Devil’s Lily: Chapter 28

I snuggle deeper into the comfortable bed, enjoying the subtle trace of my husband’s scent clinging to the sheets. Stretching lazily, I let out a contented sigh, arms reaching overhead—until a sharp twinge of pain shoots down my left arm and yanks me out of my bliss.

“Ah, damn it,” I hiss, carefully bringing my throbbing arm back down to cradle it against my stomach. My eyes drift to the curtains that are still drawn tight, leaving the room in that weird twilight that makes you question what century you’re in, let alone what time it is. And then the events of last night all come rushing back in an overwhelming slow-motion replay.

Atë and Roan’s failed rescue attempt. Me, stupidly getting shot while trying to stop the madness. The impromptu meeting in Maxim’s study—that I can barely remember because I was high off the anesthetics Ethan gave me.

I groan and smoosh my face harder into the pillow.

Shit, what is wrong with me? I can’t believe I had a chance—the perfect chance—to tell my family about Maximo’s threat to their lives and go home with them. But no. I willingly chose not to. What’s worse, it didn’t even occur to me at the time that I could do that.

My stomach twists. This is bad. Really bad. I’m not just falling for him—I’m tumbling headfirst off a cliff with no bottom in sight. That manipulative, dangerous, maddeningly gorgeous⁠—

The door’s hinges give a tiny whine of protest, and I whip my head around only to have my brain short-circuit completely. Because there’s Maximo in all his shirtless glory, carrying an overflowing tray of food.

His sweatpants ride low on his hips, and I drool as I follow the veined, muscular deep V below his abdomen that disappears into the waistband and down to the enticing bulge pressing against the cotton material.

Oh, geez. I’m convinced sweatpants are the male equivalent of slutty skirts. They leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“My eyes are up here, dolcezza.” His voice is warm, teasing, and smug as hell.

My cheeks go nuclear. “I wasn’t—ugh, shut up,” I grumble, quickly looking away like that will erase the image now seared into my brain.

Maximo chuckles as he places the tray momentarily on the nightstand so he can crouch down next to me. “How’s the arm?”

“It’s screaming bloody murder, but I’ll survive.”

The heavenly aroma wafting from the tray makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. Steam rises from a plate of perfectly twirled spaghetti drowning in rich red sauce and meatballs. Another small plate holds extra sauce, and a side of buttery garlic bread so fresh it’s also steaming.

My mouth waters. “Did you make all these?”

The shrug he gives me makes his biceps dance, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch them. “I tried. The disaster I made is in the trashcan where no one will accidentally poison themselves. So no, Santino saved the day. Remember him? He cooked your birthday meal for you at the restaurant.”

My heart warms as I think about Maximo muddling his way through the kitchen in an attempt to cook for me. “That’s so sweet, thank you, burri im.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it, and I quickly clamp my mouth shut.

“Burri im.” He repeats the words slowly, eyeing me with playful suspicion. “Did you just curse at me?”

“No.” I keep it short, praying he’ll drop it, but of course he doesn’t.

“Are you going to translate or leave me in suspense?”

“You should probably be at work by now.” I make a show of checking the alarm clock, hoping to distract him, but genuine shock hits me. I gasp dramatically. “Wait. Seriously, Maximo, is that thing correct? It’s 11 am?” I’ve never slept this late in my entire life.

His fingers capture my chin and turn my face back to him. “Tell me, dolcezza.”

My pulse quickens, head swimming as I whisper, “Burri im means… my husband.” My cheeks go hot when his grip tightens, his nostrils flaring, eyes darkening. Oh. I think he likes that. He likes it very much.

“You’ll call me that from now on,” he commands, and I chuckle. “Say it again.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool, but my heart is pounding a sweet staccato.

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m starving,” I fire back, nodding towards the tray. “So, unless you want me to eat you, hand over the food.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Careful, dolcezza. Offers like that might get you into trouble.”

His thumb traces the corner of my mouth, and I swear I can feel that small touch all the way down to my toes. For a moment, desire flares in his eyes before he looks away, dropping his hand. But that spot his thumb touched tingles pleasantly with phantom sensation, and I find myself wishing he had attempted to kiss me again. I wouldn’t have turned away. Not this time.

He helps me sit up, carefully arranging my left arm over two stacked pillows before setting the tray across my lap. Then, to my surprise, he’s on the bed beside me, tearing off a piece of the hot garlic bread. My mouth waters as he dips it into the rich sauce and—wait, is he actually going to…?

He lifts the bread to my lips, and I raise a brow. “Are you really not going to work today?” I ask in all seriousness. Usually, he’s long gone by the time I drag myself out of bed at eight, but here he is, lounging in those sinful sweats, and also… my gaze moves down his arm, to the dark and colorful burst of beautiful sleeve tattoos.

“Of course not,” he scowls like I’ve insulted his honor. “You got shot last night. What kind of husband would I be if I just left you and went to work? I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking and worrying about you anyway.” The last bit comes out in an annoyed rumble as he pushes the bread towards my mouth.

Before I can overthink it, I part my lips, accepting the offering of bread. The moment it hits my tongue, my eyes flutter close and—oh sweet mercy—an embarrassingly obscene moan escapes me as the delicious flavors explode across my taste buds.

“Good?” Maximo asks huskily, and I open my eyes to see him staring at me through a hooded gaze, already tearing off another piece of bread.

I nod, though a little self-conscious about how I reacted. “It’s incredible. Santino needs to give me the recipe, or better yet, just promote him to our personal chef.”

“Done,” he answers with such ease I almost miss it. I blink, smiling because, surely, he’s kidding—right? But then he shifts and takes out his phone from his pocket. I gape at him as his thumbs fly furiously across the screen and quickly grab his arm.

“What are you doing?” Please tell me he’s not actually…

“Informing Santino about his new duties,” he replies with a duh tone, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I snatch the phone out of his hand, laughing through my shock as I erase the message. “I was just kidding, Maximo. No! Let the poor man be.”

With a grumble, he pockets his phone, though the glint in his eyes tells me he’d do it in a heartbeat if I asked. Shaking my head, I watch as he picks up the fork and rolls a perfect swirl of spaghetti. He blows on it gently before bringing it up to my mouth.

It’s just as delicious as the bread, but this time I’m hyper-aware of his gaze on me as I chew, my taste buds in spice heaven. He feeds me slowly, alternating between the spaghetti, meatballs, and bread until I’m stuffed.

“No more,” I groan, turning my head away from another meatball. “My stomach will explode if I eat more.”

He chuckles and then redirects the fork to his own mouth. I inhale sharply, my eyes fixed on the way his jaw works and his lips close around the tines. It shouldn’t be hot watching a man eat a meatball, but somehow he makes it look like a scene that belongs behind a paywall.

The fork clinks against the plate as he sets it down to reach for the water bottle. He pours it carefully into a glass, and I watch the muscles in his forearm flex with the simple movement. Then he produces a bottle of pills from his pocket, and my post-food bliss evaporates instantly.

“No, thank you.” I wrinkle my nose at the red and blue capsules he’s holding out to me.

“They’re your antibiotics. Not optional.” He rolls his eyes—actually rolls them—and I’m stunned. Maximo. Rolling his eyes. That’s like seeing a unicorn. “What?” he asks, lips twisting, like he’s trying not to do it again.

“Nothing.” I chuckle, stretching my hand out for the damn pills. He drops them into my palm, and I lean forward expectantly. “Water?”

He obliges, lifting the glass to my lips. I slip the pills onto my tongue and take a mouthful, cheeks puffing slightly as I hold the water in my mouth. Closing my eyes, I force myself to swallow, grimacing at how the capsules scrape their way down my throat.

“More,” I croak, waving a hand, and he tilts the glass back to me.

I gulp the water down eagerly, but the unpleasant sensation lingers, making me shudder in disgust.

“So dramatic,” he comments dryly, earning him a glare as I open my eyes.

“Sorry, we can’t all be masochists who swallow pills dry.” Another shudder runs through me at the thought. People who do that are psychopaths for real.

Maximo shakes his head, then picks up my abandoned plate, and I stare, mesmerized, as he practically inhales the leftover food. And, oh boy, the meatball from before was just the warm-up act; now, I’m getting the full show. Is this how he felt when he watched me eat? I lift my hand, pretending to fix my hair, but really I’m just checking the corner of my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling.

When he’s done, he places the food tray on the nightstand and grabs the water bottle next. Don’t look, I tell myself as he unscrews the cap. Don’t you dare look. But of course, I do.

The way his Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow is so hot, and suddenly my mouth is dry despite all the water I gulped down earlier. I lick my lips, then quickly tear my gaze away, fighting the heat pooling low in my belly. This is ridiculous. You’re losing it. Over a man drinking water.

But damn him for being so maddeningly attractive.

I need a distraction.

My eyes snag on his tattoos, and without thinking, I lean forward, studying the details I’ve only glimpsed before. When he sets the water bottle down and catches my stare, he goes still and watches me through a narrowed gaze as I slowly—so slowly—stretch my uninjured hand towards his arm, giving him enough time to stop me like he has the last few times I’ve tried to touch them. But this time, he doesn’t.

My fingertips make contact with the warm flesh just above his wrist, and I swear I feel him shiver—or was that me? I trace the patterns of inked stems and thorns up his arm. When I get to the inside of his elbow, the texture changes—smooth skin gives way to the flat, lumpy, and bumpy scarred skin. His sharp intake of breath makes me pause, and I move my gaze up to him to see his eyes are squeezed shut.

“Does it hurt?” I ask softly, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over us.

His eyes crack open. “No. Not anymore.”

It must have hurt like hell when it happened. I gasp when I trace the scar further up his elbow, surprised when I realize it extends all the way to his biceps. He must have lost a lot of blood from this injury. How did he survive it?

I study the beautiful ink that has another meaning to me now that I know what it covers. It tells a story about him. A story I desperately want to know about.

Following an impulse I don’t quite understand, I lean forward and press a gentle kiss on the inside of his elbow. His hand twitches and I feel his pulse skitters beneath my lips. That tiny, involuntary reaction fills me with an odd sense of triumph, knowing I can affect him the way he does me.

I don’t stop there. I let my lips linger on that spot for long moments, then slowly pepper kisses up his arm to the end of the scar and back down, each one saying what I can’t put into words.

When I finally glance up, his eyes pin me in place. The tenderness in his gaze is staggering, like I’ve peeled back layers of armor without even trying. My head spins, my chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels too small, too charged. He murmurs something in Italian, raising a hand to caress my cheek. I catch one word—dolcezza. Sweetness. But the rest is lost to me. “What did you say?” I ask.

“You undo me. You’re a dangerous witch.”

My breath snags at the seriousness of his tone and face. I hold my breath as he leans down so close that his warm breath on my lips sends tingles down my spine, between my thighs, until my panties are damp. My heart pounds a desperate rhythm as my lips part, waiting, wanting… but he only places a chaste kiss on the bridge of my nose before pulling back.

I gulp. Shit, I really wanted him to kiss me. Should I just ask? Tell him I’m ready for his kisses?

But before I can gather even a shred of courage, he shifts to stand, and panic bubbles up. I grab his arm to stop him, but when those dark eyes fall on my face, I’m too chicken to say what I really want, so I ask something else I’m curious about. “Your tattoo—what do the flowers mean?”

I expect him to evade my question or ignore it entirely, but he sighs like he was waiting for me to ask. “It’s a symbol of loyalty between my brothers and I. A reminder of the hell we escaped to become this powerful.”

His brothers. He means the Nightshades. According to Roan, all four men have been friends for decades. My mind flashes to the four different flowers printed and framed on the wall in Rafael’s great room. The same design of Maximo’s tattoo on Rafael’s dining chair and the smaller chair. The ink on Michael. Do they all have something similar tattooed on their bodies?

I can’t imagine the uptight and cold Rafael with tattoos, but it would make sense if it really is a symbol to them. “The men at the dinner all looked very different.” I think out loud.

“That’s because we’re not brothers by blood.” Maximo’s lips twitch into something almost wistful. “But even better. We’re brothers by choice. By shared experiences and pain. That bond… It’s stronger than anything else.”

Brothers by choice. The weight in his words makes me think of battlefields and foxholes, the kind of bonds forged in fire.

I study his face, weighing my next words. Push too hard and he’ll shut down, but… “I noticed something similar to your tattoo carved on the back of the chair Rafael sat on in his dining room—and the smaller chair across from him. Does that chair belong to someone connected to this shared pain you mentioned?”

And just like that, the shutters come down. His face closes off, and with a pang of regret, I know he’s done answering me.

“You should get some rest,” he says, grabbing the breakfast tray like a conversation-ender.

I swing my legs off the bed in annoyance. “I literally just woke up, so I think I’ve had more than enough rest. I need to check on Marco.”

The second I stand, the room tilts dangerously. Maximo moves faster than should be humanly possible, shifting the tray to one hand and wrapping the other around my waist, pulling me against him until I’m steady on my feet. And suddenly, I’m very aware that he’s still shirtless as my cheek meets warm skin and hard muscle. Holy hell.

Stubborn woman,” he growls, but there’s worry threading through his irritation. “The bullet might have gone straight through your flesh, but it pierced an artery and you lost quite a lot of blood. You. Need. Bed. Rest.” Each word is punctuated by him carefully maneuvering me back onto the mattress like I’m made of spun glass.

“But—” I start to protest weakly but stop when he glares at me.

“The bastard is fine. But if you’re that worried about him, I’ll have Marco check in. Now stay put before you fall and crack that pretty head open. I’ll be back soon.”

I sigh dramatically as I sink back under the covers, lying flat on my back and glaring at the ceiling like it’s to blame for my predicament. The thought of being trapped in bed all day makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Maybe I can convince Maximo to bring me a book. Or a TV. Or a circus—anything. At this point, I’d settle for juggling clowns just to avoid boredom.

The door opens again almost immediately, and Maximo returns with Marco limping in behind him. “That was fast.”

Maximo frowns. “He was already waiting outside to see you.”

I sit up as my bodyguard shuffles closer, guilt practically pouring off him. “I’m so sorry. I failed to protect you.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. My glare shoots straight to Maximo, knowing instinctively he’s the one who planted that nonsense in the man’s head. Then I turn to Marco, my gaze dropping to where he’s holding his side, the place he got shot. The sight makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. He took a bullet because of me, and here he is, apologizing?

“No, you didn’t fail, Marco,” I start, ignoring Maxim’s growl as I pick up his free hand. “You woke me up and safely got me into the panic room. If I hadn’t stumbled into the monitor room and recognized my brother in the chaos, I would have stayed in that room. But I couldn’t just hide and let my father shoot at my family. I couldn’t⁠—”

Marco gives me a tentative smile. “Your family?”

I blink at him, confused. Then my own words come back to me. Oh. Oh, crap. Did I just say that? My eyes dart to Maximo, whose sharp gaze is suddenly trained on me like a wolf scenting something interesting. Heat climbs up my neck, and I quickly turn back to Marco. “Well, yes. I’m a Leonotti now after all.” I give him a reassuring smile, my thumb rolling over the big rock on my ring finger, which I’m so used to now that it doesn’t even feel that heavy anymore.

“I’m sorry we lost some men,” I continue softly. “Sorry you and the others got hurt. If I’d known sooner…” A shiver runs through me as I let myself think about it. If I had stayed hidden and done nothing, my father or brother might’ve killed Marco. Or Maximo. Or worse… Marco or Maximo might’ve hurt them. I shake my head to dispel that horrifying thought. “So no, Marco, you didn’t fail. I succeeded in diffusing what could have potentially ended in disaster.”

I pat Marco’s hand once more before sinking back into the pillows, suddenly exhausted. Maximo notices immediately—does anything escape those dark eyes?—and dismisses Marco with a look that could wilt flowers.

“Go get some bedrest as well,” I call after him. “No point in guard duty when I’ve got my own personal watchdog.” I shoot Maximo a teasing smile.

And what a watchdog he proves to be. The darned man stays glued to my side all day, helping me to the bathroom, bathing me, feeding me lunch.

I grumble and complain, telling him repeatedly to go to work, to give me space to breathe, to stop hovering like a particularly muscular mother hen. But secretly? Deep down where I barely admit it to myself…

It makes me feel all fuzzy and precious.

I love it.