Page 8 of My Cruel Salvation

“What?”

He frowned, not sure how to put voice to his fears. She’d come back to him even after learning the truth about the Myers assassination. More than that, after learning that he was the brains and funding behind Saint’s Angels, a super-secret, off-the-books vigilante organization that, as far as Devlin was concerned, did at least as much good in the world as the very above-board and internationally lauded Devlin Saint Foundation.

That, however wasn’t common knowledge. And with her background in law enforcement, it hadn’t been something he’d expected Ellie to understand. It had been his biggest secret … and his biggest fear.

And yet here she was, right at his side. Their love stronger than even the most potent of obstacles, including her own hesitations about what he did.

“Devlin?” She was studying him, her forehead creased with concern.

He stroked her cheek. “I’m fine. I only—”

“What?”

He swallowed, the doubts he’d pushed away rising back to the surface. “This award,” he said. “What do you think of it?” Was she proud of him for what the foundation had accomplished, or did she think that the existence of Saint’s Angels and its methods made a humanitarian honor hypocritical?

She hesitated before answering. Only enough to draw breath, but his fears bubbled during that infinitesimal delay. Then he saw pride flicker in her eyes, and even before she spoke, he knew what her answer would be, and his heart swelled as she told him that she thought he deserved not just the award, but more. And, she added, that he shouldn’t doubt himself.

At that, he laughed. “I rarely do.” With El, however, he knew he didn’t have to be strong all the time. He could show his doubts, his fears. And no matter what, she would love him.

It was a simple truth, but it still awed him, and he let the glow of that reality fill him through the rest of their conversation until the limo finally pulled up in front of the Dorset Theater, a recently restored theater in Manhattan’s theater district that was serving as the ceremony’s venue. “We’re here,” he said, then pulled her in for one last kiss before the valet opened the door and they stepped out onto the red carpet.

He paused, taking in the crowd, the noise, the cameras, and then Ellie’s face, which was positively glowing with pride. He soaked it in, letting her happiness for him seep into his bones as they began to walk toward the door. Then she turned to him, and he saw the confusion flicker in her eyes. He started to ask what was wrong, but realized he didn’t need to.

He’d tuned out the cacophony, but now voices were getting through. Shouts from the reporters, raised voices with harsh questions. At first, it was all a blur. And then he heard those two horrible words—The Wolf.

No.

His blood turned to ice as he searched for the source, but as he did, he realized the question could have come from anyone, and he tightened his grip on Ellie’s hand as an anonymous reporter shouted the question—Is your name really Alejandro Lopez?

He picked up his pace, his shoulders stiff and his expression impassive as he moved toward the doors with Ellie keeping pace beside him. He knew he should answer. Should stop and speak, and maybe he even would have if one question hadn’t burst through, louder and bolder than all the rest—

Mr. Saint, did you kill your father?

No.

No, no, no.

Whatever strength he had faded in that moment. He felt ten years old again, back at the compound, his father demanding that Alejandro make him proud, because one day the boy would inherit his father’s legacy.

He’d never wanted it. He’d worked his whole life to avoid it. To shed it.

And here it was, thrust upon him under the fire of questions and cameras.

Goddammit.

The curse rang through him, but he kept his expression calm. He was stone. He was ice. He’d learned a long time ago how to not show emotion. He had his father to thank for that. And right now, the lessons he’d learned at that bastard’s hand were going to get him and Ellie safely inside that building.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Saint.” A tall woman with flaming red hair rushed to usher them inside. She signaled to the doormen to hurry and get the door closed, and only when they were completely shut did Devlin let his guard down the tiniest bit. Just enough to look down at Ellie.

She looked back at him, her expression as lost as his. “Devlin,” she whispered. “You’re hurting me.”

That’s when he realized that he’d almost crushed her hand. He let go immediately, opening his mouth to apologize. For the pain, for the crowd. For being the man he was—a man whose very existence had made her endure a spectacle like that.

But the words didn’t come. Instead, they were joined by a lanky man in a tuxedo. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a friendly face, and sad eyes. “I’m Arthur Packard,” he said, extending his hand. “The committee chair. Do you think we could have a word?”

Devlin’s heart flipped. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what that meant, and he kept his fingers twined with Ellie’s as Packard led them to a back room before excusing himself for a moment.

“They’re going to withdraw the award.” He knew he was talking, but he could barely hear the words. He was numb. Completely numb.