Page 49 of Ravaged By a Devil

Every primal instinct screaming inside my chest demands I put my mouth back on her and take every drop she has to give, but the moment her safe word left her lips, the game ended. I will break the world before I break her trust.

I push myself up, my movements sharp as I pull my pants up, yank my belt back around my waist, and buckle it with a snap of leather.

Alexis remains lying on the damp ground, her chest heaving, looking so thoroughly exhausted she can barely lift her head. Something strangely hot and unfamiliar swells in my chest, expanding until it threatens to split my ribs open.

I lean down, my broad hands reaching out to wrap around her wrist. I try to be careful, but my strength is hard to tame; I pull her up a little too fast, her limp body swaying against mine. She feels like jelly in my arms, completely reliant on my frame to keep her upright.

A fierce, dark wall of overprotectiveness slams into me, locking every territorial instinct into place.

I gather her clothes off the grass, shaking off the stray leaves. Grooming a woman isn't in my nature—gentleness is an unpracticed, awkward concept to hands built exclusively for violence.

My jerkier, clumsy movements show as I guide her limp arms through the sleeves of her lounge top, tugging the fabric down over her torso before pulling her bottoms back up over her hips. My fingers catch roughly on the waistband twice, but I double-check every hem to make sure she's covered against the night chill.

Once she's fully dressed, I don't bother asking if she can walk. I scoop one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, hoisting her up against my chest in a heavy, tight grip.

She rests her heavy head against the crook of my neck, her soft breath fanning across my collarbone as I turn around and trek back through the dark woods, carrying my prize back toward the safety of the house.

I carry her through the back patio doors and straight into the warmth of the house, kicking the glass door shut behind us with the heel of my boot.

Setting her down gently on the edge of the kitchen island, I step back and inspect her thoroughly under the bright overhead lights.

My fingers gently trace the places where I held her—checking her wrists where the leather belt bound her, brushing over her shoulders, and lingering on her throat where my hand rested.

"Did I hurt you?" I rumble, my voice low and gruff as I grab a clean glass, fill it with cold water, and press it into her small hands. "Anything sore?"

Alexis takes a slow sip, looking up at me through her lashes with a soft, teasing smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

"Look at you... turning all soft and gentle the second we step back inside, after acting like an absolute predator out in those woods."

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my broad chest to hide the faint warmth creeping into my neck. "Don't get used to it."

"I'm fine, Cain," she murmurs, setting the glass down. "Just tired."

"You're eating before you sleep," I state firmly, turning toward the refrigerator. "I'll make you a quick meal—toast and scrambled eggs."

"Cain, no, it's late," she starts to argue, shifting on the stool. "I really don't need⁠—"

"You need food," I cut her off, my tone leaving zero room for debate as I pull out a carton of eggs, a block of butter, and a loaf of fresh bread.

"You just burned through every ounce of energy you had running through my woods and screaming my name. Sit there and keep quiet."

Alexis lets out a soft sigh, resigning herself to my stubbornness.

She settles back against the cushioned barstool, wrapping her arms loosely around herself, and simply sits in my kitchen, watching me work.

My movements are still somewhat stiff and unpracticed as I crack the eggs into a bowl and drop butter into the frying pan, but the quiet rhythm fills the space between us with an unexpected calm.

"What about the rest of your family?" I ask, my voice breaking the stillness as I whisk the eggs with a fork. "Is it just you and Milly, or are there others out there?"

I slide the butter around the hot pan, watching it melt into a quiet sizzle before pouring the eggs in.

"Just Milly," Alexis answers. I glance over my shoulder to see a faint, melancholic smile touching her lips.

"Why?" I ask, turning back to the stove to pull two slices of bread from the bag and drop them into the toaster.

Alexis leans her chin on her palm, staring down at the polished marble island. "When I left home at sixteen, my grandmother was the only one who actually helped me. She was the only person who stood by me."

She pauses, her gaze fixing on the edge of the counter. I can feel the sudden weight of what she isn't saying—the dark reasons behind why a sixteen-year-old girl would run away from her own home in the first place.