Page 22 of Ravaged By a Devil

Alexis scoffs, rolling her head to glare at me. "I'm not stupid, Cain."

I look at her for a long, quiet moment before turning back to the road.

"I know."

The second I press the brakes and pull up in front of her walkway, Alexis unbuckles her seatbelt like the leather is on fire and pops the door open.

She swings her legs out, taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, but right before she steps clear of the car, she pauses. She turns back to face me, her amber eyes burning through the open passenger door.

"I hope you leave me out of this from now on, Cain," she says, her voice hard, laced with an absolute, uncompromising boundary. "I'm done."

I lean over the center console, resting my wrist on the top of the steering wheel, a slow, wicked smirk pulling at my mouth. "Yes, ma'am."

Alexis's brow furrows into a deep, frustrated frown at my easy response. She lets out an exasperated noise, slams the car door shut hard enough to rattle the glass, and storms straight up the concrete walkway toward her front porch.

I sit idling at the curb, resting my arm out the open window, watching her pull her key from her pocket, unlock the front door, and step inside.

I wait. Five minutes pass, then ten. I keep my eyes on the mirrors and the surrounding street, scanning every parked car, every alley entrance, and every passerby to ensure no Devlin tail followed us back.

Once I'm dead certain the block is clean, I put my foot on the gas and slowly pull away, her scent still lingering softly in the leather seats of my car.

I spend all morning and afternoon trailing the scarred bastard. After leaving Alexis, I doubled back, parked three streets away, and slipped undetected into the shadow of the Devlin club. It didn't take long for him to walk back out, and I’ve been his ghost ever since.

Now, the fool pulls his sedan up to a lonely, rusted warehouse—a hidden Devlin spot that’s managed to stay off our radar until today. His windows aren't tinted, giving me a clear view of him talking on his phone, completely oblivious.

I step silently out of my car, moving like a phantom along the brick wall. I stay low, waiting until he pops his door and steps one foot out onto the gravel, still jabbering into his cell.

The second he's ungrounded, I spring.

I grab the back of his neck and slam his head violently into his driver’s side window. The glass shatters, and he drops like a sack of stones, completely knocked out cold.

I throw a quick, sharp look across the empty lot—dead quiet, no eyes on us. I pull his dead weight out of the frame, drag him behind his tires, and pull my phone from my pocket to dial Malachi.

"I've got one of the guys in the photographs," I rumble as soon as he picks up. "The scarred fucker from Nolan’s inner circle. Trailed him to a Devlin warehouse off the industrial strip."

"Hold your position," Malachi says instantly, his voice tightening because he knows the violence that thrums under my skin. "Text me your address and I’ll send a full team. Do not go inside that building alone, Cain."

I scoff, watching the unconscious man bleed onto the dust. "The place looks empty, Mal. And even if it isn't, I can handle whatever's behind those doors."

"Cain, listen to me for once in your life," Malachi commands, his tone leaving zero room for debate. "We don't know what's waiting in there."

"If your men aren't standing in front of me in twenty minutes," I growl, staring up at the giant steel doors of the warehouse, "I'm going in without them."

The men arrive in ten minutes, pulling up in two blacked-out vans with their weapons drawn and low to their chests.

We breach the side entrance, kicking the steel doors off their hinges, but the rush is dead before it even starts. The place is completely deserted. Dust hangs thick in the air, echoing with nothing but the sound of our boots on the concrete floor.

I grind my teeth in disappointment, kicking a rusted barrel out of my way. But as we move deeper into the back offices, it becomes clear the trip wasn't a total waste.

Tacked across the walls and spilling over metal desks are dozens of surveillance photographs, blueprinted maps of our territories, and thick Manila files detailing our operations.

We don't linger. I have the crew sweep every single document, photo, and hard drive into tactical bags before we clear out. We haul the load—along with our unconscious guest—straight to one of our secure, off-the-grid warehouses across town.

Inside the dimly lit concrete room, the crew hauls the scarred bastard into the center of the floor, wrapping iron chains around his torso and binding his arms tight to a steel chair.

I step forward, picking up a rusted metal bucket filled to the brim with ice water, and slam the contents straight into his face.

He splutters awake, gasping violently for air, his head jerking back as the freeze hits his skin. His bleary eyes fight to focus through the water dripping from his lashes until they land on me, standing right over him.