Under His Command (Devils & Pretty Sins #1)

ONE

Five years ago

I blink once, and the smoke is everywhere.

In the car, surrounding the car—everywhere. I cough into my elbow, stabbing the seat belt buckle with my other hand until it sets me free. I stumble into the street, tears burning the backs of my eyes both from the dark cloud of chemicals, and from the frustration coursing through me.

It’s the second time it’s happened this month, even though I’ve already spent all my savings on the repairs. They told me there was a problem with the brakes, but Trent insisted they were morons and asked them to check the coolant system instead. In the end, neither the mechanics nor my ex-boyfriend figured out what the hell was wrong with my brother’s old Honda.

They still took my money— a shit move on their part —and now I’m left with a smoking car in the middle of the road, just a few feet away from my parents’ house. Great .

Pulling my T-shirt over my nose, I open the hood and look at the engine as if I know how to fix this myself. I start touching random parts until I stain my fingers with oil and dirt, making me curse out loud.

But I don’t curse the car. Or my brother. Instead, I curse my dad, who should have taught me how to handle shit like this before he ran off with his mistress, leaving his family behind. Even if I wanted to call him for help, he wouldn’t answer. He hasn’t—not since he left, anyway.

And my brother… I’d call Cole in a heartbeat if he wasn’t fighting for his life in the war zone of the Sylvestrian Ridge. So I pull the hood of his Honda back down and accept the fact that I’ll have to take a few extra shifts at the cafe to get the car towed into the repair shop. Again .

After locking the doors, I peer through the thick cloud of smoke when the figure of a man standing in front of my parents’ house enters my visual field. He’s tall and imposing—taut muscles rippling through the tailored army uniform as he extends his hand forward to knock on the door of our house.

Instantly my heart drops, a pit forms low in my stomach, and my palms break out in a sweat all at the same time. Why would the army be here, on a Tuesday morning, when my brother isn’t scheduled to come home for another three months?

Why else, Dove? Because he’s dead. Because your nightmares were real.

A thick web of unshed tears pools around my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to bring the thought to life. Cole isn’t dead. He can’t be, because he promised he’d come home in time for my high school graduation. He promised he’d take me to the beach with his friends this summer before I head off to college.

He never did keep his promises though, did he?

I don’t realize I’m standing right behind the man until after he turns around to meet my eyes. And when he does, a wave of raw, primal energy rolls off of him, coiling around my body like a tempestuous flame. I can feel it squeezing my lungs, trapping all the air inside me and making my cheeks flush.

He cocks his head to the right, observing me, his eyes darkening from hazel green to the color of the leaves in the shadows. The summer breeze dances through his naturally tousled, velvet-black hair, causing a few rebel strands to sway across his eyes like phantoms. His jaw is sharp and prominent, supporting a lush symmetrical mouth that’s opening to say something before it closes again.

For some reason, the way he looks at me makes me feel exposed—naked almost, even though his gaze hasn’t left mine long enough to take in the rest of my petite body. Still, I wrap my arms around myself, my breathing shallow as I try to think of something to say. Anything.

“Dove Finnegan?”

The way my name rolls off his tongue finally draws the trapped air in my lungs out. It comes out as a soft gasp, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m feeling dizzy, and I don’t know if it’s from the smoke I’ve just inhaled or from the way this man is staring right into my soul.

“That’s me,” I whisper.

For a second, his somber face seems to soften, a sad and kind half-smile stretching across his lips. And when he does it, I wonder if this is another one of my dreams. I wonder if perhaps I’m sleeping, because there’s no way this perfect man smiled at me and the heavens haven’t opened up above him.

“Are your parents around?”

I shouldn’t tell him the truth. Is he really from the army? He could be anyone. With a smile and a face like that, he could be anybody. I steal a glance at the military medals adorning his broad, muscular chest. Since when do they put men so young and handsome into leadership positions? He looks to be about the same age as my brother—in his late twenties.

But it’s the way he’s looking at me that makes me blurt out everything he wants to know. All he has to do is ask and I’ll give him everything. “My mother is at work. And my father moved out.”

“Okay,” he says, offering a soft nod—too soft to suit him and his ascetic figure. I’m almost angry at the gentleness of it. “Here’s what you’re going to do, then, Dove. You’re going to go inside, bring me a glass of water, and then sit on the stairs in front of your house while you listen to what I have to say. Do you understand?”

His voice is grave now, as if I’m one of his soldiers… or a little sister he has to keep out of trouble for his mother’s sake. I gulp once, nodding, and struggle to grasp the odd sensation taking over me.

“Good girl.”

My cheeks flush and my pussy clenches as the words leave his mouth, taking me and apparently him too, by surprise. I look away, but I don’t fail to notice the way his eyes spark with intrigue before I do.

He drags a hand down his face, stepping back into the street to let me get into my house. He walks past me, the smell of leather and pine and something muted, like amber, enters my nostrils with ease, hugging every nerve ending I have and making sure I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.

I go inside, and with trembling hands I run water from the tap into a tall glass, bringing it back outside as carefully as I can in my disoriented state.

“Did you want the water?”

He shakes his head, and I sit down on the porch at the same time, as instructed.

“The water is for you.”

And then I understand why he issued his command.

His lips start moving, but the low, dark voice fades out as I go deeper and deeper into myself, the world around me becoming a blur. A blur where all I hear are words like “Cole Finnegan was a good man,” and “I’m sorry, Dove,” and “he fought well,” and other things I wish I could just block out of my mind.

The news is cruel, and it’s ripping my heart open right in front of this man, leaving me raw and vulnerable under his penetrative gaze. I look up at him through wet eyelashes, and I can swear I hear him groan, groan as he crouches down in front of me and gently wipes a tear away from my cheek.

His hand is warm, scarred from the hardships of war, but steady and in control. I close my eyes at the sensation of his skin touching mine, and let more tears flow shamelessly. He’s got me. He’s here and he’s showing me that he’s got me.

“I know,” he murmurs, and the veils of my eyes snap open. The way his voice reverberates into my chest spurs butterflies to life in my core and in my belly. “Cole was like a brother to me. So I know, Dove.”

He swipes his thumb one last time across my face. His tongue darts out just enough to touch the droplet of water coating his skin as he licks my tear off his finger. I gape, watching him, my grief mixed with an unknown emotion—a buzz of light and darkness, and shame, and need. I need… I don’t know what I need. But it has everything to do with the man crouching in front of me.

“What’s your name… sir?” I ask, blushing at my own words.

His nostrils flare all of a sudden, and I’m not sure if I upset him. He looks important—like a lieutenant or… maybe even higher than that. I probably insulted him by not knowing his name.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”

“Rowan. My name is Rowan King.” His gaze lowers to my lips as he says it.

My heart leaps to my throat and my legs turn to jelly as I register the intent behind the look. But before I can nod or give him any sort of approval, he looks away, getting himself to a standing position. Disappointed and deeply ashamed for whatever hopes I was holding on to, my eyes drift to my shoes and freeze there.

Until I see his hand stretching out in front of me, a silent invitation to cling onto him, to let my grief flow into him because he can handle it all if I let him.

Slowly, I lift my gaze, and the sun hides right behind his head as if it doesn’t dare move an inch without being ordered to. The golden glow casting around his figure makes the sharp lines of his face even more prominent, and the shadows playing across his eyes give him an air of mystery I can’t help but want to decipher.

I extend my hand forward, taking his and allowing him to lift me up to a standing position. I’m then pulled into his hard chest, and every atom of my body crashes to a halt.

I mold around him like ivy climbing a sturdy oak, his strong arms coming around my shoulders and the small of my back, crushing me to him. A whimper leaves my throat from the ambush of feelings washing over me, and he swipes his thumb across stray strands of my ash-brown hair in response.

“Rowan,” I breathe out, and I feel his arms tightening on me protectively, as if I’m a toy he can’t bear to part with. Or share with the world.

“Yes?”

“It’s okay if you want to kiss me,” I say, instantly regretting it.

What the hell is wrong with me?! Maybe that’s not even what he intended when he glanced at my lips. Maybe he was just lost in thought and looking into the void.

Maybe it meant nothing at all.

This isn’t even right—using him to ease my grief. My brother certainly deserves all my tears, and I shouldn’t try to run away from the emotion just because it’s hard to experience.

Rowan’s fingers stop caressing my hair and they tangle into it instead, pulling my head back until we’re making eye contact. His eyes are hooded, and I bite my lower lip, feeling shameful, needy, devastated… and on the verge of breaking down again.

“I can’t let that happen, Dove. Not today, at least.”

“Why not?” I plead, tears welling my eyes again.

I feel pathetic. Utterly pathetic. But the way his hand pulls at my hair from behind my back sends tendrils of pleasure through my core, washing away the shame. Or parts of it.

“You’re grieving. It’s not right.”

It is right, though. It is so right.

My lower lip quivers on its own, and I catch his gaze narrowing down on it, as if his self-control is hanging by a thread. Still, he doesn’t pull it between his teeth, and disappointment courses through me again when he presses his warm lips to my forehead instead.

The kiss is gentle but taut at the same time, as if he’s inhaling me—all of me. As if he knows this is the last time he’ll see me, but he accepts his fate like any broken soldier would.

“Take care of yourself, Dove Finnegan,” he says, slowly drifting away from me.

His body leaves mine, my hair falls back on my shoulders, and I have no choice but to watch him walk back to a black SUV parked a few houses down the street. I wrap my arms around myself, the grief he temporarily took away from me now hitting me like a tsunami wave.

I look back at the glass of water sitting on the porch and then I break, letting it all come out of me until my throat feels raw and my bones ache from the weight of my brother’s death.