“What about you?” I glance up at him through a wayward fringe of my hair that does little to block out the ice in his gaze. I don’t specify just what I’m prodding to learn—I’d take anything.
Or maybe I knew all along that the question would send him turning on his heel and marching down the hall, leaving me alone and in silence once again...
Lucifer stormsout of the apartment again a little after dawn. I don’t lift my head from the floor to see for myself. His anger paints a blazing trail detectable through scent alone—and the sound of the door slamming shut provides another clue of his departure.
I pretend that his leaving doesn’t worry me. I pretend that my first instinctive urge isn’t to creep over to the door in order to make sure it’s locked. I pretend that, even if he does turn me over to the other men, it wouldn’t matter.
I pretend, and I pretend until my sore muscles have gonenumb and another sound jolts me awake again. The noise—a careful tapping—comes from the door, but I doubt Lucifer is the culprit this time, cautiously demanding entry. After four more quiet knocks, the sound stops and I almost believe that whoever the unwelcomed visitor is has changed his mind and gone away.
“I know you’re in there.”
I tense at the sound of a man’s voice, but...it’s not quite as guttural as it should be. He sounds a few pitches higher than Lucifer, and his tone lacks the murderous lust of the red-haired man or one of his men. Confused, I flick my gaze over to the knife only a few feet away from my outstretched toes. Lucifer’s arrogance is an interesting puzzle I’m not sure I’d ever want to solve. Instead, I take advantage of the fact by easing myself upright and crawling for the blade. I move slowly, striving to make my every motion silent against the uneven flooring, but the moment my fingers brush the knife’s handle, the “visitor” knocks again.
“He’s gone,” they say, their voice low and deceptively neutral. “Open up. Unless...he has you tied up. In which case I should call the police.”
I swallow hard and drag my thumb over the edge of the blade. It’s dull, unwilling to cut even the pad of my thumb, but I press down and force it through the skin. The pain is white-hot, waking up my sleepy nerve endings and electrifying them with fear.
“I have a cell phone,” the man warns. “If you don’t answer, I’ll just have to assume that he has you incapacitated.”
Lucifer?My fingers shake, and I dig my nails into the palm of my free hand to counter the reaction. Whoever this man is, he apparently isn’t in on the intentions of the red-haired man. He’s hostile to Lucifer. Opening the door would only incite my devil’s wrath, but if this man really does call the police...Vinny would know. He would find me, and my charming fiancé would love to put on a caring show for the police officersbefore taking me up to that damn hotel suite and killing me slowly.
I could always take myself out of the equation, I realize while my blood continues to speckle the surface of the blade at my fingertips. How easy would it be to hack my wrists open and bleed out before anyone could ever reach me? I consider it...
But Lucifer’s infected me. It’s no longer just enough to imagine Vinny’s reaction to my little tape. It’s not enough to estimate the extent of his rage. I want to see it. I want to feel the heat of the fire I’ve set before I die.
“That’s it. I’m calling them—”
“I’m f-fine.” I struggle to inject calm into my voice, but my sore jaw disrupts my attempts. I sound garbled. I sound tired. I sound...under duress. “I’m fine,” I repeat, making my voice louder as if volume alone can counter everything else. I stand, leaving the knife behind, though I’m not sure why.
Fear demands attention, commanding my body into action. I should be cautious. I should carefully heed the threat of Lucifer. I... That voice shouldn’t sound so familiar.
“Oh, really?” the man counters. He copies my tone, losing the cautious murmur. “Then open the door. Let me see that for myself.”
I shake my head, well aware that he can’t see the reaction. “No. I’m fine—”
“I’m not asking out of concern foryou,” he says bluntly. “I need...I need to see that he hasn’t… I need to see for myself.”
Once again, I suspect that he’s referring to Lucifer.I need to see that he hasn’t...
Kidnapped a woman and held her hostage? If he’s looking to be reassured by my appearance, he’ll be sorely disappointed. My back feels sticky. I’m still wearing Lucifer’s stolen, bloodied, filthy shirt, and I felt no desire to shower or change when he left. I’m a false martyr relishing in the ashes of her destruction, but Itug on the hem and contemplate how much worse it might seem if I open the door wearing nothing at all.
“I’m waiting.” The voice holds a flicker of impatience along with a dare: He’ll call the police.
My hand reaches out, my fingertips brushing the doorknob. A million reasons to let Lucifer’s house of cards come crashing down race through my mind, each one jostling for supremacy. In the end, I force myself to undo the lock for only one reason alone—self-preservation. Any humiliation is better than being hand-delivered to Vinny in a squad car, already wearing handcuffs.
At least, with the lack of a strong accent, I know that this man doesn’t work for him.
“I’m fine,” I insist while I pull the door open merely a fraction of an inch. I peer through the crack, and if I hoped that my words alone would counter the effect of my appearance—namely the bruises on my face—I’m sorely disappointed.
The blue eyes watching me from the other side widen, but not entirely with shock, I realize. Before I can react, a hand smudged with dirt slips through the crack in the doorway and bats the door open wider. I’m forced to step back while a taller man—almost as tall as Lucifer—forces his way inside. His blue eyes are too familiar.Lucifer himself, after all?No...
He blinks, his gaze darkening with recognition at the same time I realize just who he is, and I feel the world start to crumble from underneath me.
“P-Pyro Girl?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dante
