Page 11 of Ravaged By a Devil

Yet, damn it, he sets a slow, raging fire directly in my belly. I am the absolute last person on this earth who should be attracted to a dangerous man. I’ve spent years running from violence, keeping my head down and avoiding men like him at all costs.

But there’s something about this stranger—about the heat he radiates—that holds me completely arrested.

My eyes linger on a specific piece of ink carved over his ribcage. It’s a caterpillar mid-metamorphosis into a butterfly, half-formed, twisted, and incomplete.

"Why do you have so many tattoos?" I ask softly, my fingers delicately dabbing around the cut.

When he doesn't answer right away, I break my focus and glance up at his face. He was already waiting for me to look at him. The second our eyes meet, a slow, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Up close, the man is ruggedly, obscenely handsome. Like a savage carved out of dark stone—an utterly devastating beauty, but with pure danger oozing from every pore.

"You don't like tattoos?" He rumbles, those hazel eyes blazing into mine.

I give a small, nonchalant shrug, trying to keep my hands steady as I apply the ointment. "I don't like dangerous men."

He lets out a low, husky laugh that vibrates right through his chest. "That’s too bad, doll."

I narrow my eyes, applying a fresh square of gauze. "Don't call me pet names. My name is Alexis."

"Okay, sweet face," he counters without missing a beat.

Annoyed, I deliberately press down just a little too hard on the tender edge of his open wound as I smooth the medical tape down.

He sharply sucks in a ragged breath, his core instantly flexing rock-hard beneath my fingertips. A second later, he lets out another quiet, dangerous laugh.

My heart does a violent thud against my ribs, and my bravado completely evaporates. I chicken out, instantly pulling my hands back.

"All done," I say quickly, taking a fast step backward.

Oh, his knuckles.

I reach down to grab one of his bloodied knuckles, intending to clean the split skin, but he pulls his arm away before I can touch him.

Without a word, he snatches his shirt off the floor and pulls it back over his head, sealing that ridiculous expanse of muscle away. I let out a quiet sigh of relief. As much as I’m drawn to his body, he desperately needs to cover it up so I can actually think straight.

He adjusts his collar, his dark hazel eyes fixing on me with that unsettling, laser-focused intensity.

"I noticed the pill bottles and the stack of overdue notices on the coffee table out front," he says, his voice observant. "What’s that about?"

I hesitate, wrapping my arms around myself as a sudden chill settles in my chest. "My grandmother is sick," I tell him softly. It’s the absolute bare minimum, the only information I’m willing to yield to a stranger.

He tilts his head slightly. "You the only one taking care of her?"

"Yes."

"Where’s the rest of your family?"

I swallow down the old, familiar ache in my throat, keeping my chin up. "Milly raised me. She’s the only family I have."

He hums, a low sound in the back of his throat as he processes my words. He leans back slightly on the edge of my mattress, studying my face.

"I’ll pay you," he says plainly, the proposition dropping into the quiet bedroom like a lead weight. "Name a price. Let me fuck you, and I’ll take care of all those bills."

My eyes widen in sheer disbelief. The raw, filthy bluntness of his offer hits me like a physical slap.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

Before my brain can even process the insult, my body reacts. My hand flies out, crackling through the air, and my palm connects squarely with his cheek in a sharp, echoing SNAP.