Chapter 13

**~Satan/Torin~**

*Three days later*

I was drowning, and there wasn't a damn life preserver in sight! We'd been here at the new compound for three days—and I'd found myself practically tripping over my own goddamn feet to get out of a room every time Marlowe walked in.

With her presence, came an itch I couldn't scratch, and it didn't help that it was just the two of us. The others would be here in a few days—a safety precaution in case anyone was following to keep them from being led to this compound. But damn if I didn't feel like a fucking dog following my bitch around to see if she was in heat!

I mean, Jeeesus… I'd get that heavy feeling in my balls and my dick would get hard, wagging at me like it knew there was a goddamn treat right outside its denim doghouse.

Shit, if this crap kept up, I was going to have to give him a real name…something mean, powerful…something like *Sampson* or *Goliath*, maybe even *Brutus*. *Hercules*? God knew I needed to find something, besides DownBoy. And I really, really, needed to get my shit together. This bullcrap with Marlowe was fucking me up and I couldn't afford that. None of us could. Somehow, the damn rivalry between Sons Of Morning Star had spilled over onto us.

**~MARLOWE~**

The first few days we had been at the new compound, or the *bomb shelter* as I'd started calling it, as more than half of it was underground, I'd walked around like I'd been on eggshells, never knowing which way the wind would be coming from. The mood swings I'd witnessed from Satan could have given even the moodiest days of a woman's period a run for its money.

He was a powder keg, a human stick of dynamite waiting to blow, and I couldn't help but wonder when the explosion would come as time continued to crawl: molasses fingers that inched their way around a clock of uncertainty. And on top of that, was the fact I'd begun to wonder if I smelled bad.

No matter where I went in this monstrosity of a place—formerly a motel—he would exit it if I walked in. Or if I was already in the room, he would turn around and leave before ever walking in. Of course, his actions had me checking my pits just to be sure I hadn't smelled bad.

Now, we were on our fifth day in the bomb shelter, and it seemed I had unwittingly lit the fuse.

I had been peering down at another message from my unknown messenger when Satan had ripped the phone out of my hand, then staring at its screen, he'd snarled, "Are you fucking kidding me? Are you really this dumb? What the hell are you thinking?"

Now, I gazed at him, speechless. A frown drew my eyebrows down, and I shook my head. What the hell is he going on about? I couldn't help thinking.

Finally, I shrugged. "Thinking? They're freaking messages. No big deal. So, what's there to think about?"

Satan raised his head, his face riddled in shock. "Oh my God, you are that dumb!"

"Excuse me?" I hissed.

"YOU ARE D-U-M-B—dumb!" he snarled. "This…" his actions as he pointed toward my phone's screen had reminded me of a mother scolding their child. "Is traceable! You probably just led the Proofers right to us!"

Slowly I shook my head. "But…they're just some meaningless messages," I protested.

Satan snorted. "Hardly. I have seen more people killed because of this kind of irresponsible thinking than you can count. Smart, Kitten. Real fucking bright aren't you?"

Tears welled in my eyes and pain ripped harsh and debilitating through me. I'd had enough, all this crap from him in the name of protection—it was ridiculous! I was tired. Both mentally and physically, and it didn't help one goddamn bit that every fucking thing about Satan's looks reminded me of Torin; my heart wept because of it.

Somewhere along the line in the last four years, I had begun to mend. I had begun to stop bleeding every time my thoughts turned to Torin—but the smell of Satan ripped the band-aid off every time he neared me.

His scent would weave its way through me, tantalizing me and I'd close my eyes, emotionally brought to my knees, silently begging when I reopened them, I'd find Torin.

But it was always Satan, and I was beginning to fear I was developing Stockholm syndrome; I'd begun feeling things for him I didn't want to.



For the most part, I was putting it down to the fact it was just the two of us in this place—it was human nature to develop some kind of feelings for the person you were trapped with for twenty-four hours a day.

As well, I didn't know if, or when, we might get out from under the threat of the Proofers attacking the MC. Or for that matter, if we would even come out of it alive if we were attacked.

However, I'd come to trust that Satan would do everything he could to insure we did—though he appeared more often than not to hate my guts—I had no doubt he would protect me.

Most times he was somewhat easy going, but none-the-less, I knew he was deadly, and I knew as well, he would do everything possible to keep me safe. I guess that's why his words had hurt so much. I didn't want to look like a brainless, unthinking idiot to him.

With a deep breath, and not wanting him to see how his words had hurt, I turned and began hurrying across the room. Though he had forbidden me to go out of the bomb shelter without him, I needed some fresh air and space. I felt as if I were suffocating.

I had done exactly as he had instructed for over seventy-two hours now, trying to prevent doing anything he could find fault with. Until today, I had managed to do just that, but now, for all I knew, I had just sentenced us to death. Not my most happy moment. But before I had even made it to the door of the room, my face crumpled and a sob escaped.

Feet taking flight, I began to run. A sudden sense of what I needed to do washed through me.

As I cleared the rooms that took up space between me and the outside, I wiped at the tears running down my cheeks. Then, reaching the doors to the outside, I shoved up the heavy bar that locked anyone outside from coming inside. Afterward, shoving at the heavy metal door, I made my escape.