Devil You Hate (The Diavolo Crime Family 1)

Instead of pressing it to her forehead, she places it over her wrist with a hiss. She mentioned her arm, but I’d been distracted. I gently pull the pack away and inspect the bruises. There’s not much swelling, but there is a deep ring of purple from Lucas’s rough handling of her.

Despite the surge of anger pressing tight through my chest, I keep my face neutral as I gently test the bones. There is no crunching, so likely not broken. “I think it’s just bruised. I’ll make sure you keep it iced, and you’ll be careful when you complete your chores. We can put some makeup over this for the auction, but I don’t want this to bruise and swell even more.”

She scoffs and tugs her wrist from my grasp, my words pulling her out of this conversation and thrusting her into reality.

I only glare and snag it back by the curve of her elbow. Hurting her isn’t on my list of priorities, but she doesn’t seem to have solid self-preservation instincts.

Instead of fighting further, she settles on staring out past my shoulder like she can’t be bothered with my existence. It’s humorous how little she cares for her own safety. Even while injured, she still tempts the beast. If she continues to push me, I’ll have to push back, and she’s in no shape to match me.

I release her, but only long enough to open the jar and scoop out some chilled balm. She sucks in a breath through her teeth but stays still as I slather the paste around her wrist. The tension between us grows thick, making each breath I take harder. When I finally finish, I gently wrap the ice around her wrist and hold the ends together.

“Why are you taking care of me?”

I don’t meet her eyes when I respond. “Profit margin.”

“That’s bullshit. You could have had one of the staff come help me. Why are you doing it?”

This time I meet her direct gaze and force her to maintain it since she wants to push me so fucking much.

“Maybe I want to touch you without seeing hatred in your eyes.”

“I don’t think that will ever happen.”

“Are you sure about that?”

She swallows loudly and drops her gaze. Another wash of pink treks up her neck and onto her ears. All I can do is smile like the son of a bitch I am.

I shift my hold on her wrist so I can sit beside her on the bed. To my surprise, she shifts her legs around to make room for me—an interesting new development.

“What happens now?” she asks almost cautiously. “Who are you going to sell me to? Where are they going to expect me to stay once they take me away?” There’s no fear in her tone, only exhaustion, as if the entire situation has made her more tired than she can bear.

Again, I shrug. “I don’t know. That will be up to them. Once you’re handed over, and we exchange the cash, then your confinement becomes their problem.”

“What if I escape?”

I try to ignore the way my shirt gapes open at her neck, giving me a top-down view of her cleavage. It doesn’t work. My cock is still aching for more.

“Try to escape. I expect chasing you down might be fun for the buyer. I know I’d enjoy it. If you were mine to buy.”

She grunts and tugs her hand away. I allow it this time, monitoring her every twitch.

The idea of someone coming after her isn’t appealing to her. Of course, it wouldn’t be. When rich men hunt, they do it for sport. When poor men hunt, they do it as a matter of survival. She’d have a better chance with one of them than with me. I always catch my prey.

“Thanks for your help,” she says. It’s a dismissal. Yet another prod of dominance from her she might not even know she’s making.

I shift higher on the bed and lie down, folding my hands behind my head to feign comfort.

“What are you doing?” A thread of fear enters her voice now. Finally.

“I told you. If you keep pushing me. I’ll push back. You don’t get to tell me when to leave. I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready.”

She turns to glare down at me. I have to crane my neck to see her face with our height difference. Her heart-shaped face and soft lips draw me in.

“I was saying thank you for helping me. How is that pushing you?”

“You use kindness as a weapon. All your people do. You throw it out like this great precious gift everyone wants to lap up, and when they can’t have it, they crave it, they need it, all for them to become subservient to that need.”

Her forehead wrinkles, and then she winces, stroking gently at the cut there. “I think you have a much higher opinion of me than I do of myself. And why do you keep saying ‘your people’ like you don’t have money yourself? Look at this house. Your clothes, the staff. That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”