Page 18 of Blind Devotion (Letters of Ruin #1)

The next morning, before sunrise, I returned to my mysterious guest’s room while she slept.

This needed to end. I was making a fool of myself, turning back into that eight-year-old boy unable to pull a goddamn trigger.

The boy who doomed himself and his brother with his hesitation.

Except this time, it was my reputation, my family, and Erel I put at risk.

Over the years, I flayed my enemies. Burned them alive.

Dismembered them. Dissolved them in acid.

Drowned them. Pummeled them. Without hesitation.

Without remorse. Without regret. I was known for it.

Praised for it. Respected for it. Never show weakness.

Strength conquers all . Yet all those years of hard determination and grit were being brought down by one weak, vulnerable little woman. No more.

On silent steps, I treaded to her bedside.

Awake, she was vibrant and curious and so genuine, unlike anyone I’d known in the last few years, yet so very frail.

It felt wrong to do it then, like I was taking advantage.

Asleep, she was just another target in their bed, faceless, purposeless, just another person resting the night away, unaware of the dangers that surrounded her.

Yet she lay unconscious for twenty days, and each time I went to end her, I faltered.

Same as last night. Because I needed to know how she knew me .

The excuse felt faint, even to my own ears, but I ignored my logic because any other reason was inconceivable.

It didn’t matter how she felt in my arms that day on the boat.

That tightness in my chest because I partially caused her condition, that need to keep others away, that desire to keep her safe. None of it meant anything.

I delayed this too long. Her body would be found bloated and floating in the Mediterranean. Whatever she knew died with her. Then the mission would be complete.

Any of my men could do this. Erel would gladly take on the opportunity to add another kill to his belt, but it had to be me. I left her alive on that boat. I needed to be the one to see it through. Otherwise, I didn’t deserve the title of Ca?d.

I slipped the pillow out from beneath her head. No hesitation, I shoved it over her face. She stirred. Her hands went up, but they didn’t tug at the pillow. They didn’t wrestle my hold. They rested on my arms, her fingers dragging up and down my skin.

Stinging prickles crawled up to my biceps, then to my shoulders. I cracked my neck and pressed down harder. My eyes smarted, blurring my vision. My arms shook as I clutched the pillow, seeming to demand I pull myself off her. My entire body was fighting against this, but not her.

She still didn’t fight back. It wasn’t fucking normal.

Her hand moved to my chest and gave a light tap before dragging her fingers along my dress shirt.

Not pulling it, not yanking it. What the fuck was she doing?

Was she…tracing letters? The letter T , no an F .

Why? Why an F ? Why wasn’t she fighting me?

I tossed the pillow aside as she gulped down air and coughed. She whimpered and gritted her teeth, her hands pressed against her side to temper her obvious discomfort. At least that was a normal response.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

She held up a finger, gasping hard.

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

“Was…about…to. Took…too…long.”

“You’re not normal.”

“If you say so.”

I was saying so.

The dressing over her left eye had slipped up, exposing the lingering red skin from a chemical burn. It probably happened that night I crashed into Bogdani’s bedroom.

I shot him and left her there to suffer. Unknowingly. That didn’t assuage this uncomfortable sensation in my chest, no matter how much I rubbed.

There was little hope she’d see again from her right eye, perforated as it had been and with the infection the doctors found.

Even after emergency open globe surgery three weeks ago, the ophthalmologist’s prognosis was grim.

For the chemical burns to her left eye, the success of the amniotic membrane graft for her vision still needed to be assessed, but the doctor gave me optimistic daily reports on her long-term recovery. I tugged the binding back into place.

“Do me a favor?” she asked breathily.

I blinked slowly. This woman was insane. “Favors are not free.”

“All I ask…” She sucked in air with a wince. “Make it quick, big guy.”

She grimaced with each gulp of air, her hands still clutching her side.

“That…I should have the doctors check your head again.”

She whimpered a laugh. “Sorry I’m not dying the way you think I should. I’ll try to do better next time.”

I stepped back, not sure how to proceed.

Her lips were curled up, caught in a joke I neither understood nor wished to.

I left the room, muscles tense and thoroughly confused.

But worse than all that, I wasn’t certain I had really applied as much pressure as was needed to completely cut off her air supply.

The next night, I came in around three in the morning, the devil’s hour.

Fitting, I was there to cause her destruction.

I’d had a hell of a day between a port issue with the Turks, a banking deal with the Germans, and disciplining the latest street gang in Marseille, in a long string of them, that thought my rules were merely suggestions.

Now I had to deal with my in-house problem.

Compared to everything else, this was the moment I looked forward to all day. It wasn’t because of her. No, it was the kill I was after.

From within my suit pocket, I pulled out a capped syringe. Margaux supplied the heavy dose of clonazepam earlier today, fully aware of what was planned. Despite not overly arguing Tessa’s case, she adamantly refused to administer it herself. Doctor’s oath and all that bullshit.

Moonlight shone through the window facing her bed.

A sliver of silver glowed over her skin, darkened by the leftover tinges of old bruises smeared over her chin to the neckline of her gown that dipped quite low.

So low, the swell of one breast peeked out while compressing the other.

Pert nipples puckered against the thin gown, just enough for a teasing preview.

Her breathing was even. Her thin neck stretched with graceful lines, skin smooth except for that tiny cut where my knife rested two nights ago.

Her face was twisted to the side, features relaxed.

Trusting and carefree, that was how she looked despite her healing wounds.

Completely at odds with what she once must have suffered at the hands of Bogdani.

I hated her for it. I was conflicted, damn it. I now knew how she talked, how she quipped, how strong she was, not only for surviving him but also for how she survived me. Worst of all, I knew how good she felt in my arms. She wasn’t a faceless target, not anymore.

I pried up her IV line and slipped the needle into the injection port.

All I needed to do was press down on the plunger for the medication to mix with the opioids in her system and send her slowly into cardiac arrest. Quick, painless, just what she asked for.

I cracked my neck from side to side as my thumb shook against the plunger.

What are you waiting for? Do it. Do it the fuck now!

“No pillow this time?” she asked in French.

I ignored how my shoulders loosened at the sound of her voice broken by sleep. I didn’t even question my sanity as I tugged out the still-full syringe. The tube jerked.

“Ah, injecting me with poison?” she croaked, her accent all the more marked in her sleep-broken speech.

I still hadn’t pinpointed where it was from with the way her vowels pitched at times and elongated at others as though mixing different accents. Her English was a dead ringer for West Coast American, but her French didn’t have any of its normal twang.

She groaned as she turned to face me, a defiant twist to her mouth. I found myself wishing I could see if that look extended to her eyes.

“Drugs,” I corrected.

“Potato potahto.” And just like that, we were back to English. “Would it have been quick?”

“You wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

“Aww.” She nuzzled the pillow and yawned. “I might think you cared.”

“Would you rather I make you feel it?”

She sighed. “I’d rather you not do it at all, but I can’t fight you. Not like this. Stuck in this bed, barely able to walk to and from the bathroom without wanting to collapse. I might not remember who I am, but I’m not an idiot. If you really want to, you’ll find a way. So go on, get on with it.”

I snorted at her audacity.

“I’ll even pretend I’m sleeping if it helps.”

“Were you hit on the head as a child?”

“Head injury, hello.” She pointed to her head. I shook mine at a loss.

“Two days ago, you practically begged me not to. Now you’re practically egging me on.”

“I didn’t beg. I said I didn’t want to die. There’s a difference.”

“Not the way I heard it.”

“Nah, my self-respect’s a bitch. She would apparently rather I die instead.”

“There’s no fun in it if you see it coming.”

“Ha, well, I guess at least one of us is finding some amusement in this.” And yet, a sly smile tilted one corner of her mouth, putting those plush lips even more on display.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You think because I can’t see, I don’t have ears?

” She chuckled, turning her head to face me as if she could see exactly where I stood.

“You’re the only one who’s quiet. The doctors, physical therapist, the nurses, even my maid, Marie, barge in here without much care all day.

You, though, you try not to wake me up, which just makes you stand out more. And let’s not forget your cologne.”

“What about it?”

A flush pinkened her cheeks. “It’s…well, everyone else is a woman, so…”

“I stand out more.”

“Not hard there.”