Cruel Commander (Deadly Devotion #3)

Chapter One

Maximus (Callsign: Reaper)

The casino is a perfect front for a terrible operation.

It takes marked effort for me to keep a smile in place as I pass the guards waiting at the front door, not missing the firearms holstered to their hips.

I also clock the way they spend a little too long gazing at the female patrons streaming in and out, as though they’re appraising cows at a market.

This job is simple enough on the surface, yet complicated to execute. It requires me to expose myself to a crowd of wealthy men and women here to gamble their money away—and my organization doesn’t like any exposure.

I have Toby—a certified tech genius—running interference to erase any camera footage, but there are too many witnesses to kill.

Too many women, too. I’ve never been a fan of hurting women. It’s one of the things that makes working with the Nighthawks, a group of assassins that put fear into hardened criminals with the name and reputation alone, challenging.

It doesn’t help that both my superiors are deliberately pricks.

Cain—the leader of the Nighthawks—more so than Greyson, who’s my direct superior.

The only reason I’m here is because Cain was in a pissy mood and decided to take it out on me, which makes me more than eager to finish this bullshit and go home.

Unfortunately, I know it’s easier said than done.

My mark tonight isn’t only powerful; he’s high-profile.

I’d have much preferred to camp out on a rooftop nearby with my sniper rifle and wait for Dagon to expose himself, but the trouble is he doesn’t expose himself.

There have been so many attempts on that fuckwad’s life that he no longer takes any chances.

The only times he goes out with less protection than usual are when he comes to visit this casino. Word on the street is that he sets up camp in one of the backrooms with his soldiers to oversee operations.

Word also has it that Dagon is a certified piece of shit, and 1,000% deserves to get killed. The only problem is, he’s managed to kill the last three assassins sent after him.

It’s lucky for him that those men weren’t me. I’m not an amateur, and my kill record is spotless. I have never failed an op, and I don’t intend to start now.

The casino hits me in the face like a slap the second I step through the brass-framed doors.

Light, sound, and money all vibrate at the same fever pitch.

Everything glows. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling like frozen rain, scattering golden light over polished marble floors with black veins.

The air smells like expensive perfume, old money, new money, and desperation.

Rows of slot machines flank the main walkway, screens pulsing neon blues and violent reds reminiscent of blood, digital bells chiming with every fake victory.

People sit hunched over them like supplicants at an altar, eyes glazed as they chase that next tiny rush—and risk unspeakable amounts of money in the process.

To my left, several poker tables run in a smooth line, green felt pristine despite the number of lives that have been gutted over it. Dealers in crisp black vests move with practiced ease, hands sharp, faces carved into polite neutrality.

I move through the well-dressed men and women like I belong here, suit pressed, tie straight, expression lazy.

I get many admiring glances from women as I pass, but what they don’t notice is the way I clock every important detail: exits, blind spots, who’s drinking too much, who’s not drinking at all, and the number of guards.

I spend the next two hours at the poker table, pissing off the high-ballers by taking their money. One good thing that comes from nightly poker games at the Nighthawk Fortress is that I’m used to taking money from imbeciles. Doing so at a casino presents minimal difference.

I check my watch midway through the fourth hand. It’s Friday night, and Dagon is scheduled to make an appearance at any minute. I run my eyes along the well-dressed men and women flitting about the floor and circling tables, and—

Then I see her.

My heart stutters and stops. The breath’s knocked out of me like I was just dealt a blow to the solar plexus. My hands lose their grip on the poker chips I’m playing with, and they land on the table with a clatter.

She stands in a circle of men, escorting Dagon—my mark for the night—across the floor.

First, comes the confusion. What the fuck is Ember doing here? With a crowd like Dagon’s?

Then, comes the fury. It skitters up my spine, tightens my shoulders, and sets my lips into a flat line.

My eyes narrow on Ember as she crosses the floor.

I spent years looking for her—years, but she’d dropped off the face of the earth.

I assumed she was dead, and I mourned her loss.

It sent me into a spiral that only killing people pulled me out of.

Finally comes the lust. Little Ember grew up—without me, which is unacceptable—and turned from a pretty girl into a complete fucking knockout.

Generous breasts and curvy hips, displayed by the borderline-scandalous dress she wears.

Milky, well-toned legs that seem to stretch on endlessly, despite her short height.

Cat-like blue eyes curtained by thick, dark lashes.

Lips that have filled out since the last time I stared at them, close to five years ago.

Raven-black, long hair. A delicate build on a delicate girl…

Except she doesn’t appear so delicate anymore. Her posture is straight. Her steps are sleek, like a cat’s. Her eyes run over the room with a sniper’s precision, looking for… something. And those eyes… those eyes that I remember bursting with life and emotions are blank.

So blank I almost think I must be mistaking her for someone else.

Then, Dagon reaches out and wraps a bony hand around her arm, jerking Ember into his side, and my vision goes red.

My mark is touching the woman I lost, and she’s letting him. She’s not leaning into him—the edges of her lips curl down with displeasure—but she’s letting him.

Blaring alarm bells go off in my mind. Confusion and anger converge within me, creating a roaring tempest that threatens to consume me. The semi I sprouted at the sight of Ember deflates quicker than a balloon that’s been popped, and in the span of a heartbeat, my mission changes.

I was here to poison Dagon’s drink and see him dead. Now, I’m here for two reasons.

First, kill Dagon.

Second, fulfill my duty to the Nighthawks… by taking Ember back with me.

Each eligible Nighthawk is given the opportunity to capture a woman to bring back to the fortress. Greyson was the first—he found Scarlett a year ago, did some horrible shit to her because he thought she helped kill his twin, and upon realizing her innocence, claimed her.

Not long ago, he told me I’m next. I’ve been dragging my feet over it and bemoaning the issue of having to deal with this shit, but now… my fucking God, can I see the appeal.

I have no clue what Ember’s doing with Dagon, but I do know that she doesn’t belong with him or to him. She’s belonged to me since the moment I first laid eyes on her, over a decade ago.