The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(59)

“Keeley, you can’t walk barefoot. There’s probably glass out here.”

“Did you see those shoes? They were sitting in an inch of mouse droppings. I’m pretty sure the pavement can’t be worse.”

I squeal in surprise as he swoops me into his arms, carrying me like I weigh no more than a coat or a small child. “If I’d known you were this strong, I’d have made you carry me everywhere.”

“I should have kept it a secret for longer, Dr. Connolly.” He smiles. “I’ve never heard you introduce yourself like that, by the way.”

“She was panicking, and the whole doctor thing reassures people. Though, obviously”—I point to myself—“it probably should not.”

He carries me in silence, allowing me the space to marvel at how fucking fit he is. With my arms looped around his neck and my body resting against his, it’s impossible not to notice that his chest and biceps are like carved stone. I think I see why women look so dazed when Superman rescues them, and it has very little to do with the part where they didn’t die.

But I suppose I was already moderately obsessed. Ever since that night when he shot me down, I’ve been struggling to turn this thing off. I don’t know how to stop picturing him when he’s not in the room—the broad set of his shoulders when he’s on my couch, his narrow hip leaning against the kitchen counter, the way he rubs a hand over his jaw when he’s thinking, and how every fucking time he does it I think I want to be that hand.

I don’t know how to stop imagining I smell his soap in places I know it isn’t. How to keep my pulse from racing anytime I see a dark head in a crowd.

I don’t know how to stop thinking about him so fucking hard beneath my hand and him saying, “does it feel like I don’t want it?”

“What are you thinking right now?” he asks. His mouth curves upward, almost as if he already knows.

“That I want a big, juicy steak.” It’s not entirely a lie. I do want a steak. He doesn’t need to know everything in my head.

“Your wish is my command, Dr. Connolly.”





By the time I’ve stripped out of my ruined dress, showered, and put on pajamas, Graham has somehow acquired steak and baked potatoes for us. He even says we can watch TV while we eat. Of course, the show we’re watching is Dr. Who—his choice, which seems a little unfair. I mean, did he bring a life into the world tonight? I think not.

“So are these people ever going to have sex?” I demand.

“We’re only ten minutes into it. But there are no sexy kidnappers, if that’s what you’re after. You’ll have to wait and see for the rest.”

I groan. “That means no.”

He pauses the show and glances at me. “You impressed me tonight, you know. Everyone in that kitchen was a wreck, and you were the center of the storm. I felt like anything could have gone wrong and you’d have known what to do.”

“I do way cooler things than that. I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue. And you’re giving me too much credit. It just happened to be a very easy and uncomplicated delivery. If anything had gone wrong, I’d have been up shit creek.”

“For someone who compliments herself incessantly, you sure can’t take a compliment for shit. Can you at least admit you did something good tonight?”

My laughter is a trifle exasperated. “Everyone underestimates me, but I am actually a doctor, Graham. I’m supposed to be able to do that.”

“I think the one who underestimates you, Keeley, is you.”

There’s something in the way he says it that hits a nerve. Maybe it’s just that he sounds a lot like Dr. Patel right now.





Graham’s words echo in my head all night, and they’re still there the following morning when I walk into work and Trinny has that worried look she gets before she tells me I’m double booked all day and have patients until seven. Why am I still putting up with this? Yes, I know I need this job at the moment, but why am I not even putting out feelers for something else?

The one who underestimates you is you. Maybe Dr. Fox didn’t solely hire me for my looks. Maybe she also liked my utter lack of self-respect, that I came across as someone who would take all the garbage they wanted to shovel out and keep taking it because she didn’t think she deserved more.

I will brag about my breast size and charm to anyone who will listen. Would I ever consider bragging about my skill, though? No. Of course not. I skated through medical school and my residency doing the bare minimum.

Maybe Dr. Patel had a point.

“Let me guess,” I say. “I’m not getting a lunch break?”

“Well, no,” she says. “But…I’m just wondering—is this you?” She turns her phone to me. It takes a second to realize that the girl in the red dress, kneeling on a kitchen floor delivering a baby…is me. The caption reads Hot Pregnant Doc Delivers Baby.

I had no idea someone was filming me last night, and for a second I’m merely irritated that they’re calling me pregnant—it’s not that obvious. They sort of made up for it by calling me “hot”, but still…

Then a more serious concern overshadows it: this video is out in the world, saying I’m pregnant before I’ve revealed it to most of the people I know.