His gasp is music. The way his hands claw at my wrist? That’s rhythm.
I watch him choke on his own lie, his eyes bulging as I tighten my grip. My heart doesn’t race. My pulse doesn’t flicker.
This is peace.
“You shouldn’t have come here,Colt Carmichael,” I say, voice velvet over razors. His eyes go wild. That name sinks in like poison. “Oh yeah,” I purr. “I know exactly who you are. Gerald Carmichael’s boy. And Court’s little brother.”
I tilt my head, amused. “Latebrother, that is.”
His whole body jolts at the name. Ilaugh. Ican’thelp it.
“See, you walked in here thinking you were invisible. But you’re not. You’re a loose end. And I specialize in cutting those.”
I let him dangle a second longer, just until the edges of his vision fray.
Then I slam him down.
He hits the ground in a coughing, broken heap, lungs wheezing like popped balloons. I crouch beside him, grab a fistful of his hair, and wrench his head up.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, bloodlust thick in my throat.
And then Ipunchhim. Hard. Nose cracks. Blood spurts. It paints his lips in red confession.
That felt good.
I tilt his head back again, locking eyes, anddriveanother fist into his face, rage flooding every nerve in my body.
“You thought this was just a job?” I growl. “This is war, you stupid fuck. And I’m not just the executioner.” I lean in until he can feel my breath on his cheek. “I’m the Devil you pray never walks through your door.”
“P-please, don’t kill me.” He cries like it’s not already too late.
Begging always sounds better soaked in blood and desperation. But he’s wasting his breath.
“I won’t kill you…” I say, crouching beside him with the kind of calm that signals the storm. “Yet.I’ve got questions, and you’re going to give me answers before I decide how deep I want to bury you.”
I don’t even turn my head when I bark, “Declan!”
He’s already moving.
Six-foot-four, solid muscle, a Devil by fire, not by blood. Declan didn’t get here by legacy. He earned it with pain. Built himself from the ashes of his mother and brother’s murder, and we helped him burn the man responsible.
Now he’s one of us. And I trust him with my life.
“Sir?” he asks, stepping up beside me like the executioner waiting for his cue.
“I don’t know everything that went down here today,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on the rat squirming at my feet, “but I do know your family’s killer died screaming, withyourhands around his throat. That’s justice.”
Declan’s jaw ticks. Good. He remembers.
“Now I need you to return the favor. Makethis onetalk.”
His voice is steady. “Say the word.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Dash already dug into his past, ripped up everything he tried to bury. But I want to hear it fromhismouth.”
Declan’s knuckles pop, one by one. That feral little grin spreading across his face tells me he’s ready to play. “Any limits?”
I smirk, proud as hell. “Whatever goes. Just don’t kill him. Not until he sings.”
