Page 20 of My Fallen Saint

And somehow, I can’t seem to find the right answer.

“Alex…” His name slips out of my lips, as weak as a lost child crying for help.

He rests his finger over my lips. “Devlin,” he says in the voice of a statesman proclaiming the law. “My name is Devlin.”

“I—”

He cuts me off with a shake of his head. His other hand is still inside my panties, and my body trembles as he pulls free, then lifts his hand and sucks on one of the fingers that was just inside me.

My core clenches, and I hate myself for wanting—no, needing—more.

I bite the inside of my cheek as a reminder not to go too far down the rabbit hole. Instead, I straighten my shoulders and lift my head to meet his eyes. It’s a mistake. All I want to do is melt into him, a willing victim to the hypnotic power of those eyes.

No. I need to stay focused, and I force myself to be steel and stone, stalwart against this man who hurt me. And no way is one good orgasm going to make up for what he did. On the contrary, I want answers, and before I’ve even fully formed the question in my mind, I blurt out, “What happened? Why the hell did you leave me?”

His lips part, and my heart stutters in anticipation of his answer. But he says nothing. All I see are the shadows in his eyes, the pain so deeply etched on his face that despite everything I want to pull him close and kiss his forehead.

But he only shakes his head slowly, his expression so sad my heart aches.

For a moment, our eyes lock, and I think that maybe whatever pain and betrayal was between us has been exorcised.

But then he takes a single step back, and I know that nothing has been repaired at all.

“Go back to New York.” His eyes meet mine, as hard and flat as a shark’s.

“I have an interview sched—”

“No. Just go, Ellie. There’s nothing for you here at all.”

My heart twists. The truth is, there’s not much for me in New York, either. Nothing but my work. But I push the thought aside and barrel on. “Al—Devlin,” I correct. “No. We need—”

But I can’t finish the thought. Not when he’s looking at me with those cold, empty eyes that are emerald green again, no longer that familiar, sandy brown.

He really isn’t Alex at all.

He steps closer, and I go tense, certain he’s going to touch me, and in that moment, I’m not sure if I desperately want him to, or if I’ll knee his balls if he dares to even try.

But that’s not what he’s doing. Instead, he reaches for the door handle and starts to pull it open. I step away, turning as I do so that for the first time I see the sporty black Tesla that he’d pushed me up against.

“Get in,” he says, holding the door open for me.

“What? Why?”

“I’m driving you home.”

Seriously?“I’m fine. I’ll walk.”

His hand closes around my wrist and he tugs me closer. “Just get in the car, Ellie.”

“Screw you. I said I can walk.” And the truth is I want to. Walk and think and clear my head. Most of all, I want distance from this man I once thought I knew.

For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to argue. But then he nods curtly, reaches into the passenger seat, and pulls out a small, canvas tote bag, the kind grocery store customers use instead of paper or plastic. He thrusts it at me, and I take it without thinking. “Have it your way. About the ride, I mean. But as for the rest of it…”

He trails off, his expression deadly serious. “I mean it, Ellie. Leave Laguna Cortez. Don’t play with fire. Put it all behind you for good. Me. This town. Everything. Leave,” he says, his eyes as hot and predatory as a wolf’s. “And don’t come back.”