Cora was there. Beautiful, faithless Cora.
Telling him he was not worthy of her. That she would sooner be a lord’s whore than a thief’s wife.
Her back was to him, and when he reached for her, she turned.
It was not Cora looking at him, but Evie.
Evie with her tousled golden curls and her tearstained face.
“Live for me,” she whispered. “I love you.”
“Evie,” he tried to say, but his voice was hoarse.
She fell away.
That was when the flames returned, burning him into nothing.
Devil woke inthe night with a jolt, pain lancing him. His head ached. His shoulder was on fire. But hovering on the air was a sweet scent he recognized. Or at least, he thought he did.
That scent tore him from the bowels of whatever perdition he had been inhabiting. It called to him like a siren’s song. He was in the grips of delirium again, he was sure. Delusional from the fevers attacking his body. Infection had set in, and he had been paying the price, torn between the abyss of mindlessness and terrible nightmares that threatened to steal his soul.
He was cloaked in darkness, the chamber bathed in shadows. He could scarcely keep his eyes open—the lids were so damn heavy. Nothing made sense, and yet everything did.
He recalled pieces of what had happened. Wilmore’s pistol against his back, the gunfire that had erupted as Jasper Sutton had struck first, killing their mutual enemy.
Not before Wilmore had landed a bullet in Devil’s shoulder, however.
None of that mattered. All that did matter was that Evie was safe. Wilmore’s power had been doused by his death, and his men would be left scrambling. The hell would close. The threat was over.
And Devil had made certain she would return to her aristocratic world where she belonged. To the lord she would marry. The thought was more painful than the ball that had torn through his flesh.
He shifted on the bed, trying to find comfort for his aching back, but the movement was nigh impossible. His body felt as weak as a newborn foal’s.
“Theo?”
The hopeful whisper was familiar.
Hers.
He inhaled sharply, but even that movement brought him pain. He clenched his jaw to stave off a wave of nausea.
Damn it, he had not been wrong about the scent. She was here, somewhere near to him in the darkness. He wanted to touch her so badly he shuddered. But then, he realized his teeth were chattering. And suddenly he was cold, so cold. Shaking with the chill. He could not get warm enough.
Nor could he speak.
Fingers gently stroked his hair. Soft, knowing, delicate fingers. He closed his eyes and thought of them, pale and elegant, the nails rounded, the pads silken. But she must not be here. Did she not understand? He was doing this for her. Because he could not bear for her to ever be in danger again. Because he could not make her his knowing she would one day resent him.
It was better this way.
She was too good for his sorry arse.
Better off without him.
She would see, one day.
But for now, he could not muster the desire to send her away. Not when she was touching him with such tenderness. He could almost pretend she loved him. Stupid, he knew.
No one could ever love Devil Winter.
