Page 32 of The Devil's Weakness

“Good, just in time for dinner,” Bon-Bon says when we get to the top of the stairs.

“Smells delicious as always, Bon,” I tell her as the scent of enchiladas hits my nostrils.

This is good. It’s clearing out the gas station soap smell that wafted off of Sasha when I crushed her against the wall downstairs. I prefer her normal scent. I adjust myself as my dick hardens, thinking about it.

I walk past my seat and reach into the cabinet for an extra plate. Grabbing a fork from the table, I dish up two enchiladas. Then I grab another bottle of water from the refrigerator before I head for the basement steps again.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Stone points his anger at me.

“I told you I was bringing her something to eat,” I respond.

“Like hell you’re bringing her the same food that we’re eating,” he shouts. “She doesn’t deserve this food.”

Bon-Bon and the other guys look back and forth between us as I try to think of what to say.

“Well then, what should I take her? It’s not like I have experience feeding hostages we keep locked up in the basement.”

Fuck.My irritation slipped out. I need to watch my tone.

“I’m going to give your attitude a pass because I know how hard these past few days have been for you, but don’t youdarethink you’ll be getting away with a comment like that again,” Stone warns.

I don’t respond. We stand rooted to the ground, neither of us moving or looking away from one another. This is what can’t happen. One sign of weakness shown toward her in front of Stone, and Sasha won’t be the only one in deep shit.

“Quit it. Now,” Bon-Bon breaks the tense silence. “I’ll make her a bologna sandwich.”

“I got it, Bon. You’ve been working hard. Sit. Eat,” I tell her, setting the plate down at my seat.

I grab everything I need to make the sandwich and assemble it before wrapping it up in a paper towel. Grabbing the bottle of water, I take the stairs two at a time until I hit the basement floor. I inhale a deep breath before I open the door again.

No weakness, asshole. Get your shit together.

With another breath, I disengage the lock. I half expect her to charge when the door opens, but she doesn’t. She’s sitting in the corner, where she moved the chair, her head resting against the wall. She looks at me like she’s surprised I actually came back.

I watch her wipe a lone tear from her cheek as I walk toward her with her dinner.

“Here.”

She takes the sandwich from me and immediately begins tearing into it. She’s halfway through it in a matter of seconds when she looks at me again.

“Thank you,” she mumbles through a mouthful of food.

She looks both sad and adorable, like an injured chipmunk, and I have to make a conscious effort not to laugh.

No. Weakness.

Clearing my throat, as well as my head, I bark, “I’d savor that if I were you. It may be your last.”

I turn and leave, locking the door again before I catch her reaction. I’m sure she’s contemplating whether it’s her last because she’s getting out of here or because she’s going to die.

I’m wondering the same.

* * *

Dinner was tense and quiet.Very unusual for mealtime around here. There’s usually laughter, joking, one-liners, and digs rolling off our tongues. It hasn’t been that way since Iron’s accident, and it was even worse after the disagreement I had with Stone over the enchiladas.

I think that with each minute or hour that passes, and Iron doesn’t wake up, another sliver of Stone’s already thin patience snaps. If it takes much longer for Iron to open his eyes, I’m worried he will outlive Sasha.

Iron, I really need you to wake up, man. For so many reasons.

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