Page 21 of The Devil's Wrath

That’s odd. I typed inRaven/Connor McKinley.

While waiting for the software to process my search, I turned my attention back to the camera feed. She was in the living room now, curled up on the couch with a blanket, the glow of the television illuminating her face. Even from this distant view, I could see the tear stains on her cheeks.

A notification popped up on my screen. The search had finished, but it had come up empty. No social media profiles, no public records, not even a mention of a name anywhere online. Everyone had a digital footprint these days. But it was as if Raven didn’t exist.

I leaned back in my chair, perplexed. I typed inConnor McKinley’s girlfriend.

I watched her turn the TV off and walk upstairs to her room. She collapsed onto her bed, burying her face in her pillow as her body shook with sobs.

A soft ping drew my attention back to the search results. I frowned as I scanned the meager information displayed on the screen. It wasn’t until I reached the end of the results that I found a newspaper article titled “Senator’s Son: Threat to Collegiate Middleweight Champion.”Underneath the headline was a black-and-white photo of Connor with his arm around Raven. The article was dated one month ago, detailing Connor’s victory in a boxing tournament. Next to “pictured in order left to right,” it named the people in the photo: Charles McKinley, Connor McKinley, and longtime girlfriend, Wrenly Morgan.

I felt like the air had been sucked from the room. It couldn’t be. This had to be a mistake. She couldn’t be the girl I had pulled, bloody and bruised, from the wreckage.

I hastily typedWrenly Morganinto the search bar, and my fingers shook as I hit enter. The search results loaded, and my eyes widened in disbelief as I saw several newspaper articles about the Morgans.

“Prominent New York Couple Killed In Fiery Car Crash.”

“Investment Banker Thomas Morgan and Wife Margaret Morgan Tragedy.”

“Thomas Morgan Sister Huge Win In Court.”

“Cecelia Morgan, Newly Appointed CEO of Morgan Industries.”

On Christmas Eve, prominent New York City Investment BankerThomas Morgan and his wife Margaret were tragically killed in a car accident on the way home from a charity event to raise money for a local hospital. They are survived by their son, Gage Morgan (24), and their daughter, Wrenly Morgan (20).

My mind reeled as I stared at the article, trying to process the implications. Wrenly, not Raven. She had lied to me about her identity, her past, everything. But why? What was she hiding from?

I continued to scroll through the search results. There were a few mentions of her on society pages and charity event coverage, and she was always pictured beside Gage, her brother and our resident doctor. I combed through every piece of information I could find on her. Her social media profiles were all private, but I found a few old photos of her before the accident. She’d looked different then—happier, more carefree. But there was no mistaking those gray eyes.

Following their parents’ passing, Wrenly and her brother Gage had found themselves entangled in a fierce legal dispute with Thomas’s sister, Cecelia, over their family’s extensive wealth. Despite Thomas’s wish for Gage to take the lead in the family business, Cecelia was appointed as the estate’s executor. However, they challenged the will, asserting that their parents intended the inheritance to be divided equally between her and her brother.

The legal battle had dragged on for months thanks to unclear wording of the will and played out in New York society’s tabloids and gossip pages. In the end, a settlement was reached—Cecelia would take control of Morgan Industries, while Gage and Wrenly received a sizable trust fund. However, the damage to the family’s reputation and the siblings’ relationship with their only surviving family and aunt was irreparable.

The worst part about it all was I’d been there the night her parents had died. It’d been me who had pulled her from the wreckage. I’d encouraged my father to use his influence to convince St. Mary’s to allow her to go to school for free—although we had respected her parents’ wishes and had done it anonymously. We were under strict orders to leave her alone after that. Cassian King had offered Gage a position in our family as our doctor, tending to our needs away fromhospitals with a generous paycheck as a compassionate gesture in memory of his parents. Gage enjoyed the perks of The Brotherhood but had no interest in leading the organization. He’d never say it, but he held anger toward The Brotherhood for leading to the death of his parents. So he channeled that anger into becoming a doctor and worked for The Brotherhood in a different capacity. In his mind, he kept The Brotherhood and his medical practice separate, but he walked a fine line, because the two worlds often collided, and there was no escaping it.

Thomas Morgan had been the leader of The Brotherhood; without him, our fathers would never have risen so high in society and wouldn’t have been in the positions of power to take over after his death. The Brotherhood owed him, and we looked after our own. Even in death, loyalty ran deep.

Hours passed as I watched her, never taking my eyes off the screen. Eventually, her sobs subsided and she drifted off to sleep, still fully clothed on top of her covers.

Memories from that fateful night flooded my mind. The charity masquerade, the accident, the news that Nikolai Petrov had ordered a hit on Thomas Morgan for dismantling his empire, and a series of transactions that had followed.

It had been years since I last thought about it.

The ballroom was litup to resemble the Aurora Borealis, celestial hues of greens, blues, and purples bathing the elegantly dressed crowd in an ethereal glow. I stood at the edge of the dance floor, nursing a scotch and scanning the room. These charity events were all the same—New York’s elite patting themselves on the back for their generosity while indulging in excess.

My eyes settled on Thomas and Margaret Morgan gliding across the dance floor, matching gold masks on their faces, the picture of marital bliss. They were the golden couple, admired and envied in equal measure—a fairy tale in a world of arranged marriages lacking true love.

Thomas deserved to be the leader of The Brotherhood with his keen business acumen and political influence. He knew how to command the attentionof all those who worked for him. Our fathers wanted to be him, but they had this twisted sense of loyalty and jealousy because Thomas truly was the best one for the position.

Margaret was a devoted wife and mother, who still turned heads with her classic beauty, black hair, and gray eyes. We all strove to one day have a wife like her, beautiful, loyal, intelligent . . . a queen.

I stood off to the side with Cassian King, Asher Montgomery, Kai, Archer, Thane West—my father—and some other members of The Brotherhood. We’d been invited to celebrate Thomas Morgan’s latest business coup, a multimillion-dollar deal that had solidified his position in his company, Morgan Enterprises. But beneath the glitz and glamour, tensions were running high.

Rumors had been swirling for weeks that Nikolai Petrov, a ruthless Russian oligarch, was out for blood. The Brotherhood had outmaneuvered him in a series of lucrative contracts, and Petrov’s empire was crumbling as a result. Intel suggested he had put a hit out on Thomas as retribution. Not that hits were uncommon. We all knew the risks. Every day we weren’t murdered or hadn’t died in the line of duty to The Brotherhood was a good day, a lucky day. Still, The Brotherhood had closed ranks, doubling security and watching each other’s backs even more than usual.

As the night wore on, I scanned the crowd to find my father deep in conversation with Thomas, their heads bent close together, no doubt discussing Brotherhood business.

My gaze drifted across the room and landed on her. A girl with black hair, her eyes a luminescent gray, her face hidden behind a black feathered mask. She looked ethereal in a shimmering silver gown that clung to her lithe frame, her raven hair swept up in an elegant chignon. My father nodded in my direction, and Thomas approached me.

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