Page 1 of The Devil

PROLOGUE

Amal

Present Day

Edinburgh, Scotland

An icy breeze blows in.

It’s the vestibule doors opening, that little bit of outside slipping into the cathedral. A moment later, the doors clang shut, loud and unmistakable.

A shudder runs through me, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

It’s him.

I know it.

I feel it.

He’s found me. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? I knew that all along.

I close my eyes.

My heart thuds against my ribs as the old pews creak, the congregation sitting down. There is an infinitesimal pause in Father Abernathy’s stride toward the podium. His eyes are trained on the center aisle.

On the men who just entered the church.

Footsteps resound on the stone floors, loud and echoing. Heads turn to look. Not mine though.

No need.

I swallow as the steps grow closer, the beads of the rosary I clutch digging deep into the palms of my hands.

Father Abernathy taps the microphone, testing it. The clearing of his throat echoes and I keep my eyes on him, the shadow of the huge cross, Jesus nailed to it, a blur at his back.

The footsteps stop when they reach my pew. My pulse stutters but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. I don’t look at the towering figure looming there. Still don’t dare turn my head to meet the eyes of the man casting his shadow over me.

I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.

Jethro, Jet, Blackstone. Right hand man of Cassian Trevino. Meant to be his Consigliere but turned into something else entirely.

His gaze bores into the side of my head willing me to turn. Daring me to.

When I don’t, he steps into the pew without a word, his body nudging mine, the heat of him burning. I glance to my right, escape impossible I know, but fight or flight is basic instinct and mine is telling me to run. To get the hell out of there.

But Malcom, Jet’s most trusted man, takes a seat on the other end of the pew. No exit for me, not unless I plan on climbing over Malcom’s thighs and clawing my way out.

As if sensing I’m desperate enough to do exactly that, Jet’s hand slips just beneath my skirt to close over my knee. The skin of his palm is rough, his grip unforgiving. Our thighs are pressed together, my arm against his. He doesn’t leave an inch between us. He’s all hard muscle and broad shoulders letting me know this space is not my own.

The hand on my knee slides up just a little. An inch. Two. My heart thuds and it takes all I have to keep my gaze forward.

His fingers tighten, digging into my thigh until I’m finally forced to look at him. To meet those beautiful forest eyes. Eyes that once saw straight through to the damage inside. Like they felt and understood it.

Understood me.

Now those eyes are narrowed. Angry.

What do I expect, though? I betrayed him.