Devil You Hate (The Diavolo Crime Family 1)

When Sarah turns away from the sink and back to me, I try not to fidget under her reproving look.

She doesn’t comment on the food, though, and points toward the hall. “You’re on firewood duty today. There are some gloves and a stack of wood in the foyer. Just put a few in each room that needs it.”

The last time she sent me wandering through the house, things didn’t go well. First with Lucas, and then with Nicolo afterward. But I didn’t dare to argue. Sarah doesn’t budge on the jobs she gives me.

I head down the hall toward the foyer. It’s beautiful in dark hardwood and blackened stainless steel. Another touch of elegance Nicolo presents in his surroundings, but not his person.

I frown at the enormous pile of wood and then at the guards near the door. It’s not as if I have a choice. I slip on the gloves and make a quick stack of firewood in my arms. I decide to take the furthest room first and work backward toward the foyer. Which will put me in Nicolo’s office. The one he’s likely occupying right now.

Before I force myself to rethink my plan, I head up the stairs and down the long hallway, past my room and toward his office. The door is open as I approach.

Nicolo sits behind his desk, scribbling in his ledger. The moment I enter, his eyes lock onto me, and I can feel the weight of his gaze as I cross the room to a small box where a few pieces of wood sit.

When I glance up again, he’s back focusing on his work. I blink and settle the pile of wood on the floor in front of the fireplace, strip off my gloves, and wait for him to say something. Long minutes pass as I watch him, but he doesn’t look up at me again or so much as twitch in my direction.

It’s not as if I expect a thank you note for taking his cock down my throat last night, but a little acknowledgment would be nice. I huff out a breath and force myself to smile, even if it probably doesn’t meet my eyes. “Good morning.”

He doesn’t even pause in his writing at the sound of my voice. An ache roots itself in the center of my sternum. I wouldn’t call it pain exactly, but it’s not comfortable. I feel dismissed, like a toy that’s been played with and tossed to the side.

“You’re not going to speak to me?” I ask as I reach down and stack a piece of wood in the box. “After everything that happened last night, you could at least acknowledge me.” I don’t bother to hide my anger toward him.

Again, he doesn’t respond. I sigh and toss another piece into the box so it thumps around inside loudly. But the noise doesn’t seem to inspire a response. I decide to continue talking as if he has responded to me. If anything, he’ll get annoyed with me.

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking. I didn’t sleep well, but my face is a tad sore, as is my neck because some asshole had to get his jollies off with my mouth.” No way in hell I’m letting him know how much I enjoyed it. The sheer power of being on my knees for him, watching as he unraveled all that tight control he keeps bottled up.

“Breakfast was great, and Sarah—as always—gave me an excellent chore to do today, which I assume is at your instruction. Thanks for that. Carting firewood around, half-naked, is super fun in case you were wondering.”

I grab the other piece of wood and wait to throw this one in the box while I stare at him. Hoping he’ll at least say something. When he doesn’t, I huff loudly.

This time, he slams his pen on the desk and glares at me over the ledger. “Things here haven’t changed,” he says, his voice deep and menacing.

I swallow a tingle that starts in my fingertips and races through me.

“Just because I used your body last night does not make us friends. Why would I care how you are today? You’re a pretty distraction that will soon be out of my hair once I sell you. Last night, I was testing the merchandise.” He drops his chin to resume his work.

I blink, the fear receding in an ebb of something darker, something stronger. “Testing the merchandise?” I intone, tasting the words on the edge of my anger. “You made me come.”

“Only to prove a point. You think I care if you come? I don’t give a—”

I clutch the last block of firewood in my hand and launch it over the desk at him.

With his fast reflexes born from survival, he dodges the wood, which thumps to the ground behind him. But that little expression of the boiling rage inside me does nothing to quench it. I march across the room and slap him so hard, pain stings through my hand and up into my elbow.