Page 12 of My Cruel Salvation

So how did Devlin know it? For that matter, why was William so familiar with Devlin Saint? I’ve known William for years, and he’s never seemed to be the type to keep up with celebrity gossip.

I’d been heading for the stairs, but now I come to a stop.

“Ellie?”

I look up at him, then flash a smile at both him and William. “Nothing. Just tired. We should head up. I’m on the sixth floor,” I add, though at this point I’m certain that Devlin knows exactly where I live. Not to mention how long I’ve lived here, my credit score, and how much I pay in rent.

By the time we reach the landing, the dumbwaiter has brought our bags up. We grab them, and as soon as I open the door, Devlin takes them inside.

“This is it,” I say, sweeping my arm to encompass the studio. After I graduated, I’d splurged and hired a handyman to come install a sliding bookcase, both because I wanted a place for my books and so that it could act as a wall to form a DIY bedroom in the studio apartment. Right now, the two components of the bookcase are together, so that the bedroom area is visible. But if I have guests, I can slide one set of bookcases over, to form a solid wall.

“It’s nice,” he says, with what sounds a bit like pride.

I smirk. “Well, I hope you’d think so. You own this building, after all.”

He chuckles. “Busted.” Then he points to the bookcases. “I think that might be in violation of your lease.”

“Ha ha. Seriously, Devlin. You freaking own this building. What the hell?”

He shrugs. “It was a good investment. Plus, I wanted to make sure you were safe and comfortable.”

“You bought this place so that you could fix up the building I live in?” It’s not really a question since I already know the answer.

His smile broadens, and I shake my head, not sure if I’m awed, annoyed, or amused. “But how did you—” I pause. I know perfectly well how he managed it. He’d watched me in the years after he’d killed Peter and fled from Laguna Cortez … and from me. And all the while, he’d carefully ensured that I didn’t know he was there.

Because he was watching me, he would have learned when I applied for grad school, not to mention when I was accepted. And then all he had to do was make a too-good-to-be-true offer to the building’s owner once I’d signed the lease.

“At least I know who to go to when the plumbing goes wonky.”

“Baby,” he says, “you know I’ll always take care of your plumbing.”

He says it with such a ridiculous leer that I can’t help but laugh as I pull him toward the couch with me. I push him down, then straddle him. “We lost so much time,” I say. “Especially when you consider how close we were during those years when I thought we were so far apart.”

“You know why.”

I nod. I understand why he left, and why he became Devlin Saint, and even why he never intended to seek me out and tell me the truth. “I do,” I admit. “But I still mourn the past we could have had.”

“The past always comes back to you,” he says, his voice turning harsh.

I tense, hating that we’ve circled back to the award and his father, even though I know that in reality it was always hiding there beneath the surface of our banter. We’d put it away in front of the driver and William. But now that we’re alone, things are different. Now, he’s free to feel the pain, and I’m here to help him get through it.

I press my hand to his cheek. “You have every right to be pissed,” I say. “At your father, at the committee. Hell, even at Damien Stark. He obviously didn’t manage to convince Livingston to not pull the plug.”

He half-grins at that, then his expression turns serious. “I’m pissed,” he says. “I can admit it. Angry and hurt and—goddammit.”

He pushes me aside as he rises off the couch and starts pacing as if talking about it has flipped a switch. I see the anger bubbling inside him, but there’s something else, too. Something bigger. Darker. Something I’m not sure I understand yet.

For that matter, something I’m not sure I want to.

“Devlin?” His name feels tentative on my lips. “Devlin, are you okay?”

He stalks back to me, the air around him practically vibrating with an unfamiliar wildness as he tugs me to my feet. He reaches out, twining his fingers in my hair then tilting my head back as his mouth claims mine in a wild assault of teeth and tongue filled with so much passion and need that my knees go week. I reach up, gripping his shoulders for balance.

His other hand goes to the zipper on my dress, and he tugs it all the way down so that my back is bare to the curve of my rear. He slides his fingers down, parting my butt cheeks, and I tremble as he strokes the sensitive muscles of my ass. I hear a low growl in his throat. His thumb stays in place, making me long for something I’ve never had before as his other fingers move lower, finally thrusting roughly inside me.

“Yes,” I murmur, writhing against him, wanting him deeper. Wilder. Wanting him to throw me down and fuck me hard because all I really want at this moment is to be connected to him. To be one with him.

I start to lift a hand, intending to slip out of the dress’s spaghetti straps.