My Cruel Salvation Page 6

  I sit up slowly, letting that unpleasant reality fill my head. A year ago, that truth would have invigorated me. It would have lit a fire inside me. A passion. A need.

  A yearning to go out and face whatever sonofabitch intended to come after me. I’d go into the fight intending to win. And, hell, I probably would. It’s easy to fight when you don’t fear the outcome. Because when had I ever feared death? On the contrary, I’d welcomed it. Expected it.

  Death was like an old friend, opening a locked door and inviting me into the party.

  Not anymore.

  Now, there was fear. Not of death—after so many years of living and breathing nihilism, I’ve banished that particular fear. Instead, my fear is of not being alive. Not being here.

  My fear is of not being with Devlin.

  Death isn’t to be feared because of what it is. If death is to be feared at all, it’s because of what it can do—take the man I love from me. Or take me from the man I love.

  They’re going to try. They’re probably coming right now.

  The words fill my head, like the mantra of a Texas Marshall warning his deputy in one of the old westerns my dad liked to watch after a long day’s work.

  I stand up, shaking myself like a dog ridding itself of fleas, only I’m trying to get rid of these dark thoughts.

  I glance back at Devlin, still asleep, his face turned away from the window and the beam of light that had awakened me. He’s wearing pajama bottoms, and I frown, wondering when he’d gotten up during the night.

  Not that it matters, I think, and I go close the blinds, then move quietly into the bathroom.

  I freshen up, then splash cold water on my face and clean away the smear of mascara beneath my eyes. Then I slip on the short silk robe I keep hanging behind the door, and pad quietly out, careful not to wake Devlin as I leave the bedroom area and head into the main room.

  As soon as I’m past the wall of bookcase, I turn back, confused as I realize it’s open. But I’m sure that Devlin closed it completely last night, enclosing us completely in the passion that had gripped both of us.

  At first, I think he must have gotten up for a snack, but it’s not just the bookcase and his PJs that are odd. There’s a blanket on the couch, folded neatly, along with a pillow I keep in the trunk that serves as a coffee table in case a rare guest needs to camp on the sofa.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, then jump when the walls seem to reply.

  “Ronan.”

  I spin around, to see Devlin standing behind me. “Ronan?”

  “He showed up last night.”

  “I didn’t hear him knock.”

  “That’s because he didn’t.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re slipping, Mr. Saint. You sneakily make your girlfriend’s condo a fortress, but just any old person can break in?”

  Ronan Thorne, of course, is not any old person. The guy has mad skills and we both know it. Even so…

  “He has your bypass code,” Devlin says, and that surprises me.

  “He what? My key code?” All the units in the building have keypad locks with two codes. One assigned to the security desk and the other set by the tenant. “Why?”

  “I gave it to him years ago,” Devlin says. “Ronan spends more time in Manhattan than I do, and I wanted him to be able to get to you if you were ever in trouble.”

  “I—oh.” I shake my head, letting my thoughts settle. Not long ago, that revelation would have annoyed me. Today, I’m not surprised at all. On the contrary, I like knowing how much effort he spent to watch and protect me in the time we were apart.

  Not that I’m going to say so right away. Instead, I cross to him and give him a half-hearted smack on the chest, which is, I note, deliciously bare. “I wasn’t in trouble last night,” I say. “Captive, maybe. But not in trouble.”

  “Captive? I like that.” As if in demonstration, his hand closes around my wrist as he pulls me closer, then twists my arm behind me as I melt against him. I’m wearing nothing but the silky robe, and I can feel how hard he is beneath the loose flannel PJs. My pulse immediately kicks up, as if I’m nothing more than a windup toy, and Devlin Saint is the key.

  But I’m still curious about why Ronan was here, so I pull away, intending to step back and ask. He doesn’t let me. If anything, my struggle has made him harder.

  I squirm against him, my breath shallow, and I decide that I don’t really care about Ronan at all. “Didn’t you get your fill last night?”

  “Never,” he says. There’s a new wildness to his voice. A heat and a hardness I haven’t heard before.

  “Devlin…”

  He yanks me closer, and I gasp as desire thrums through me, spurred by the knife-edge of his passion. “I don’t like having things I want pulled out of my grasp. His free hand—the one not holding my arm tight behind my back, slips between my thighs. I’m already wet, my body on fire for him, and I gasp as his fingers thrust inside of me. “I much prefer to take what I want.”

  He tightens his grip, my shoulder aching from the pressure.

  I bite my lip, then force out the words. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “Then take it,” I say, and, thank God, he does.

  We’re insatiable, the both of us. Hands and mouths and fingers. Everything and anything. I’m still sore from yesterday, which had been like a marathon of hard, driving, incredible sex. And yet all I want is more. Devlin, I know, feels the same.

  This is more than just the heat that we’ve always generated when we’re together. This is a battle. A war. The world has thrown down the gauntlet against Devlin Saint, and between the two of us we’re generating the kind of nuclear reaction inside him that will wipe those bastards away. Maybe not off the earth, but at least out of his mind.

  We’re fucking for strength, to fight and to forget. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t even matter. I can’t remember a moment when I didn’t want Devlin, and as he grips my hair—as his kisses draw blood—as he fucks me hard against the wall until I am held up only by his arms, a limp rag to be used for his pleasure—I know that I will always, always, surrender to his needs no matter how dark.

  I need it too, after all.

  When we’re finally spent, we slide down the wall, then cling to each other on the hard floor. I’d loved the way the flooring looked when I moved in, but now I’m thinking that carpet or a few well-placed rugs would have been smart.

  “I love you,” he says, brushing a lock of hair away from my eye and hooking it behind my ear.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  He smiles, his sandy brown eyes taking me in. “Maybe I just like saying it.”

  “Good,” I say, letting my eyes roam over that incredible body. “I like hearing it.”

  After a few minutes, his lazy smile turns into a grin. “You’re staring.”

  “You’re very pleasant to look at.” Understatement of the year. Really.

  “And?”

  I scowl. Seriously, the man has the power to read my mind. “I see you better than anyone, you know.”

  “You do.”

  I reach out and trail my fingers over his bare skin, tracing the line of his body as he’s stretched out on his side. “I see what Packard and that snake Livingston don’t.”

  He makes a show of glancing down toward his cock. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, and I pretend to be annoyed even as I’m giving a silent hurrah that he has a sense of humor about it.

  “I see how strong you are,” I continue. “How much you can shoulder. And I see how much you deserve to be recognized. For this,” I add, pressing my hand to his heart. “Because you’re a good man with a good heart.”

  I start to take my hand away, but he puts his over mine, trapping me in place. “Thank you,” he says, the words softer than a whisper, but they reverberate all through me.

  “You should have fought,” I say. “That award should be yours.”

  “No. That
would have seemed like a tantrum. But I’ll have my say later.” The corner of his mouth curves up, the expression a little bit smug. “It’s a dance, El, and it’s one I’ve been learning the steps to for years.”

  “What is?”

  “Living life in public.”

  I frown. “I’m not sure that’s a cotillion I’d willingly sign up for.”

  He cocks his head, studying me. “Wouldn’t you?”

  I lick my lips, suddenly understanding what he’s asking. “All things being equal, no. But you tip the scales, Mr. Saint.”

  His eyes lock on mine. “Do I? How so?”

  “Don’t pretend to not understand me. You know damn well I’d walk through hellfire for you. And in case you’re unclear, being in the public eye pretty much qualifies as hell.” I move my shoulder in what could be considered a shrug. “What can I say? You make even hell feel like heaven to me.”

  “I like hearing that. Even if it is completely corny.”

  We both laugh, and it’s a nice reprieve before he gets serious again. “The truth is, I’ve always known it could come to this. I’d expected it would be a few more years down the road, though,”

  “Is that why Ronan was here? Looking for leaks?”

  Devlin nods, then summarizes their conversation for me.

  I frown, taking it all in. “So he’s hoping that even though the leak was from an untraceable gmail, one of the reporters will have a clue who sent it?”

  “Pretty much. He’s playing detective for the next few days. And setting me up with a security detail.”

  “I think the quest to find the leak is a wild goose chase, though I hope I’m wrong. I think security is a great idea, and I’m positive I’m right.”

  “I agree on all counts. And I’m sorry.”

  I frown. “For what?”

  “The spotlight will shine on you, too. Unless you leave me. And I won’t let you leave me.”

  “No? Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t plan on going.” I sigh. “Like I said, you tip the scales, Saint. For me, you always have.

  Chapter Ten

  I’m grateful to Roger for stocking the kitchen, but not grateful enough to call him back when my phone vibrates with an incoming call while I’m waiting for my coffee to brew after a quick shower with Devlin. Had he called yesterday before the fiasco, I would have answered eagerly. Now, I’m not prepared to deal with the inevitable questions about Devlin’s true identity.

  He’ll assume—rightly—that I’ve known about The Wolf for awhile. He’ll be concerned about me as a friend. He’s even savvy enough to worry about my safety in light of the enemies that will undoubtedly start to creep out of the woodwork.

  But concern will only be part of the reason for his call. The rest will be work. I was writing a profile on Saint and his foundation, after all. And this little tidbit is about as newsworthy as it gets. Leaving it out shows my bias, and that’s not something Roger is going to look kindly toward. His boss, publisher Franklin Coates, is going to be even less happy with me.

  So, yeah. I’m dodging the call. Sue me.

  I let the call roll to voicemail as I reach for my coffee, and when it does, I notice two other missed calls—Brandy and Lamar.

  Both have known the truth about Devlin’s father for a while, and both left messages. Brandy’s is short and sweet. “Just wanted to give you a virtual hug. Call me if you need to. And hug Devlin for me, too.”

  Lamar’s message is similar, and I smile when he adds that Devlin didn’t deserve to get outed that way. He’s dating Tracy Wheeler, Devlin’s intern, who’s fast becoming one of my favorite people, and she got on the line for a second to add that the Council was stupid, and Devlin deserved the award even more because he’d overcome so much.

  Their messages lift my spirits, but especially Lamar’s. He’d been a late convert to Team Devlin, and the sincerity in his voice is like a warm hug.

  As soon as I’ve brewed two cups, I head back to the bedroom area. I’d slipped out of the shower before Devlin, and now I leave both our mugs on the dresser while I shimmy out of my robe. I’m bent over, pulling a pair of folded jeans from the bottom drawer when I hear Devlin behind me.

  “I like the view,” he says. “Maybe we should stay in for breakfast.”

  “We can’t. You wore me out. I don’t even have the energy to cook.” I’m naked, and now I turn around, offering him the rest of the view, and enjoying mine of him in only a towel around his hips. “Besides,” I add, “I think you got enough last night.”

  His brows rise. “Oh, really? Did you?”

  “Get my fill of you? Never.” I ease closer. “But if we don’t stop for breaks, there’s never any anticipation for when we start up again.”

  He laughs. “I should never have told you that was a turn-on.”

  “Nonsense,” I say, brushing a kiss over his lips. “You’re supposed to tell me everything. Speaking of which, Brandy and Lamar called. They both think you got screwed. Tracy chimed in, too,” I add, relaying the details of their messages to him.

  “She’s going to be an asset wherever she ends up after college,” he says about Tracy, and I wholeheartedly agree.

  “Tamra texted,” he adds, referring to Tamra Danvers, the foundation’s Publicity Director. She was friends with his mother and has been like a guardian angel, watching him for years.

  “What’s her take on the leak?”

  He grimaces, and I hear the heat in his voice when he says. “She’s working to spin the story. What else can she do? Whoever leaked that dropped a bomb. Now we’re dealing with the shrapnel.”

  “Devlin…” I say, letting my voice trail off.

  He shakes his head. “I’m fine. It’s personal, but it’s business, too. I’m fine.”

  I nod. It’s the truth. He is fine. Pissed, yes. But he’s a man who learned to compartmentalize things at a very young age. Who’s lived a dual life for about half his life. Maybe “fine” isn’t the most accurate word, but it fits. And right now, that’s good enough.

  I take his hand, adding a flirtatious smile when I say, “You’re more than fine in my book. Now get dressed. I’m buying you breakfast.”

  “Oh, good. For a minute there I thought you were going to cook.”

  I give him a playful slap, then scurry away before he can return the favor on my rear. I make a show of getting dressed, adding more wriggle than necessary as I tug up the jeans.

  As soon as we’re both clothed, he tugs me toward him, then kisses me hard. “Thank you,” he says.

  I tilt my head. “For what?”

  “For yesterday. For turning around a very shitty night.”

  My smile is a little sad as I brush my lips over his. “Mr. Saint, it was my sincere pleasure.” I pull back and make a show of looking him up and down. He’s in jeans and a gray tee and he looks more or less like a mythical god. “Baseball cap,” I say. “You’re too good-looking and too recognizable. And I don’t think either one of us wants any more press.”

  “I didn’t bring a cap,” he says. In response, I rummage in my closet, find a souvenir cap I’d bought when Roger had taken me to a Yankees game, and toss it his way. “Now feed me,” I say. “Or I won’t have any energy left to continue improving your mood.”

  “That’s all the encouragement I need.”

  My go-to diner is just around the corner, but it’s a gorgeous fall Saturday, and we opt to take our bagels and coffee to-go, then head into the park.

  “Surely no one will notice us,” I say. “It’s not as if all of those publicity hounds at the theater last night are expecting you to go strolling through Morningside Park.”

  “We’ll be safe,” he agrees. “We have eyes on us, remember.”

  I frown. “Do we?” Devlin had told me that Ronan assigned security. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Devlin chuckles. “That’s because my people are good at their job.”

  I smirk. “Fair point.”

  “And even if we didn’t have s
ecurity, and the publicity hounds are pulling out their cameras…”

  “What?” I ask, when he trails off.

  He lifts a shoulder as he grins. “Fuck them.”

  My hands are full, so I resist the urge to high-five him. Instead, I manage a hip bump. “I like the way you think.”

  “Here,” he says, pointing to a bench near a tiny play area for toddlers.

  I settle on it, then use the space between us as a tabletop and shift on the bench to face him.

  “You always knew this would happen one day, didn’t you?” I ask as I unwrap my bagel and schmear.

  “Not with any certainty. But I’m also not surprised.”

  “I suppose the upside is that you’re no longer in hiding.”

  He nods slowly, his eyes narrowing. “But…”

  “The but is obvious,” I say. “Somebody pushed you out into the light. Somebody tipped off the press.”

  “They did. But who?”

  “Well, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? What Ronan’s now trying to figure out.” We’d avoided all talk of who pulled the trigger on this story last night, but now I’m ready to start mining for answers. He’s already started, of course, and from what he said earlier, Ronan is all over the investigation.

  “Who could it be other than Blackstone?” About ten years older than Devlin, Joseph Blackstone had also grown up on The Wolf’s compound. Now, he’s got his own criminal enterprise going, one that he operates out of the Chicago area, and he’s managed to evade prosecution because he’s a clever bastard. He’d landed on Devlin’s radar when an investigation into security breaches at the Devlin Saint Foundation led back to Blackstone’s network.

  Add to that the little fact that Blackstone and that bitch Anna were both friends and lovers and possibly enemies at various times. It’s hard to be certain since she’s now dead, something I am extremely happy about. She knew Blackstone from their years together at The Wolf’s compound. More recently, she’d apparently enlisted Blackstone’s help in her efforts to kill me because, in her eyes, I’d stolen what was supposed to be hers—Devlin.

  Bottom line? Though we can’t yet be certain, everything adds up to Blackstone being very much not in the Good Guy column of the checklist.