Page 6

I run every light between my apartment and hers. Blow through intersections, nearly take out a cab.

I don’t give a fuck.

There’s a weight on my chest like a concrete block. My heart’s slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, but it’s not fear for me.

It’s for her.

Lucy.

Because something happened in that apartment, something bad. I could hear it in her voice, in the tremor of it, in the way she said Diablita like it was poison in her mouth.

By the time I reach her building, I’m barely holding it together.

I park crooked in a fire lane with the hazard lights flashing like a fucking crime scene.

I’m already out and running.

The elevator is glacial. I jam my finger into the button like that’ll make it go faster.

My reflection in the doors is someone I barely recognize— wild-eyed, jaw clenched, ready to kill.

By the time the doors open, I’m vibrating with fury.

What if he’s still inside?

What if she’s not alone?

What if I’m too fucking late?

My fists clench so tight, my knuckles pop. I stalk down the hall and pull out the key I swiped off her ring months ago.

She doesn’t know I have it.

She’s going to be pissed.

But she’ll be safe.

I slip it in and shove the door open— and it hits me like a punch to the gut .

The smell.

Copper, sweat, rot, something rank and wrong.

My instincts flare hot and loud in my chest, dragging me back to every dark alley and every busted door I’ve ever kicked in.

I don’t go straight to her.

I need to see.

Need to know what he did to her space before I lay eyes on her.

The bedroom is—ruined. It’s destroyed.

Fucking hell.

Her drawers are yanked open, clothes shredded, scattered like confetti from a nightmare.

Her vanity table is overturned, glass glinting like broken teeth across the carpet.

Her perfumes spilled.

Her makeup crushed under boot prints.

And then—then, I see it.

There. On the bed.

A pile of human shit.

On her fucking bed.

My vision blacks out for a second.

The dragon in me— whatever fractured, feral thing lives beneath my skin —howls.

I don’t remember moving.

One second I’m standing in the doorway, the next I’m gripping the footboard, the whole frame shaking with the force of my rage.

This was intentional. Calculated.

Personal.

This sick fuck didn’t just break in— he violated her space.

Marked his territory like a fucking animal.

Left behind a message in filth, and then a note like it was romantic.

“For my Diablita.”

I want to tear through the city and rip him apart with my bare hands.

Want to watch him beg while I carve out his heart with a fucking spoon.

But first, I need to get her out of here.

Safe.

Now.

I turn from the room, every step trembling with restraint, and walk to the bathroom door.

I knock, softly, because I know she’s in there, scared, alone.

Hiding in the one room she probably thought was safe.

“It’s me,” I say, voice low.

Controlled. Because if she hears the storm in it, it’ll scare her more.

“Lucy. Open up, Angel. I’ve got you now.”

I press my hand to the door, palm flat, wishing like hell I could reach through and hold her.

Because right now?

I’d do anything— burn everything —to take all this, the fucking memory if this, and wipe it from her mind. Replace it with something better.

Something cleaner. Purer.

And I will.

I swear to God, I fucking will.

I knock again. Harder.

The door opens almost instantly.

And there she is.

Lucy.

Still wearing some too fucking sexy outfit she had on for the party she attended.

It’s like navy blue silk with a thousand shimmery crystals painted across her skin.

She’s barefoot, her stockinged feet make no sound as she steps back to let me in.

My gaze is glued to hers, and I don’t like what I see.

Her eyes are too wide. Her shoulders too tense.

She’s trying to look composed, but I know the signs.

She’s scared.

I move past her before I can stop myself.

My eyes scan the small space, cataloging everything.

The lights are on.

Nothing broken.

No sign of forced entry.

“Y-you came,” she whispers.

And that right there?

That’s my undoing. I reach for her.

“Balor,” she whimpers, clinging to me.

“I got you. You’re okay,” I tell her, meaning it more than she will ever know.

I turn with her still flush against me, and we exit the bathroom.

Then, I see it.

The kitchen. The trash can.

Inside it— uncovered and glaring like the thing in one of those Sesame Street games where you’re supposed to find what doesn’t belong —is the rose.

Just one single rose.

Tied with a red ribbon.

And a card.

Lucy sniffs and pulls out of my embrace. And I hate that. But it lets me walk forward, towards that garbage can.

I pull out the note. Rage is slamming into my chest like a freight train.

For my Diablita.

Little Devil.

I know her nickname.

I know that fucker used it in his song, too.

So yeah, I know what this is—some fucking stalker with more skills than any of the others.

A crazed fan? Or not.

Someone closer to her than I know.

Someone with access.

My vision goes red.

“You have shoes?” I ask, voice tight, barely leashed.

She nods, eyes wide, and reaches for the heels she must’ve kicked off when she got home.

She slides them on with trembling fingers, and the sight of that alone— her trying to act normal while standing in the ruins of her own home —kills me.

“Let’s get out of here.”

I’m already walking.

She follows, and I shoot off a flurry of texts as we move—no delays, no hesitations.

I hit up my best guys. Former Callahan Group. Now under Sigma International.

These men are the ones I’ve had on retainer since I started in the business.

They don’t just work for me. They’re part of my crew.

And yeah, I’ve had them ready ever since I knew she was going to be part of my world.

Even though I tried to fight it, me and Lucy? We’re inevitable.

I want her like no one else on the planet.

And these guys? They're ghosts with weapons. Monsters in human skin. And right now, they’re going to make sure no one gets within a hundred yards of her again without my say so.

But first, they’re going to go over her place closer than any crime scene investigator could.

“I need you to tell me everything you remember about tonight,” I growl, not bothering to soften the edge in my voice.

Not with the adrenaline still burning through me like gasoline.

Not after what I saw in that bedroom.

Lucy swallows hard. She’s standing close to me in the elevator, her arm brushing mine.

I feel her pulse, quick and erratic, and it takes everything in me not to wrap her up and barricade us somewhere until the world burns down around us.

“Nothing, I mean, I was at a video launch party. Then I came home?—”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I always come home alone,” she whispers, but she doesn’t seem to notice my tension, or the way it eases at her admission.

“And?” I prompt.

“It was just there when I got home,” she whispers. “I don’t know who he is or how he got in. Nothing’s broken except for the bedroom stuff.”

“You leave the bathroom? Touch anything?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No. I remembered what you said.”

“Good girl.”

It slips out—low, gravelly, from a place deep inside me that doesn’t believe in boundaries when it comes to her.

She shivers.

And fuck me, I feel it down to my bones.

The elevator dings.

Doors slide open. I step out first, scanning the hallway.

Empty. Too fucking quiet. The useless doorman is nowhere to be seen.

Typical.

I put a hand on her elbow. Not too tight. Just enough to remind her I’m here.

I walk her to my car with purposeful strides, boots thudding against the tile in a steady, violent rhythm.

I can’t calm down.

My whole body is on heightened alert.

This is New York City. Not some fucking suburb.

It’s still the wee hours of the morning, so yeah, I am fully fucking aware of my surroundings.

My lungs won’t expand fully.

My jaw’s locked so tight my molars ache.

Because tonight, someone got close.

Too fucking close.

Someone walked into her space. Touched her things. Marked her bed.

And that makes this personal.

That makes this war.

“Need me to stop somewhere?” I ask, holding the passenger door open. “Get you anything?”

She blinks up at me, dazed. “What?”

“Do you need anything before we get to my place?” I ask again, slower this time.

“What?” she repeats, like the question doesn’t register.

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

Her brows pull together. “Oh, um, Balor?—”

“No.”

I snap the word and step into her space, close enough to taste her breath.

“No arguments,” I growl. “This place isn’t secure. And I’m not leaving you in a hotel. I’m not dropping you off at one of your cousins’ houses where someone else can fuck this up.”

She opens her mouth.

“I said no.” My voice drops to something feral. Uncompromising. “This sick bastard thinks he knows you. Thinks you belong to him. Your name is everywhere, Lucy. You’re in the spotlight and that twisted freak thinks it means he can get close.”

I take a breath.

That was a fucking mistake.

Because now I smell her.

And it’s— it’s everything.

That soft, clean scent.

Like sunshine and sparkling diamonds— that is, if those things had a goddamn scent.

In my mind, they do.

They smell like her.

A complex symphony of contradictions.

Soft and sharp. Innocence threaded with heat. Warm vanilla twisted with cool florals.

Classy. Elegant. But somehow still raw.

Unfiltered.

Real.

She smells like everything I never knew I needed until the second I met her.

And now?

Now I’d burn cities just to keep that scent close.

Fresh and clinging to me.

I want it on my clothes. My sheets. My skin.

Because that scent?

It’s hers.

And she’s mine.

Every cell in my body knows it.

The dragon in my chest— whatever the fuck you want to call the violent, territorial madness inside me —knows it.

It calms under her scent.

Sharpens, too. Becomes lethal in the name of her protection.

And the sick part?

I need this.

This reminder that she’s still breathing. Still whole. Still here.

That whatever nightmare she just walked through, she made it back to me.

But the scent only does so much.

Because I still saw the wreckage.

Still saw the filth he left behind.

Still saw what he wanted to do.

And it only makes me angrier.

“You’re coming home with me,” I finish, slow and razor-sharp. “End of fucking story.”

She stares at me, lips parted.

“I can’t just?—”

“You can,” I cut her off. “And you will. I’m not asking.”

My voice is absolute.

I close the door after making sure she’s tucked into the passenger seat, and I walk to the driver’s side.

Sliding in, I take a moment to calm down before I drive.

There’s no way I’m leaving her alone tonight. Not while that sick fuck is still out there.

Not after what he did. Not with that note burned into my memory like a curse.

For my Diablita.

I grind my teeth.

He’s going to pay. But right now? My only priority is her.

Getting her safe. To my home. And keeping her.

Because whatever this is between us— this attraction, this desperate pull —it’s real.

And she’ll learn real fast that I don’t let anyone fuck with what’s mine. Not ever.

I turn my face and see her watching me with those huge sapphire eyes of hers.

So fucking pretty.

Her chin lifts like she wants to argue, but I see the flicker of fear behind her eyes.

The part of her that wants to be told what to do right now.

The part that’s too tired to pretend this is normal.

She exhales slowly, then nods. “Fine. Just one night.”

“No guarantee, Lucy, just buckle up,” I bite out, jaw clenched so tight I feel it in my teeth. “We can get what you need later.”

“What about my apartment?” she asks, voice small.

“I have a team coming. They’ll sweep the scene. Gather evidence. And they’ll get rid of the rest. You don’t have to worry.”

She turns her head toward the window.

And I clench the steering wheel in my hand. Every time I blink I can see it.

Her apartment. Her bedroom.

My chest is heaving as I try to focus on driving.

But it is there, in my mind’s eye.

The destruction. The filth. That fucking rose.

All of it is a declaration of war.

Whoever left it just made a fatal mistake.

Not because they just terrorized the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world.

No, not that .

They fucked up because they didn’t know this one simple truth.

See, Marat Volkov, and all her uncles and cousins might be badasses in their own right. But I’m no fucking slouch, either.

And Lucy Volkov?

The way I feel about her?

This uncontrollable need to protect, to cherish, to worship the ground she walks on?

She’s mine.

Damn straight.

That woman belongs to me.

And I’ll burn this whole fucking piece of shit world down before I let anyone touch what’s mine.