Violent Devotion (Empire of Sins #1)

Chapter 1

Kelly

Six hours. That’s how much longer I’m trapped in this fluorescent nightmare, watching the clock crawl toward freedom. The sleepiness creeps in, making every minute feel like an hour.

I sigh and pull out my stethoscope, adjusting it in my ears before opening the latch to the metal cage where a little brown lionhead rabbit sleeps, still recovering from yesterday’s surgery.

Someone found her bleeding in the middle of the street, brought her in, and left before we could even get a name.

She and a cat are staying overnight for observation. The only two patients I need to keep an eye on while I try not to fall asleep during this night shift.

I prefer nights. Nights mean I don’t have to deal with people and their bullshit. No exhausting myself explaining the same thing over and over to owners who won’t listen anyway.

The rabbit’s heart rate is steady; she’s just drowsy from the anesthesia.

I give her a gentle scratch and close the latch.

The cat hisses when I open his cage but tolerates the exam, letting me press the stethoscope to his chest. I note everything in his chart, secure the latch, and head out of the kennel area toward the office to tackle the paperwork I’ve been avoiding.

We usually keep one vet here at night for emergencies while the rest are on call since we handle all the K-9 injuries for the police.

That doesn’t happen often, so mostly the nights are quiet and peaceful.

I walk past the whiteboard in the long hallway and scoff before flipping it off.

My boss, Gary, is the biggest asshole on the entire planet and has written a passive-aggressive note for the overnight staff.

In other words, me.

The only reason I’m even still at this stupid clinic is because my best friend, Camilla, works here and helped me get the job. She’s also the only reason I stay mentally sane while working here.

The office is ice cold, and the fluorescents hum like angry wasps.

I power on the computer and immediately want to throw it out the window when the update screen loads.

Great—no logging post-op notes today. Doesn’t really matter though since the system eats them regularly anyway.

Last week, it swallowed three full reports, and Gary forced me to rewrite everything from memory.

I drop my elbows on the desk and bury my face in my hands.

I am one more software crash away from chucking this piece of shit and filing a break-in report.

Not that anyone would believe someone broke in here since there’s nothing worth stealing.

The most exciting thing that’s happened since I started working here two years ago was someone hurling a rock through the front window, and Gary still wouldn’t get cameras.

Said it “wasn’t in the budget” and then spent two grand on a new espresso machine for his office that only he’s allowed to use.

I rest my forehead against the desk. The surface is cold, a relief from the stale air and the quiet hum of the computer doing absolutely nothing. I close my eyes and sigh. This year’s been a nightmare, and I’m barely holding it together.

My eyelids grow heavy. I’m too drained to fight it, so I let out a breath and don’t move.

Maybe a five-minute nap would help, just to stop thinking.

My body sinks into the chair with arms crossed under my head while the sounds around me blur—the soft hum of the fridge in the break room, the ticking of the wall clock, the occasional creak from the hallway.

It’s not comfortable, but my brain shuts up for once.

Something startles me awake.

I jerk my head up, blinking hard against the computer screen’s glare.

Fuck, I slept for twenty minutes. I straighten up and drag my palms down my face, working the kink out of my neck when a sound from the far end of the hallway stops me cold.

My stomach knots. Did I sleep through an alarm? Did someone bring in another K-9, and I missed it completely?

I move toward the door and lean against the frame. “Hello?”

Silence.

I walk through the hallway, past the staff lounge, toward the kennels. It’s only the rabbit and the cat back here, and both of them are drugged to hell. No way they made that sound.

I scratch at my scalp, trying to think through the fog, when something crunches under my shoe. Glass. All over the floor. Big, sharp pieces scattered like gravel and catching light from outside, shining faint in the dark. I follow the trail that leads me to blood smeared across the tile.

My stomach knots.

The staff entrance has a shattered window. It’s completely busted out, and the door’s been unlocked from the inside through the broken glass. My arms were over my head when I was sleeping. Probably muffled the sound of the window breaking … Blood smears the glass shards and pools on the tile below.

I start backing away. I think I’m going to be sick …

Each step crunches louder than the last. I keep going until I hit something.

No, not something. Someone.

Arms grab me from behind, one across my mouth. I slip, and my whole body locks up. Cold metal presses to the side of my head, and I try to breathe, but my chest won’t move. I can’t talk, can’t move, can’t even think past the screaming in my skull.

This is it. This is how I go.

He’s finally here to finish the job.

“Stop moving. You won’t get another warning.”

His arm tightens, his chest moving against my back—steady and controlled. That voice isn’t what I expected. It’s not from the man I thought was here to finish me off. This guy speaks with a thick foreign accent.

“You’re going to walk us to the treatment room. If you speak, if you shout, if you try anything stupid, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

I nod or at least try to, but my throat’s locked, and my legs won’t stop shaking. I think I get one sound out before his grip tightens again, and he forces me forward.

He moves his hand from my mouth and then shoves me. I try to glance back, but the gun presses hard against the side of my head, pushing it forward again.

“W-we …” My voice shakes too much to finish, so I clear my throat.

“We have drugs. I-if that’s what you’re after.

” The words come out choppy, broken by fear.

“Th-th-the drugs are locked up, but I can unlock it for you. It’s n-not a problem.

We don’t keep anything strong, though. Nothing you’d really want. ”

He makes a sound that’s something between annoyed and exasperated, making my stomach turn.

I lead him toward the treatment room. The hallway feels longer now, like every step stretches out too far. I open the door to the room and hit the lights. He pushes me in fast. I stumble, almost hitting the metal table in the middle of the room.

When I glance down, there’s blood soaked into the front of my scrubs. Not mine. His.

I raise my hands slowly as I turn to face him, heart thudding so hard I can barely hear anything else. This has to be a nightmare.

He’s way taller than me, dressed in black cargo pants with a holster strapped tight around his thigh and knives clipped to his belt.

He must be at least six-four. His shirt’s a black Henley, soaked through and clinging to his chest while one hand is pressed to his stomach, slick with blood.

The other’s holding the gun, still aimed directly at me.

His face is half-covered by a black gaiter pulled up past his nose, but his eyes are visible. They’re the kind of deep brown that almost looks black in this light, calculating and locked on me. His hair’s dark too, short on the sides, a little longer and curled over his forehead.

“Get something to pull out a bullet.”

His voice is rougher now, heavier, that accent thicker. There’s sweat on his forehead, and he’s slumping harder against the doorway.

“B-bullet?” I swallow. “I can call an ambulance. You need a hospital … I can’t just pull out a bullet in here.”

“Either you get the bullet out, or I drag it out myself and shoot you for wasting my time.”

I walk toward the cabinets with hands still raised and pull the drawers open. We’ve got nothing in this room close to what he needs.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You need surgery. This is a vet clinic. We treat animals, not humans. Wrong species.”

“And you’re a vet?”

“Yes.”

“Then fix me the way you’d fix them.”

I blink because I actually can’t believe this is happening right now—he wants me to dig a bullet out of him?

In this room? With no backup, no nurse, no legal protection?

I’m not a trauma doctor. If he dies, it’ll be on me somehow.

If the last couple of months have taught me anything, it’s that people believe whatever the police write down. Doesn’t matter what actually happened.

I take a shaky breath and start pulling out whatever I can think of. Forceps, tweezers, saline, gloves, gauze, syringe, sponges. It all clatters into a metal tray as I grab and move without thinking.

When I turn around, I freeze. He’s sitting on the floor against the door with the gun still up and eyes on me. There’s so much blood.

I rush to him and drop to my knees. I reach for the gloves, trying to steady my hands as I pull them on, but they won’t stop shaking.

“Lie down, please. I can’t get to the wound with you slumped like that.”

His brown eyes find mine. He looks pale, drained. I didn’t think I’d care, but I do because I don’t want him to die here, not like this.

He hesitates, then pushes off the door and lowers to the floor with a groan. He drags the gaiter down and wipes his forehead.

I look away because seeing his full face makes this more real somehow. I push the soaked fabric up slowly while blood seeps from the wound fast. I press sponges to it, trying to get control.

“I need to stop the bleeding first, then I’ll feel around and try to find the bullet.”

He nods once. “Just get it done.”

My hands hover over the wound. I can’t move while the gun is still pointed at my face.