Page 46 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

forty-four

Soren

Everything hurts and I’m dying.

Except, I’m not.

That would be too easy.

I pull the blanket over my head tighter, praying it will stop the pounding in my head. But the pounding doesn’t stop despite my attempts to smother it, and after tossing and turning forever, I sit up and fight the nausea.

That’s when I realize the pounding isn’t just in my head.

It’s coming from the front door, and given that the tempo has only increased, I’m guessing they won’t be giving up.

It’s probably Khan, worried that I haven’t answered his fifteen missed calls and however many texts.

I powered my phone down when the incessant buzzing wouldn’t stop, so I have no means of seeing the time.

I’d venture a guess, given the harsh light coming through the open curtains, that it’s mid-morning which means I definitely overslept.

Pulling myself out of bed is a herculean effort, but when I finally manage it, continuing gets easier. I sway less with every step, faintly aware of the cuts on my feet, as I pass the kitchen reminding myself to go the long way to avoid the minefield.

Except, the wreckage of last night is gone. The kitchen is clean…

I guess now I know why he took a few minutes to leave last night. Declan swept up the glass for me.

Pushing thoughts of him out of the way, I call out for Khan to give me a minute and then wince at the volume of my own voice as it makes my temples pulse angrily.

Clutching my head in one hand, I try to massage relief from my cool fingertips into my scalp and open the door with my free hand, fully prepared to tell Khan to use his inside voice and praying Marissa isn’t with him.

She doesn’t have an inside voice—or a mute option.

But it’s not Khan on my doorstep or even Marissa.

It’s the devil himself.

Declan Evers, holding two cups of coffee and looking sexy as sin in a button up that he didn’t bother to button all the way, his sleeves rolled to expose his muscular lower arms. The fact that he looks so hot when I feel like hell adds a layer of anger to my humiliation at the disjointed memory of begging him to fuck me.

I feel like I need to throw up.

“I didn’t realize the devil made house calls.” I snap.

His lips lift into that effortlessly gorgeous smirk. “I don’t, but he does.”

A tip of his head behind him and I open the door more to reveal a middle-aged man behind him, what’s left of his graying hair swept away from a decidedly kind face.

“Miss Palmer,” The man sticks his hand out for me to shake, a genuine smile shaping his mouth. “I’m Dr. Kent.”

Doctor?

I suck in a breath, turning my glare on Declan and sticking my foot between the doorjamb, just in case I need to bar him from trying to do the same. “What is this?”

He knows how I feel about doctors. He figured that out when he forced me to go to the fucking gynecologist for a full physical. That had been a different doctor, which makes me wonder if something’s wrong.

“Coffee.” He shrugs. “And an IV for the hangover.”

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but the sharp pinch in my temple reminds me not to be stupid. Coffee is exactly what I need, and the idea of not having to drag myself to the kitchen and make it is heavenly.

“I don’t need an IV.”

“Scared of needles?” He taunts.

Declan is holding my coffee hostage, and I know I won’t be getting it until I suck it up and let him in. So, I draw in a breath and step aside, pushing the door open wider to offer him unrestricted entry. The doctor files in behind him and shuts my door.

“I’m not afraid of a little prick.” I tell him seriously, letting the edge in my voice bleed the insult into the air. “Or a giant one.”

“Well,” Dr. Kent laughs. “No giant prick needed. I’m just going to get you setup on an IV to rehydrate and replenish electrolytes and make sure you’re fit for travel.”

Travel ?

I don’t know if that’s supposed to have a double meaning. I turn my head sharply to Declan and nearly cry at the lashing it causes in my skull.

“Work trip,” he shrugs, producing a frying pan from the cabinet next to the fridge and setting it on the oven like he’s going to make use of it.

“I don’t have anything worth cooking.” I tell him, annoyed. “And what do you mean ‘work trip ’?”

“Your groceries should be here any minute.” Declan says. “And I mean just what I said. Your presence is required on a trip for work reasons. As much as I respect the good doctor, I’m not at liberty to say more right now.”

I open my mouth but don’t find any words. Maybe they’ll come once the crashing symphony in my head is evicted. I think I’ll let that doctor stay after all.

When I turn to him warily, Dr. Kent chuckles. “I’m legitimate, Miss Palmer. I’ve known Declan since he was a child and even though he may think himself some part of a shadow society these days, I am still very much just a small-town doctor. I promise you’re in good hands.”

The sentiment appears genuine, but I’m honestly so exhausted I don’t care. If he’s here to drug me again, at least I’ll have some kind of reprieve from this infernal headache.

Sensing I’m not about to object, Dr. Kent smiles. “You’ll want to sit somewhere comfortable. A couch or recliner?”

I gesture for him to follow me to the living room, and he grabs a bag I hadn’t paid any mind to before trailing me.

When I flop down on the couch I expect to see Declan hovering, but he’s still in the kitchen.

I can’t see him from my angle, but I hear cabinets opening and closing so I press my lips together and try to act unbothered.

Dr. Kent seems to have a Mary Poppins bag for his supplies; He sets about grabbing things out of it and lining them up on the coffee table. “Is it okay if I grab my phone before we start?”

“Of course.” The elder gentleman waves me off, but I don’t make it far before Declan stops me, his large body barring my path.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, irritation surging as the absurdity of the situation washes over me.

Twenty-four hours ago, I hated this man.

I still do, though my reasons for that have shifted.

He may not have killed Vin—that’s a truth that I can accept because I feel it—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.

His obsession with making my life miserable proves that, not to mention all that I learned about him while I was preparing to take him down in a blaze of glory.

That blaze ended up being more of a dying cough, but the fact that all of my concerns were so easily brushed aside by authorities tells me he's even more dangerous than I originally presumed.

And yet, I signed a contract to work for him.

I let him into my home, not once but twice. Three times, now.

I begged him to fuck me like a pathetic whore.

He produces my phone in one hand, the other reaching up to swipe hair off my face.

I haven’t even looked in a mirror this morning, and now I really don’t want to. I’m sure the tears I cried last night left my face a bloated and puffy mess, not to mention the liquor and the hangover effect from Marissa’s monstrous concoction of wine and benzos.

Snatching my phone from him, I narrow my eyes in suspicion, wondering if he did anything to it.

It’s still powered off, so I know he hasn’t been snooping through my photos or something.

Weird how that would still feel like a violation after he literally watched me masturbate from the other side of my window.

I wait expectantly, thinking he’s going to say something, offer me an answer to the question he has just pretended not to hear. Declan only runs his fingers over the back of my neck, watching me like he’s waiting for something too.

He’s just opening his mouth to say something when the doorbell rings.

I take a step toward the door, but he redirects me to the living room with a gentle push.

“It’s for me. Go sit.”

Dr. Kent is waiting for me with a wan smile, a tall IV stand that surely couldn’t have been folded up in that bag standing next to the couch.

He snaps a pair of gloves on his hands, the sound making me wince.

The fact that I’m in my home this time is a small comfort.

He’s still a doctor, but not being in a sterile white room makes his presence so much more tolerable.

Presenting my arm to him, I busy myself with turning my phone on. My cheeks warm with embarrassment when it hums to life for a full minute, vibrating with each notification I missed.

I didn’t even bother looking through my phone when Declan gave it to me.

Despite his denial, I’m sure it’s equipped with something that allows him to see exactly what I’m doing on it, and though I don’t have any social media accounts anymore, I don’t want him to see anything that I use my phone for.

Particularly since some random person sent me an email about him.

I didn’t even bother programming any numbers into the phone, but I recognize the panic and urgency in text messages.

You okay, babe?

Ren, answer me!

I’m getting nervous, answer your phone.

If he hurt you, I’ll never forgive myself.

Call me when you see this!

I’m going to report you missing if you don’t fucking answer!

I laugh, unable to help myself. I may not have much faith in the world, but Khan worries over everything. If a leaf blows in the wrong direction, he all but hunkers down for a tornado. It’s exhausting and amusing all at once.

His polar opposite, Marissa sent me a single text. I’ve had her number memorized since we were teenagers, but even if I didn’t recognize it, the message would have given her away.

If he kills you, you’d better haunt his ass. And speaking of ass… take pics of it, too.

Just then, Declan walks by, leading two women with their arms full of bags. He doesn’t spare a glance my way, so neither do the women. They disappear into the kitchen, and no matter how much I crane my neck, I lose sight of them.