Laurette Devereux doesn't run.
She hunts.
Chapter 11
Bastien Montclaire
There’s hunger.And then there’s whatever this is.
The clang of steel and the feral roar of “You’re Mine” by Disturbed thump through the gym’s speakers, each beat a pulse of possession. The mirrors along the wall catch my reflection—back arched, sweat glinting, every muscle coiled. I hold my gaze, watching the violence inside me take form.
I pile on more weight than usual, muscles screaming, spine taut, but it isn’t pain driving me.
It’s her.
Laurette has me wired so tightly I could grind steel between my teeth. She’s not a fixation. She’s a fuse, and I’m already lit.
I rack the bar with a grunt, chest heaving, breath jagged. My pulse slams at the base of my throat.
The song fades, but she doesn’t. Not from my head or from my blood.
I drag the towel over my skin, muscles still twitching with aftershocks. My reflection glares back—feral, coiled.
I imagine her here, watching the hunger in my eyes. I imagine the heat between us, the way she’d look when I touch her just right.
My phone interrupts my thoughts, glowing with a reminder.
11:00?a.m.
Legal consultation with Bellamy.
Right. Time to meet the man she used to fuck.
Jon David Bellamy. Defense attorney with a frat-boy face and a voice polished by private schools and debate teams. Word is, he gets clients off by charming juries and stroking judges’ egos. I’m familiar with the type. Lifts just enough to fill out a shirt. Slick haircut. Predator eyes. The kind who’s never had to bleed for anything.
Apparently, she used to want him.
I want to see why.
I run the trimmer along my beard, edges clean across a jaw hardened by years. Olive-toned skin, kissed by the sun, a faint scar near my left temple catching the light as I lean in. Eyes golden brown, piercing, the kind that draw attention whether I want it or not.
I comb back my thick, dark hair, clipped at the sides, longer on top, shifting with the wind. Straight nose, broken once or twice, and a strong jaw shaped by the French and Spanish blood running through my veins.
I tighten my cuffs and roll my shoulders back. Black button-down. Black slacks. Soft leather wristwatch that cost too much for someone with no real identity. Broad build. Strong profile. I look like a man who eats men like Jon David Bellamy for sport.
And I bet he’d enjoy that.
But it’s the truth in me that will make this meeting feel real. I’m not going to Jon David Bellamy for legal help. I’m going to see what kind of man I’ll have to bury.
Ten minutes before the hour, I’m behind the wheel, windows tinted black, engine low and smooth beneath my palms. Downtown rises ahead.
Bellamy & Coker gleams in the heart of downtown likesomething too clean to trust—glass front, white stone facade, stainless steel handles polished to a sterile shine. Inside, a receptionist greets me with a sugared smile and ushers me toward leather chairs and curated modern art. The kind of wealth that doesn’t whisper. It announces.
Today, I go by Andrew Black.
On paper, I’m staring down three assault charges, two counts of property damage, and one for resisting arrest. Enough to paint me as dangerous but not irredeemable. The kind of case a defense attorney like him can jerk off to. Makes him feel holy.
He makes me wait seven minutes.
