Page 27 of The Devil's Wrath

When we arrived at her place, I cut the engine and steadied the bike so she could climb off. She wobbled a bit on her heels, and I quickly dismounted to grab her elbow and keep her upright.

“I’ve got it,” she snapped, shaking off my hand. Even disheveled and unsteady, her pride was still intact. She marched toward her front door, digging through her small purse for her keys.

I followed behind, watching hawkishly to make sure she got inside safely. She fumbled with the keys, cursing under her breath as she struggled to fit them into the lock with her intoxicated, clumsy fingers. I gently took them from her and unlocked the door, pushing it open. She stumbled inside and kicked off her heels haphazardly.

“I can take it from here,” she slurred as she turned to face me. She shrugged out of my jacket and held it out to me. “Thanks for the ride.”

I ignored the proffered jacket. “I’m not leaving until you’re safely in bed.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Humor me.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation and marched unsteadily toward the stairs. I watched tensely as she clumsily made her way up, my hands hovering behind her, poised to catch her if she stumbled. She reached the top of the landing without incident and headed down the hall to her bedroom. I followed a few paces behind.

She paused in her doorway and turned to glare at me. “You can go now,” she said contemptuously. “I think you’ve filled your white knight quota for the night.”

I ignored her dismissal and stepped past her into the bedroom, flicking on the light, taking care not to inadvertently look in the direction of the cameras I had placed. It was a dark, feminine space, and I took in the details better than I had when I’d busted down her door—dark gray walls adorned with black_and-white photos of foggy forests, a plush charcoal carpet, and a large four-poster bed draped in silky black sheets and decorative pillows and throws. Her bedroom suited her with its elegant blend of moody hues and sumptuous textures.

She made an indignant noise behind me. “Sure, come on in. Make yourself at home,” she said sarcastically, tossing her purse onto the dresser.

Ignoring her quip, I strode to the bed, pulling back the covers. “Get in,” I ordered, nodding toward the sheets.

She folded her arms in challenge. “I don’t take orders from you.” But even as she said it, I could see her struggling to keep her eyes open.

I sighed. My patience was running thin. “Get in the damn bed.”

“And then what? You’ll read me a bedtime story and tuck me in?” Sarcasm dripped from every word.

I quirked an eyebrow. “If that’s what you want.”

She glared at me. “What I want is for you to leave. I didn’t ask for your help tonight.”

Biting back a frustrated growl, I closed the distance between us in two long strides. She swayed on her feet but held her ground, tilting her chin to meet my gaze with those stubborn, glassy eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing the stormy gray of her irises.Without a word, I scooped her up in my arms, ignoring her startled yelp of protest.

“Put me down, you Neanderthal!” She pounded her small fists against my chest, but there was little strength behind the blows. I carried her over to the bed and deposited her in the center of the mattress. She glared up at me defiantly.

“Stay,” I commanded as she sat up.

She huffed but fell back, her hair fanned out across the pillows, exhaustion and drunkenness finally dulling her ability to put up a fight.Thank god.I pulled the covers up over her prone form. She turned her face away from me, her eyes fluttering closed.

I stepped back and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest as her breathing evened out. She looked so young and innocent in sleep, her face relaxed and unguarded. It was hard to reconcile this peaceful creature with the fiery, defiant woman who had stood up to me all night.

Satisfied that she was settled, I turned to leave. But something made me pause in the doorway, an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. Watching over her tonight, seeing the reckless way she’d drowned her sorrows in alcohol and men, stirred a protectiveness in me that I didn’t quite understand. She was under my skin, burrowing deeper with every heated exchange—every challenging look from those stormy gray eyes.

I knew then with a bone-deep certainty that I would kill for this woman. I would burn the world to ash to keep her safe. Because whether she remembered that night long ago or not, she was mine. She had been mine from the moment I’d pulled her broken body from the twisted wreckage, our fates intertwined by fire and blood. And nothing, not even her stubborn pride or my own twisted demons, would change the immutable truth.

With one last lingering look at her sleeping form, I forced myself to walk away, closing the front door softly behind me. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed with a heavy finality. I climbed onto my bike and stared up at her darkened window like some lovesick fool.

What was this woman doing to me? I had never let anyone getunder my skin like this. I didn’t do attachments or complications. My life was too unpredictable, too dangerous for anything more than fleeting pleasure and release. And yet, here I was, unable to tear myself away from her, even knowing the inevitable pain and destruction it would bring down on both of us.

Because the truth was, no matter how fiercely she fought it, Wrenly Morgan belonged to me, body and soul. And the dark, primal part of me would never let her go, no matter the cost. I would possess every part of her until she understood she was mine and mine alone.

I sped off into the night, the cold wind whipping past my face as I tried to outrun the chaos in my mind. The memory of her warm, pliant body pressed against mine on the ride here tormented me. The scent of her perfume still clung to my leather jacket.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Kai.

Where the fuck are you? You’re missing one hell of a party. The redhead is asking about you . . .

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