Page 34 of Heart of a Devil

I can’t help going over the things he said to me before he stormed out. Can’t help thinking he might have been right. Yes, he comes with a reputation—his own daughter warned me off him. And yes, we were definitely drawn together by physical attraction when we first met, the kind of chemistry they don’t teach in high school. The kind that can set you on fire. But it’s more than that now. We’ve opened up, confided in each other. Comforted each other. He told me about his broken childhood, and I trusted him enough to tell him about Brad Schmidt—and that little piece of information could potentially land me in prison.

I let him inside in every way imaginable—so why did I react like I did when I saw him sprawled on my couch as though he were an actual part of my life? Is he right? Am I makingmyselfa victim now by letting everything that’s happened to me in the past ruin my present and steal my future? It’s never mattered before now because there hasn’t been a man I felt anything for. This man, though? Well. He’s a whole different ball game.

I stand up, frustrated at yet again thinking my way into a corner. I need to do something, not just think about it. I hurt Seb earlier, I could tell. He hid it with anger and aggression, but beneath that was pain, and he did nothing to deserve it—he simply made the mistake of being there for me. He listened to me, provided me with spectacular sex, and he then made my apartment safer for me. And after all of that, I basically kicked him out and told him I was only interested in using him for sex.

I was an idiot. What can I do to fix it? It’s just after midnight—surely he’s done with whoever he was meeting. I consider trying him on the phone, but some conversations are better had in person. I know where he lives, and it’s a cab ride away. I’ve probably had a bit too much wine to risk driving, especially in my car, which tends to attract attention.

Once I’ve made my mind up, I move quickly, grabbing my bag and keys. I already have an attack alarm on my key chain, but I notice a small can of pepper spray has been left out on the kitchen counter, along with a wicked-looking fold-up baton. I take both with me. Seb left them for a reason, and I won’t hesitate to use them if I feel threatened.

It’s raining outside, and it takes me a few minutes to flag down a black cab and direct the driver to Seb’s house. I’ve never been inside, but Samantha showed it to me when we drove past once—a pretty red-brick home with a neat garden and a big garage off to one side. It’s a bit too ordinary and tidy to fit with my version of Seb, but we all have several versions of ourselves living in the same skin. The perfectly respectable house fits the version of him that is a dad, a business owner, anda grandfather, but I’m guessing there might be a few things in the garage that fit with other, less genial versions.

I use the journey to try to figure out what I want to say to him, which isn’t easy because I have no clue. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say I care about him. I want to say that I’m scared, anxious, but that I’m willing to try for more if he is. Mainly, I want to ask him if I can sleep over, because that idea no longer fills me with dread.

It took him walking out like he did, saying those things, to make me really think about it all. Now, the thought of waking up in his bed doesn’t make me feel trapped, it makes me smile. Spending the night with a man you like who blows your mind in the sack doesn’t equate to marriage, and I need to stop making it all such a big deal. I need to accept the fact that I will sleep better tonight if I am with him than if I am away from him. Wow, this is a real personal growth moment right here.

I get the driver to drop me at the end of the road so I can take a few calming breaths as I walk toward his house. My hair will frizz in the rain, but I need the space, need to feel my heartbeat slow. Like most women alone at night, I grip my keys between my fingers, walking steadily, constantly aware of my surroundings. Life has taught me enough lessons by this stage to realize that even the most innocent-looking situations can turn nasty fast.

Another black cab whooshes through the rain from the opposite direction, splashing to a halt right outside Sebastian’s place. I take shelter behind a parked van and watch as Seb steps out, looking a little unsteady on his feet, his T-shirt plastered to his muscular physique in a way I’d normally admire. Not tonight, though, because he reaches back into the cab and pulls a blond out of it. She giggles as the cab drives away, throwing her arms up around his neck. Say no, I think. Please send her away. Send her packing. Please, Seb, don’t be this person, notnow. Holding her close to his chest, he staggers up the steps of his house.

I hold my breath, praying that this is all some kind of misunderstanding. He’s obviously drunk, but is that excuse enough? And really, does he owe me anything anyway? As I’ve taken great pains to make clear to him, he is not my boyfriend. He has no obligation to keep his hands off other women.

It still hurts as I watch him fumble with his key before carrying her through his door. It hurts when he kicks the door closed, and I imagine his big hands—the hands that hours ago were all over me—being shoved roughly under her skimpy top.

Right up until he closed that door, I was holding out hope—thinking there was still time for him to stop. That there was time for him to show me he isn’t the man everyone has warned me he is.

I stay where I am, frozen to the spot, soaked to the bone. Tears are flowing down my cheeks, and I’m gripping my keys so hard they dig into my fingers. A light flicks on upstairs, showing the silhouette of two bodies in a bedroom. That’s enough. I’ve seen everything I need to see.

I feel sick.

I turn and run back to the main road, back to safety. I don’t care where I go, I just know I have to get away from this place. Away from Seb’s bedroom and the woman he’s fucking in there right now.

I find a late-night diner and sit at a booth nursing a black coffee that scalds my lips. I am cold and wet and sadder than I ever remember being. The waitress pats my shoulder sympathetically. “Men, eh? Bunch of wankers.” I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that I’m not so pathetic as to be sitting in public shedding tears over anything so trivial as a man. I am not like that, not the mighty Lauren Hayes. I am independent and tough, and I need nobody.

Except… She’s right, dammit. My stomach is twisted in knots, and I feel so damn foolish. So fucking stupid. I actually believed him. I actually came all the way here to make some kind of grand romantic gesture, thinking it could be the beginning of something different for me. I trusted him.

Now, as I attract pitying glances from strangers and shiver alone in a corner, I see what a terrible mistake that was. Samantha warned me. She told me what he was like. I knew all along that he was a commitment-phobe, that he’s been engaged five times without once getting married. I knew, deep down, that he was all about the chase, the challenge, the pursuit. He tricked me with warm big brown eyes and those unexpected moments of kindness. He made me believe that what we had could be different, if only I could let go of all my defense mechanisms.

I lay my keys on the table, the attack alarm dangling next to them, and add the pepper spray and steel baton. If someone tries to physically grab me, I have the tools to take them down. Emotionally? I feel vulnerable, exposed, and most of all, stupid.

Sebastian Donovan is a player. I saw the evidence with my own eyes. Now I need to let this new pain wash over me, give myself one night for a pity party, then remind myself that I’m a player too. And I play to win.

I don’t even know why I’m crying. In reality, I have lost nothing. How can I miss what was never really mine to begin with?

Chapter

Eighteen

LAUREN

Nicky Volkov is a live wire of a kid, even with his arm in plaster. Big Nick—the one who co-owns the law firm—has volunteered to keep him occupied while we talk with his mom. Nick has two kids of his own and has plenty of experience with nine-year-old wrangling. He lurks in the doorway of our meeting room and casually says, “Anyone here fancy a trip to the skate park, followed by a Big Mac?” Before anyone can answer, he shakes his head. “No? What a shame. Guess I’ll have to go on my own.”

The boy glances desperately at his mum, and she smiles and nods. “Me! I want to come, me!” He jumps to his feet and flies across the room, knocking chairs out of his way as he goes.

“Oh, okay. You’re Nicky, right?” The boy nods, blond curls bobbing. “Well, I’m also Nick, so I think we’re going to have to change your name. I was thinking we could call you Major Fart Face, what do you think?”

“No way. Not unless you’re Captain Poo Head.”

Their argument provides us all with a brief moment of levity. Samantha is here, along with Gabriel and Seb. Seb and I haven’t had any personal contact for over a week now, and I’m trying my hardest to ignore him.

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