Page 25 of Devil’s Azalea (Nightshades #3)
EMILIA
Tendrils of pure, undiluted lust writhe through my belly as I desperately try to banish thoughts of that scorching, all-consuming kiss—his possessive hands exploring my body.
I shake my head viciously as I push through the oblivious clubbers who've already forgotten Rafael’s little power display earlier.
God, I wish I could forget like they have.
But I know with absolute certainty—as surely as my own heartbeat—that the memory has taken up permanent residence in my mind.
I’ll replay it endlessly until I’ve dissected every second, every sensation, every goddamn breath between us.
It consumed me so completely that I forgot who the hell I was, who the hell he was. What we were to each other.
Fuck, I need to focus.
It isn’t until the freezing night air slaps my face outside the club that I realize I’ve yet again walked away with absolutely nothing. Because of Rafael. Always because of Rafael.
Shit. I have to deliver something to Greg this weekend or risk unleashing his full-blown wrath with how much nothing I’ve had to give him the past few days. I could wait out here until Eric’s shift ends at 3 AM…
I check my phone—9:36 PM. That means nearly six hours of freezing my ass off if I choose that option. And for what? Another breadcrumb that might lead nowhere?
Maybe I should go home and regroup first. A long, warm, relaxing bath sounds like heaven right now.
I ignore my throbbing clit and heavy, aching tits as I walk down the sidewalk to hail a taxi.
Through the rear window, I catch one last glimpse of the club as we pull away, and his words echo in my mind.
I did not kill your father.
My insides twist into a painful knot of confusion.
Half of me believes him—he raised some pretty valid points that punch holes in what I’ve believed for years.
The other half tears itself apart between trusting his words and clinging to Stacey’s version.
The truth is, both Stacey and Rafael were there to witness my father’s death.
But Stacey was the one who took me to identify his corpse in the morgue, who helped me make funeral arrangements, who stood by me as I buried my father for the second time—properly this time. While Rafael was nowhere to be found.
You had just given his location to the FBI, of course he wouldn’t be around you at that point, you idiot.
I shove the stray thought away, pressing my forehead against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streams of neon.
My temples throb as I try to analyze what could have happened that fateful night, so I abandon the effort.
My brain, the treacherous bastard, takes the moment of mental silence as an invitation to flash Rafael’s handsome face back at me—the taut intensity of his expression, the sinfully inky darkness in his eyes just before his lips claimed mine… .
“We’re here.” The driver’s gruff voice jolts me back to reality, and I blink in surprise at my apartment building looming before me. That was quick. Or was I just so hopelessly tangled in my thoughts that time slipped through my fingers? I pay him with a mumbled thank you and slip out of the taxi.
As I jog up the sidewalk towards the entrance, the doorman spots me and opens the door for me with a polite smile. “Welcome, ma’am.”
The bright, twinkling lights of the darned Christmas tree distracts me again, and I mutter something vague to him as I walk towards it. I have a lot of history with this holiday. At first, I hated it and all it stood for. What it reminded me of.
My father’s first ‘death’ was around Christmas. A few days after that, when I discovered who I thought was responsible, I marched recklessly into that warehouse where I was almost sexually brutalized. I would have been if Rafael and the others hadn’t shown up when they did…
Then there was my first mission in Manhattan.
Also during the Christmas season. The period Rafael and I briefly got together.
One of the most chaotic yet blissful chapters of my life.
Until everything went to shit and I got the news of my father’s second, very real death…
and that the man I had come to love so deeply was supposedly the one who did it.
A part of me still loves him, the asshole, and I know I always will.
So yeah, who in my shoes wouldn’t hate Christmas after all that?
Now, though, I’m just… numb to it.
I turn my back on the cheerful tree and make my way to the elevator. Inside, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall and wince. My hair is still a mess from his hands, my lips still swollen from his kiss. Katie’s going to take one look at me and know something happened.
Shit. We don’t keep secrets from each other. How the hell am I going to lie about tonight without giving myself away?
I’ll have to give her something—half of the story, maybe. Because if I say nothing, she’ll grow suspicious. She’ll dig and dig until she unearths everything . And for some reason, I want to keep it private. Sacred, almost. Between just Rafael and me. Just us.
When the elevator opens up on my floor, I’m nowhere near prepared to face my friend.
I quickly twist my hair into a severe bun, eliminating any evidence of Rafael’s greedy fingers.
Then I smooth my palm down my shirt, inhale deeply, and linger outside the door a few extra seconds to gather whatever fragments of composure I can find before punching in my code.
“What took you so long?” Katie pounces the instant I walk through the door. “I was about to start blowing up your phone.”
I roll my eyes and flop onto the couch with an annoyed huff.
“It took forever to find anyone with credible information. And when I finally did, guess where he worked?” My heart is pounding frantically in my throat, my palms slick with sweat as I struggle to keep my eyes on Katie’s.
My head is starting to feel like it’s wrapped in a vice.
“A strip club? Cemetery? Monastery?”
I chuckle at her wild guesses, the tightness easing. “Okay, okay. Calm down with the guesses, Sherlock. He works at a club.”
Katie frowns, “That’s actually pretty ordinary. What’s the— oh no .” Her eyes balloon with realization.
“Yup. He works at one of Rafael’s apparently countless clubs in this godforsaken city.” Here comes the tricky part. “And guess who just had to show up as I was questioning my source?”
“Fucking Rafael?” she spits, eyes flashing with anger.
Irritation flares in my spine—not because Rafael interrupted my investigation as rightfully it should be, but because of her tone when she said his name.
The fuck?
I rub my temple, sighing. I need a drink. “Yeah, him,” I mutter, pushing off the couch. I feel Katie’s laser-focused gaze tracking me as I make my way to the fridge to grab a can of beer—the strongest alcohol we have at home. “Want one?” I offer.
“Forget the beer.” She waves a hand impatiently. “What happened with Rafael?”
“Well,” I rub the sleeve of my shirt over the top of the can and pop it open with a satisfying hiss , “my source clammed up the second Rafael showed up, so I slipped out before he could spot me.”
I take a deep gulp of the bitter liquid, stalling for time as I gauge her reaction from beneath lowered lashes. Did she buy it? Funny how lies roll off my tongue effortlessly during missions, but with Katie, even half-truths feel like choking.
“You did the right thing,” she says softly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Sometimes running away isn’t cowardice—it’s self-preservation.”
I blink at her. She thinks I’m feeling bad because I ran away from the situation? A twinge of guilt stabs me right in the gut.
“Don’t look at me like that.” She rolls her eyes. “You think I don’t know you’re still attracted to him? Don’t even try to deny it.” She raises a finger when I start to protest. I surrender immediately.
“Good. And from what I saw last week, the attraction is mutual. It might explain why he’s been stalking you all over the world. If you had stayed and he saw you, who knows what might have happened?”
I know what happened. My lips tingle with the phantom pressure of Rafael’s demanding tongue.
“You made the right call leaving. No need to tempt fate. Tomorrow we can go out together to find another source. Forget about that bartender at Rafael’s club,” she finishes, and I nod numbly, drinking more of my cold beer.
The next day, Katie and I hit the seedier parts of lower Manhattan I didn’t comb through yesterday. Venturing into these neighborhoods solo is asking for trouble—things can spiral out of control very quickly—so having someone watching your back is essential.
We’ve barely walked ten minutes when a rail-thin guy with patchy blonde hair and blackened lips sidles up to us. “Hey, beauties. Ya lost?”
Katie and I exchange glances. “No, we’re right where we’re meant to be,” Katie dismisses coldly as we continue walking. But the man falls in step beside us anyway.
“You look tense, blondie. Might wanna loosen up.” He leers at Katie, flashing his yellowed teeth. “Listen, I’ve got some premium sour deez for you. Ten outta ten stuff, ya know? The crème de la crème .”
I stop abruptly, just as Katie snaps, “Nobody wants your fucking weed, man. Fuck off.”
“Wait!” I call out, and both turn to stare at me—Katie in disbelief, the man with renewed interest. I offer him a carefully crafted smile, just coy enough to be believable. “Sour deez, huh?”
The dealer, seeing I might be the easier target, abandons Katie and slithers towards me with a greasy grin that makes my skin crawl. “My strain is nice and fluffy, real fat bags. You can’t go wrong with this one, beauty. I can even let you have a free sniff to be sure.”