The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(6)

Six whoops. “That’s my fucking girl!”

“It was supposed to be fun, Keeley,” says Graham, helping Elise—her wet hair plastered to her face, mascara running—out of the water. “Not a death match.”

I give him a small smile. “Looks like you were out of your league.”

His eyes drift over me slowly, possessively, from my lips to my breasts and down to my hips before he steps close. I shiver as his hand brushes against my waist, as his breath grazes my ear. “Keeley,” he says, so only I can hear, “we both know that’s not true.”

When he walks away, my nipples are pinched so tight that I have to fold my arms over my chest as I walk out of the pool. And I’m pretty sure it’s not the air temperature that got them that way.





The party is to be held on the hotel’s long, sloping back lawn. It’s a black and white theme, over Graham’s strenuous objections. He was probably worried someone would enjoy it too much.

Thanks to my spray tan and lash extensions, I didn’t need a lot of makeup tonight, so it’s mostly a soft red lip and some highlighter. I pile my hair high on my head with a few loose strands escaping around my face—the sort of look men will laud for being low-maintenance and natural because they have no fucking clue how long it took. Those are the same guys who will tell you you’re lucky to be “naturally pretty” because you “don’t need all that shit other girls use,” never realizing you spent forty-five minutes on contour alone.

My white dress is sleeveless and fitted, with a v-cut down to my ribs. I lean closer to my reflection to ensure no tell-tale marks from last night are showing, like the hickeys I discovered on my breast and inner thigh this morning. And then I admire the nice hint of side boob revealed by the dress. Oddly, it’s Graham’s reaction I think of first before I shake my head and force myself to focus on Six instead.

I take the elevator downstairs with a small pit of dread in my stomach. When I leave with Six at the party’s end, it will undoubtedly be under Graham’s watchful eye and make me feel as if I’m doing something wrong. Honestly, how could I have chosen him last night? Do I have multiple personalities, one of whom is a deeply boring girl who’d rather talk about inflation than hook up with a rock star?

I walk out the back doors, and the first thing I see on the lawn is Graham, of course, dressed in head-to-toe black and discussing something with the caterer. For a moment—before disgust rushes in—I just look. He wears clothes like a dream and God that mouth is wasted on him. He should be on a movie screen with a mouth like that. Okay, maybe I don’t have multiple personalities. Just one that’s particularly shallow.

He turns then, as if sensing my gaze, and takes me in, eyes drifting from my face and then down—to my breasts, the curve of my waist, and back up. His nostrils flare as if he’s an animal who’s just picked up my scent.

“All set to seduce your rock star, then?” he asks.

For a second, I’d forgotten about Six entirely.

“Well, it would have been easier if you hadn’t nixed the tequila luge I wanted.”

His eyes fall closed. “I don’t think you’d need to get anyone drunk, Keeley,” he mutters. He reaches into a folder and puts a piece of paper in front of me. “We need to go over the seating plan.” He points at one table that is full of little .5 marks. “What’s this?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s the table for people with kids. You know, your concern about this is coming a little late in the day.”

“And they’re far from me?” he asks.

“Far from us both,” I reply. “Thank God.”

He raises a brow. “You don’t like kids?”

I feel a small sigh release somewhere inside me. I do like kids, actually, but since I don’t plan to have any, their presence always produces this tiny voice in the back of my head asking if I’ve chosen the right path. I’d rather not spend the rest of the evening trying to drown it out.

“It’s my understanding they get in the way of attending Coachella and taking spontaneous trips to Cabo.”

“That,” he replies, “is the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say in six weeks.”





The party is a refined, elegant affair that goes without a hitch. I’ll never admit this to Graham, but I suppose it’s a much more Ben and Gemma event than I’d have come up with if left to my own devices.

I also don’t need to admit this to Graham because he already knows and is gloating about it. “It appears a party held in LA isn’t the ‘opposite of fun’,” he says, stepping beside me.

I look up, up, up. It’s really hard to appear condescending or disdainful when you have to practically tip over backward to meet the guy’s eye. “Like you know what’s fun.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints last night.”

My head jerks up toward him again. “First of all, I thought we agreed that last night never happened.” I glance around me. “Secondly, I’m surprised you remember last night.” Surely, taking me back to his room wasn’t a decision he’d have made sober.

His gaze falls to my mouth. “I remember enough,” he says, and there’s something there, in his voice. Something gravelly and interested, and a memory flickers to life: his palm, flat on my stomach as he went down on me, holding me in place. His gaze on me while he did it: hungry, a hundred percent in.