The Devil's Bride

Prologue

Amal

Present Day

Edinburgh, Scotland

An icy breeze blows in.

It’s the vestibule doors opening, that little bit of outside slipping into the cathedral. A moment later, the doors clang shut, loud and unmistakable.

A shudder runs through me, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

It’s him.

I know it.

I feel it.

He’s found me. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? I knew that all along.

I close my eyes.

My heart thuds against my ribs as the old pews creak, the congregation sitting down. There is an infinitesimal pause in Father Abernathy’s stride toward the podium. His eyes are trained on the center aisle.

On the men who just entered the church.

Footsteps resound on the stone floors, loud and echoing. Heads turn to look. Not mine though.

No need.

I swallow as the steps grow closer, the beads of the rosary I clutch digging deep into the palms of my hands.

Father Abernathy taps the microphone, testing it. The clearing of his throat echoes and I keep my eyes on him, the shadow of the huge cross, Jesus nailed to it, a blur at his back.

The footsteps stop when they reach my pew. My pulse stutters but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. I don’t look at the towering figure looming there. Still don’t dare turn my head to meet the eyes of the man casting his shadow over me.

I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.

Jethro, Jet, Blackstone. Right hand man of Cassian Trevino. Meant to be his Consigliere but turned into something else entirely.

His gaze bores into the side of my head willing me to turn. Daring me to.

When I don’t, he steps into the pew without a word, his body nudging mine, the heat of him burning. I glance to my right, escape impossible I know, but fight or flight is basic instinct and mine is telling me to run. To get the hell out of there.

But Malcom, Jet’s most trusted man, takes a seat on the other end of the pew. No exit for me, not unless I plan on climbing over Malcom’s thighs and clawing my way out.

As if sensing I’m desperate enough to do exactly that, Jet’s hand slips just beneath my skirt to close over my knee.

The skin of his palm is rough, his grip unforgiving.

Our thighs are pressed together, my arm against his.

He doesn’t leave an inch between us. He’s all hard muscle and broad shoulders letting me know this space is not my own.

The hand on my knee slides up just a little. An inch. Two. My heart thuds and it takes all I have to keep my gaze forward.

His fingers tighten, digging into my thigh until I’m finally forced to look at him. To meet those beautiful forest eyes. Eyes that once saw straight through to the damage inside. Like they felt and understood it.

Understood me.

Now those eyes are narrowed. Angry.

What do I expect, though? I betrayed him.

He took me in, made me feel safe for the first time in a long time and I betrayed him.

My heart pounds so hard it hurts. The sight of him, the scent of his aftershave, it crashes over me, clean and familiar and intoxicating. I’ve caught the scent on his shirts, his pillow, his skin. It makes my head spin.

A shiver ripples through me that has nothing to do with the cold inside this ancient stone structure.

Jet leans impossibly closer, eyes locked on mine as he inhales deeply. He is predator and I am prey.

“Did you really think you could run from me, Little Virgin?” he asks, whispered words low and dark, the vibration of them making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

He’s changed so much since that day I first met him four years ago.

Although so have I. So have we all. But Jet’s transformation is something else.

Something more. He’s not the man I went to for help back then.

The day I naively asked him to give Allegra a message. There’s nothing left of that man here.

I search the deep emerald of his eyes, counting those hidden specks of gold, looking for that glint of amusement, the kind that promised mischief and made my belly flip. But it’s not there. It hasn’t been there for a while.

He’s darker now.

Harder.

Brutal even.

And that flipping of my stomach, it’s different too. Deeper. In the pit of me. A longing, an ache the scope of which, if acknowledged, scares the fucking shit out of me.

I shake my head to banish the thought and close my eyes to will him away. To magically make him disappear. But when I open them again, he’s still right there. Still watching me.

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts, eyes narrowing further. He leans closer.

“Tell me, Little Virgin.” His gaze drops to my mouth momentarily. That tiny shift sends a traitorous rush through me, and I press my thighs together, hating myself for it. There’s something wrong with me but that’s not news. “Did you really think you could run from me?”

I take him in, read his face, those knowing eyes. This man he’s become, was this the real Jet all along? The true self revealed?

I shudder.

Father Abernathy raises his voice. The sermon is almost over. I didn’t hear a word. I look up at the altar to find his gaze fixed on us. From behind him two men step out of a small door and take their places beside it. They fold their hands in front of them. Jet brought backup.

How long has he known where I was? And what punishment does he have in store?

I hear the whispers of the parishioners as Father Abernathy makes the sign of the cross and tells us all to go in peace.

I don’t stand. Jet doesn’t allow me to. He and I remain seated as the dearly devoted noisily clamber out, sideways glances on us.

Only when the church is cleared do I turn again to face him. Only when it’s just us and his men and the few altar boys and Father Abernathy left inside this centuries old cathedral do I steel my spine and face him fully.

I take in the gray patch at his temple. It’s a stark contrast to the black hair. The scar of a bullet along his cheek. Compliments of my father. The sharp, cutting line of his jaw.

“How did you find me?” I whisper-ask, it’s all I can manage.

“What makes you think I ever lost you?”