Page 5 of Married to the Devil

“No, I couldn’t, I mean⁠—“

“How many girls are sharing those beds?”

I think about the six bodies jammed onto the single queen. “Too many.”

“I have plenty of space. More than I know what to do with. Come join me for a drink.”

“I really shouldn’t. Marnie’s getting sick.”

“Your friend won’t miss you. The bride, correct? She’ll hardly remember much tomorrow.”

“I don’t, I mean, how did you⁠—?”

“Come with me, June. I won’t beg.”

My head spins. This man knows my surname. He knows Marnie’s the bride. What else does he know?

“Were you watching me?” I ask, suddenly sure this wasn’t random, that he didn’t happen to be coming in here at the same time.

His lips quirk. Not quite a smile—I doubt the man’s capable of one. But something like it. “Yes, June. I’ve been watching you all night. The way you steer your friends from trouble. The way they look to you.” He pulls me closer. “Aren’t you tired of doing the right thing all the time?”

I’m breathing fast. His breath smells like mint and whisky. His stormy eyes burn into mine. And I hate it, but he’s right.

I’ve been asking myself that all night.

Other people get away with bad behavior. They drink too much, act like idiots, nobody cares the next day. It’s funny, almost, how stupid Cathleen was, or how loud Brittany got, or the way Tracy strung those guys along and got free drinks only to ditch them by running across the street and losing a heel and nearly getting hit by a bus.

But God forbid I let loose.

The world would fall apart, right?

No, June, this isn’t you.

But as Rafe waits patiently for me to say something, I start to wonder.

Why the hell not?

“One drink.” The words bubble out like I can’t control them. “Nothing more.”

He nods slightly like that’s what he expected and turns to leave.

I drift after him like I’m in a dream. The ice bucket and the soda stay tucked under my arm. Rafe takes me to the elevators and steps inside. He hits the button for the penthouse and scans his card.

I stare in alarm and wonder as the doors slide shut and we glide upward.

Rafe watches the numbers change, hardly paying me any attention. He looks like a statue, like a demon built to snare women in his trap. Who is this man? And what does he want with me?

I never should have followed him, but the doors open again and Rafe’s walking into the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.

I knew this was a luxury hotel, which is why all the girls are packed into a single economy space downstairs. But I didn’t understand what luxury meant.

Everything gleams. There’s a full wetbar, kitchen, sitting area, living room. The fixtures and furniture are modern. Real art hangs on the walls. Stairs lead up to another floor, presumably where the bedrooms are.

Rafe opens a bottle of prosecco with a loud pop. I yelp and drop the ice bucket. It clatters away, scattering ice and sending the soda bottle rolling across the floor.

He doesn’t seem to mind as he pours me a drink. “Your favorite,” he says without explanation.

“How did you know?”