Page 1 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Greyson Blackwell

" B oss knows who killed your brother.”

Those words—those fucking words. They’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for. They’re perhaps the only thing that can pull me from my stupor, from the fog of dissociation that’s enshrined me like an unshakable mist for the last four months.

My head lifts from my desk. Bile rises in my throat, and nausea makes my stomach flip over itself, as if it’s attempting to do a gymnastics routine. My eyes blink open, and the blinding lights in my office make me shut them again.

“Goddamn basket case,” the same man whose words woke me—Cain—mutters. My only response is a low grunt as I rub the sleep and hangover from my eyes, then try to open them again.

I’m much more successful this time. Save for the nausea and the ringing in my ears, I’m normal—almost functional. As close to functional as I’ve been in the months since my twin was killed in a hit.

Cain stands to the left of my office chair, one hand planted on my desk, gazing down at me with vague disgust lacing his expression.

His teal eyes are abuzz with irritation, and his square jaw is set with displeasure.

I can’t count the number of times he’s given me shit for my spiral.

The long, drawn-out talks we’ve had that ended with me yelling and throwing the nearest object and Cain calling me a colorful collection of synonyms for idiot .

“Glad to see this has the power to get through to you,” Cain mutters. “That’s something, at least.”

“Shut the fuck up.” My words are hoarse.

My throat is burning with bile, not to mention the soreness.

I haven’t been this hungover since college.

When my stomach rolls again and nausea starts to rise into my esophagus, I know I won’t be able to hold back the impressive amounts of liquor I ingested last night.

I grab the trash bin by my desk, knocking over several empty bottles of whisky in the process, and heave into it.

Cain makes a low noise of disgust, fed up with my shit. He stands impassively by me as I retch my guts and half a state liquor store's worth of alcohol into the trash bin, and then gag some more for good measure.

“You’re pathetic,” Cain hisses. “This is unacceptable. You’re a contract killer, not some goddamn frat boy. You need to clean yourself up and get your shit together. Boss wants to see us in thirty to pass on intel.”

I grunt yet again, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Fine. I’ll shower and be good to go by then.”

“You better be,” Cain says darkly. “There are plans at play here, Greyson. I need you with me. Self-destruction isn’t a good look on you.” He gives me one more disgusted glance before stalking out of the room.

I pull myself off my desk, breathing heavily to push down the new wave of nausea. After steadying myself, I stalk through my office, trampling over the blue carpet and make my way into my personal apartments .

The compound where Cain and I live might not be pretty on the outside, but it’s secure, and it gives plenty of privacy to our organization. Our boss can be an absolute idiot, but he inherited good infrastructure from his forefathers.

I pop a handful of painkillers and shower, getting the stench of sweat and vomit off myself as I clean up.

I’m just throwing on my shirt and pants when Cain knocks on the door to my personal quarters.

I quickly lace up my army boots, check myself in the bathroom mirror to make sure there are no stray splatters of vomit anywhere, and make my way through my main room to the reinforced steel door, glancing at the office door as I go.

My office is in the back of the apartment allotted to me by my organization, and it locks automatically, so I’m not sure how Cain got in to wake me up—but I’m glad he did.

My closest ally and sometimes friend is an absolute sociopath and complete prick, but he’s also useful.

And, beneath all his cold, callous tendencies, I think he might actually care about me.

He hasn’t killed me despite having ample opportunities to, so I take that as a good sign.

I open the door, revealing Cain leaning against the doorway.

His suit is freshly pressed, and his hands are folded into his pockets.

Even though there’s no dress code in our organization, Cain always seems to be ready for a formal dinner—all tailored suits.

The one time I asked him about it, he indicated that a very important woman in his life taught him how to dress, but didn’t divulge anything more.

Maybe he’s a momma’s boy—although it’s equally as likely that he killed his mom, knowing his past.

“Fucking catastrophe,” he spits. “Let’s go. I’ll brief you about the intel Boyce has for us on our way.”

I ignore his jab, completely used to his asshole attitude. “What news do you have?”

For the first time in four endless months, the fog around me has parted.

I’ve been living on autopilot, going through the motions, doing my job without really living.

It’s a miracle I haven’t gotten hurt on any of my ops—but then again, there’s a reason Boyce brought me into the Nighthawks, the oldest organization of assassins in the USA. I’m extremely good at killing people.

“Boyce did some digging. He figured out that Luther Sharpe was the one who killed your brother.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins. My heart breaks out into a race, outmatching the pace of the best racehorses in the world. Everything inside me tenses.

Luther Sharpe is the leader of The Widowers, a rival organization of the Nighthawks, and the dark shit he deals in makes the Nighthawks look kind in comparison.

The Nighthawks are comprised of about two dozen trained killers, all of whom live together at this compound—a web of three buildings that exists completely off of every grid.

Boyce receives contracts from multiple sources all over the world, and passes them over to me—I then distribute them among our operatives.

The Widowers, on the other hand, aren’t just guns for hire—they’re brutal .

They traffic women all over the world and deal in other heinous shit that makes even me wince.

Luther and Boyce have never hidden their rivalry—they’ve been angling to bring each other down for years—but never before has Luther managed to get his hands on a Nighthawk. Not just any Nighthawk; my twin . My closest friend since birth—perhaps my only friend.

My blood curdles at the thought of Luther’s elation, the smug satisfaction he must’ve felt as he tore Sam from my world.

He didn’t just take an assassin; he took the one person who’s always been beside me, the steady presence in every storm.

He took the one tether that kept me from unraveling completely.

Luther’s no longer playing around with jabs; he’s escalated to the point of no return. Past the point of no return.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I hiss. “He’s dead. I will goddamn destroy him —”

“Lock it up,” Cain says, sounding vaguely bored. “Luther will die in time. Right now, listen to what Boyce tells you, and try not to make a fool of yourself. Everyone’s noticed your behavior lately, and no one is impressed. Keep it up and you won’t have your position for long.”

Right . My position. Third in command of the Nighthawks—next in line behind Cain.

I don’t only carry out hits, I also have an array of administrative jobs.

On top of pairing assassins with hits that suit their specialties, I also keep an eye on rising conflicts and keep my ear to the ground in the underworld.

I’ve been doing a shit job with my duties recently, though.

Cain’s had to take over all of my administrative tasks.

I should apologize, but I don’t have it in me.

I’m not sorry. I’m miserable, and no number of sorry’s from me or anyone else will change that.

The only thing that could change that is if I could go back in time and find a way to save my brother, but that won’t happen.

No matter how much I want it to. No matter how much I wished it were me instead of him.

After a short elevator ride, Cain and I come out on the top floor of the six-floor building that serves as the compound’s primary headquarters.

This place is our safe haven, complete with apartments for each operative, common areas, a kitchen on the first floor adjoined to a dining hall, and multiple amenities that make HQ look like a spa rather than a sanctuary for killers.

Cain knocks twice on Boyce’s door. Boyce’s voice scrapes against the air like metal dragged over bone as he calls, “Come in. ”

I follow Cain inside as impatience coils tight in my chest, hot and restless. The hunter in me, one that’s been suffocated by grief since I got my brother’s body delivered via courier, wakes up and stretches his legs, eagerly anticipating my next target.

The office smells of stale cigars and dust. Against the left wall, shelves sag under the weight of old ledgers, spines cracked and yellowing. A single window behind Boyce lets in enough morning light to highlight the grime streaked across it.

Boyce sits behind a hulking oak desk, its surface scarred with burns and knife marks.

His grubby hands rest on his extended belly, thick fingers twitching with the urge to reach for the bottle of Patron on his desk.

Brown eyes, murky and sharp all at once, flicker between me and Cain.

His dark hair clings to his scalp. Boyce is built solid—broad shoulders, arms meant for hauling, thick legs.

“Boys,” Boyce drawls, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Come on in. Have a seat. We’ve got shit to talk about.”

I keep my face blank instead of releasing the snarl that’s bubbling up inside me. Boyce is shit at his job—the only reason the Nighthawks are successful is because of me and Cain. Lately, just Cain, since I haven’t been of much help.