Page 39 of Dance With A Devil

He walks off.

And I stand there… haunted by a truth I’m not sure I can live with.

I fucking hate that I agreed to share her.

I’ve done it once before. Ended in blood. Screams. A woman buried and two Devils scarred for life. But I can’t blame what happened on the sharing, not entirely. That woman wasn’tAthens.

She’s something else. Something carved for all of us.

When I told the others they could pursue her, I thought I was doing it for her sake. Thought I was playing the long game, calculating, strategic, merciful.

Bullshit.

Truth is, I was just trying to keep the peace between the Devils and my own possessive fucking madness. Because the tension between her and Karter, her and Wells… it’s a slow burn begging to ignite.

And deep down? I know what she craves. What sheneeds.

To beours.

To beclaimedby all of us. Owned. Branded. Worshipped. Ruined.

And I want it.

We all do.

But even if she belongs to the Devils, she sleeps inmy bed,unless I say otherwise. That’s the rule. That’s the line.

Letting Karter have time to cool off and clear the hallway, I head back upstairs. Snag my keys, my wallet… then detour to the arsenal.

Just in case tonight goes sideways, and something tells me it fucking will.

The weapon room is dim, metal gleaming under the flickering red light. I strap a blade to my thigh, holster my favorite piece, and tuck a few toys into my coat pocket. We’ve been stirring too many shadows lately to show up soft.

On my way down, I pass Gage loitering near the stairwell, phone in hand.

“Coming out tonight?” I ask, twirling my keys on one finger like a fuse ready to light.

He raises a brow. “Didn’t know we were allowed.”

I grin. “You’re a Devil now. Which means you reap what we sow. Grab whoever wants in. We roll deep tonight.The Obsidian Devil.”

“Bet.” His grin matches mine, feral, ready for war.

“See you there,” I nod, cutting toward the kitchen. I’ve got one more thing to handle before we head out.

Maeve.

I round the corner and find her elbows-deep in another casserole or whatever the hell smells like sin and butter. She cooks like she’s feeding an army, and half the time she is.

“That smells… dangerously good,” I offer, trying to soften the blow before I say what I came to say.

She spins on her heel, wooden spoon in hand, apron smeared with something spicy. One hip cocked. Top lip curled.

I know that look.

The “I’ll skin you alive with love and a ladle” look.

“’Course it does. Anything I make could resurrect a corpse and convince him to stay,” she snaps, eyes narrowing.