“Fuck off, Phil.”
With a lackadaisical fork, she poked at the heart muscle. How long had she been doing this? Hoping to find fate through her digestive tract?
She was running out of patience. And Gas-X.
On a wave of frustration, her eyes swept around her lair. And it was hard to pinpoint exactly when the thought occurred, but the next thing she knew, she was getting to her feet and going across to her display of Birkins.
The Hermès handbags were on display on a lovely partner’s desk she had five-fingered from a French count with whom she’d had a lovely little dalliance that had satisfied her for a fortnight . . . and ended up with him disemboweled and hung on an iron fence.
But why focus on the unpleasant stuff.
Besides, her ending had been fine. She’d moved on to bigger and better things. Specifically a blacksmith who’d been hung like one of the war stallions he’d shod.
Now that had been fun. But again, not anything that had lasted. Lot of hair on the back—and she wasn’t talking about the hooved mammals who were supposed to be sporting a saddle.
And this was her problem. In fact, nothing had lasted. Not even Jim Heron—because he’d never been hers to begin with.
For fuck’s sake, she wasn’t getting any younger.
Of course, she also wasn’t getting any older.
Immortal, hello.
The most expensive of all her handbags was the iconic Himalaya Niloticus Crocodile Birkin 35 with the diamond hardware. The white-and-gray masterpiece was given pride of place on an inlaid antique bed stand that had two drawers—because come on, she had to put it on some kind of pedestal. And as she stood before the bag, she took a moment to appreciate the pattern of scales and the bilateral markings that meant the darker sections of the skin were on the outsides, the creamy white center a perfect contrast.
So beautiful.
And yet not her most valuable item—even though on the secondary market, because it was a 35 with the diamond hardware, it was worth a cool $400,000. Or more if she sold it with the matching diamond bangle. Which she had.
Below its white gold feet, she pulled open the antique stand’s top drawer—and it was with piercing defeat that she reached forward. She supposed she was kind of like a guy in the way she never wanted to read the assembly instructions, ask for directions, or be told what to do at a crossroads. So for her to use an aid, even if Dr. Phil always referred his guests to experts for help, seemed like—
Devina frowned.
Leaned farther forward.
Patted her hand around the inside of the drawer. Which was totally fucking empty.
With an explosive curse, she ripped out the bed stand’s top level. Nothing was in it. And even though her eyes were functioning just fine, like a fucking idiot, she turned the thing over and shook it.
As if what she’d expected to find in there was somehow stuck to the bottom.
The Book was gone.
In a frantic whirlwind, she opened the drawer underneath—in case she’d misremembered which one she’d put it in. Also empty. The drawers of the partner’s desk were likewise Book-less, the silk thongs and bras bearing no resemblance to the human-flesh-covered tome she was looking for.
With shaking hands, she started to go through her other bureaus, the shelves by her bedding platform, the kitchen cabinets, the shit in the bathroom area. She even went to check under her bed before remembering that it was a fucking platform with nowhere to store anything underneath.
“Where the fuck is my Book!” she yelled into the silence.
And then she remembered . . .
Wheeling around to the far corner, she glared at the five-by-five metal pen with its water bowl and pallet. The goddamn thing was empty because the fucking virgin idiot she’d had in there had escaped.
“You sneaky sonofabitch,” she breathed as she walked over.
It had been her fault, really. She’d obviously underestimated him—probably because she hadn’t actually needed him. The abduction had been a compulsion rather than something demanded by her circumstances, a relic of past behavior that was no longer required. With her mirror destroyed, she didn’t have to worry about protecting her privacy here as much.
She’d been lonely, though.
“You little shit,” she said as she stared down at where she’d imprisoned him. “Did you take my fucking Book?”
He was the only one who’d been here since she’d seen it last.
The fucking bastard must have watched her flip through the pages that one morning.
Devina turned back around to the antique bed stand, now emptied of its drawers. There was, of course, another explanation, one that was utterly unthinkable. So she promptly discarded it.
The Book loved her. Of course it wanted to be with her.
No, he had taken her Book, the little shit, and even if she wasn’t thinking of using one of its spells to bring her true love, she was still going to need the fucking thing back.