, madam?”
“Tell Priest that he’s an asshole for me.”
“I am unable to complete your request at this time,” says the voice from a speaker overhead. “Please try again later.”
Priest doesn’t look back or break his stride, but his laughter trails after him as he goes.
Damn that man.
Even his laugh is sexy.
I reach for the remote and turn on the TV.