Page 39 of The Devil

He gets another message on his phone and thankfully leaves me alone for the remainder of the drive to the hotel. Once we get there and Malcom pulls the SUV up to the front entrance, the doorman rushes down the stairs to open the door, a giant umbrella shielding us from the rain that comes down like it will never stop.

Jet climbs out and this time, before he can lift me out, I step out on my own. He shrugs a shoulder and slings my duffel over his shoulder. We hurry up the stairs and into the hotel.

“Mr. Blackstone,” another staff member says. “Welcome back.” He glances at me and nods a respectful greeting like he’s afraid to even look at me. “Shall I take your bag?”

“I got it, Joe.” We walk toward the elevator and Jet turns to me. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head, my stomach in knots. Although I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal, there’s no way I’ll be able to eat anything now.

“My bride is anxious,” he says with a wink that makes me flush as red as the doorman even as I glare daggers at Jet. “Reserve my usual table for us for dinner please.”

“Of course, sir.” Joe says and takes a step backward.

“And make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Understood,” Joe says with a subtlety that makes me want to punch him.

The elevator doors open and Jet and I step inside. Joe leans in, slides his keycard into the slot and pushes the button for the seventh floor. The doors slide closed and my heart races as I stand side-by-side with my husband.

My husband.

While I take in our reflection in the chrome doors, Jet’s phone buzzes. He takes it out, glances at the message and switches it off altogether rather than simply silencing it.

“Cassian?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Severin.”

Once we reach our floor, he gestures for me to step out. I do and he follows me. With a hand at my back, he guides me to his suite, unlocks the door, opens it and steps aside for me to enter first.

I take in the opulence of the beautiful living room as Jet follows me and closes the door behind himself.

A fire is burning low in the fireplace. It’s an actual wood fire. The room is beautiful. I’ve never been in a hotel room this nice. Every detail has been carefully chosen. The color scheme is all quiet shades of blue and grey typical to Scottish skies. Crown molding covers so much of the walls and ceiling, I find myself turning a circle to see it all, that and the view of Old Town from the beautifully draped windows.

“How the other half lives,” I say, looking down at all the people outside running from one building to another as rain pours down.

“Don’t tell me Malek Lombardi slummed it,” he says.

I turn back into the room to find him watching me. “We didn’t exactly take family vacations,” I tell him, my tone wiping any smile off his face because he must realize how true that is.

“How was he? To you and your brother?”

“Absent mostly, thankfully. I mean,” I start, glancing over my shoulder at the scar on his face, the gray patch of hair. “He never tried to kill us so that’s a win, right?”

Jet watches me, no smartass comment for once as I head to the last door.

The bedroom.

My breath catches. The room is every shade of nighttime. Walls and ceiling painted a deep, rich blue with complementary silk drapes that block any light left outside. Here, too, a fire burns low in the fireplace. An antique crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling and, at the focal point, is a king size bed draped in deepest, darkest midnight and on the headboard is an intricate weaving of some king or other, his eyes locking with mine as if he can see.

The door clicks closed and I spin around to see Jet standing tall and watching me, his long black coat nearly brushing the floor. He slides it from his arms and drapes it over the back of a chair. Next comes his holster, the gun still in it.

My heartbeat races as I take him in. Black on black on black, exactly as the devil should be.

With his eyes locked on me, he unbuttons his shirt. He tugs it out of his slacks and strips it off, tossing that, too, over the chair and I can’t help but take in all that skin and muscle and those scars and tattoos. I think I could study him for hours. Days. Hell, forever.

My throat goes dry and when he steps toward me, I take an unconscious one back. A corner of his mouth curves upward because he likes this game of cat and mouse.

Or cat and his little virgin.