I put money on the latter.
“What is with you?”Willa hisses through gritted teeth.“You know you can’t pull this shit.”
“He was touching her.”I back off, fists still clenched, eyes like lasers on the jerk.
I want to add that she is Hayami Devall—daughter of gang lord Barrett Devall, one of the richest, most influential, and most powerful men in Rothkor.No one rivals him, except perhaps the Castro family, who’ve been vying for control of this city ever since Devall took the reins more than thirty years ago.
Bottom line?No one fucks with a Devall.
But I’ll be damned if I use the Devall name to define Hayami.That’s not the reason I punched that slimy fucker.
“She’s a consenting adult who’s allowed to have a man touch her.Our job is to keep her alive.We only act when there’s a threat to her, or have you forgotten that?”Willa’s eyes narrow.She’s one of the few people who isn’t scared by my looks, and she can give as good as she gets.Her bark is worse than her bite, sure, but she’s not someone to be messed with.Then again, neither am I.
Hayami is back on her stool, looking far more regal than the fucker with the fat lip who’s leering at her as if he’s just won her at a fairground stall.He pulls his stool closer, and I have to fight the monster inside me not to explode and bring the walls of this place down around us all.
“Besides,” Willa says as she brushes her hand down her starched shirt and tugs on the lapels of her black jacket, reminding me that I’m not the only one trussed up in a smart suit, “this isn’t the kind of venue where you can let your fists do the talking.Have you forgotten where we are?”
As if this suit could let me forget.
The club is new, recently opened by one of Barrett Devall’s business cronies, probably furnished with dirty money and decorated in blood.From the outside, it’s a high-class, swanky club for the super-rich.On the inside, it’s just another laundrette.
Of course, Hayami has a pass to the premier suite—one she refused.She chose instead to stay on the dance floor with the regular crowd, and I can’t blame her.The premier suite will be full of wealthy assholes whose sole purpose is to flaunt their riches.
“No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good.”Willa pats me on the chest like the good mutt I am.
Blending into the darkness, I retreat into the shadows.The beat of the music drops, and I try to slow my heartbeat to match the rhythm as I watch Hayami.Willa nods, like she’s congratulating me for doing as I’m told.
She knows what I’m like.Knew it the first day we met, six months ago, when I was introduced as Hayami’s new bodyguard.She sniffed at me and muttered something about not being able to take the hound out of the dog.
This bodyguard business isn’t how I began working for Barrett Devall.
A year ago, after leaving the army—where I’d served for just over ten years—I walked into the large warehouse known as the Kennel with blood-encrusted fingernails, a black eye, and sore knuckles.
The Kennel is the headquarters of the Hellhounds, the name given to Devall’s foot soldiers—the muscle behind all his business dealings.A motley crew of people who wear their battle scars like armour.We’re the messengers, the heavies who handle the dirty work.We are your worst nightmare.
After being dragged into the warehouse by a couple of Hellhounds patrolling the site, I was dumped before Callan Croft, the head of the Hellhounds, a hulk of a guy with tattoos on his face and dark hair like a wire brush.He asked me what I was doing on his turf.I told him I was looking for work.
He took one sweeping look at my bloodied knuckles, snarling teeth, and knotted scars before he slapped me on the back, called me one ugly motherfucker, then introduced me to the rest of the pack, who were as unsightly as I am.Background checks happened, but Callan had already known I’d fit in.I was welcomed with open arms and wagging tails.
It felt like fate—working for the Devall family, the biggest rivals of the Castros, Rothkor’s second-largest gang.I never questioned it.
Not until six months ago.
That’s when it all changed.
When I swapped my dog collar for a shirt collar.
TWO
FENRIR
SIX MONTHS AGO
I’m pretty surea Hellhound has never set foot inside Devall Mansion, yet here I am, standing in the foyer, palms sweatier than they were in the desert during an eight-mile ruck with a twenty-five-kilo pack, plus water, rifle, and helmet.
The mansion lives up to its name: pale marble flooring, a glistening chandelier, and a split staircase that looks like a musical set—minus the sequinned dancers flanking the steps.I feel as out of place as a homeless man in the Ritz.
