Page 84 of My Cruel Salvation

Devlin stood in the lobby of the magnificent concrete, steel, and glass office building of the Devlin Saint Foundation. He’d spent hours with architect Jackson Steele discussing Devlin’s vision of the foundation and the image he wanted to project to the world.

Now, he turned slowly in a circle, taking in the incredible floating staircase, the welcoming reception area, and the incredible wall of glass that could be pushed aside to open onto a stunning outdoor patio with a view of the Pacific. “It’s perfect,” he said to the man standing beside him. “It’s everything I imagined and more.”

Jackson Steele grinned. “I thought it would be,” he said, not a man for false modesty. “There’s a sense of acceptance here. But the materials are hard and harsh, not warm like wood.”

“Reflecting what the people we’ve helped have been through.”

“Exactly,” Jackson said. “No one will notice consciously, but somewhere inside themselves, they’ll understand that this building matches your mission.”

Devlin nodded, in full agreement. He could see how the world-renowned architect—or “starchitect”—had built his reputation so quickly. “I’m glad you accepted the commission,” Devlin said. “I don’t think I could have asked for a better face for the public.”

“You’re going to do incredible work here at the Devlin Saint Foundation. I had to do justice to the mission of the DSF.”

That was true, Devlin thought. The whole purpose of the DSF was to remediate the damage caused by his father and men like him. To help women and children. To assist those who needed rehabilitation or job training after being imprisoned or forced against their will to work in sweatshops and drug manufacturing and other equally vile arenas.

He wanted to assist and educate. To offer counseling and adoption services if needed. To do whatever he could to try to make the world right again for the people who has been caught in the spider web cast by vile men like his father. He wanted to make those people strong again, so they could shake off the label of victim and become the people they were meant to be in the first place.

The fact that Jackson understood that, even a little bit, affected Devlin more than he’d expected. The man had talent and vision and believed in his project. And that feedback and support was worth the world.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder what Jackson Steele would say if he knew about Devlin’s less-than-public endeavor. An organization—really more of a loose collective—that his friend Ronan had dubbed Saint’s Angels.

The Angels had no affiliation with the DSF, but as far as Devlin was concerned, it was an equally important entity. Whereas the foundation provided help in a very public manner, the Angels’ mission was more private—to prevent men like his father from creating victims in the first place, or to exact retribution when they did.

It was a mission he’d fantasized about since he’d been a child on the compound. A mission he’d worked toward from the moment he’d left Laguna Cortez all those years ago.

Saint’s Angels was the reason Alex Lopez had disappeared, and Devlin Saint had been born. He’d been a ghost in those between years, and a lethal one, taking out the type of people the Angels now pursued. He’d honed his skills with government support, albeit with full deniability, and he’d earned his freedom from the military by putting those skills to work.

Even with the Angels and the Foundation, he knew he could only make a dent in the pain and corruption in the world, but every life he saved or helped rebuild made it worth it. He’d paid a huge price to have this, not the smallest part of which was walking away from Ellie.

It was worth it, he told himself. Even though she could never be his, the life he’d now built would be enough.

It had to be.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The present…

Devlin took his hands off the wheel and slowly raised them into the air. He glanced sideways and nodded, silently telling Brandy to do the same. She’d gone pale, completely white, and terror seemed to come off her in waves.

He wanted to tell her they’d get through this. That it would be okay, but he said nothing. For one, he didn’t know if his captors had itchy trigger fingers. For another, he was afraid to make a promise that he might not be able to keep.

He knew that they’d been followed by one of the cops assigned to watch the house. For a moment, he let himself hope that the cop had seen the attack and radioed in before casually driving on. But then he heard one of the thugs talking to the other. The pig died at the corner, and Devlin’s hope that their situation had been reported faded to nothing.

“Out of the car, you fucking bastard.” The voice was unfamiliar. Rough. And though Devlin tried to match it to a voice in his memory, he couldn’t. It didn’t matter. He knew that this man must be tied to Joseph Blackstone. He knew why they’d been carjacked, and he was kicking himself for underestimating Blackstone’s men. Without a leader, he’d truly thought they would scatter.

Now, here he was, surrounded by the very species of men that he’d dedicated his life to fighting. And Brandy was the kind of woman he’d spent his entire life trying to protect. And yet here they were, facing death because of the choices he made.

“Come on, bitch,” said another one, yanking open the passenger side, and grabbing Brandy’s upper arm. She fumbled to undo the seatbelt, and he screamed at her, telling her to keep her hands up.

“She’s trying to get out, you son of a bitch,” Devlin said. “Can’t you see she’s strapped in?”

The gunman at his side lashed out, smacking Devlin across the forehead with the side of his gun. “Shut your mouth.”

Devlin’s head rang, and he saw flashes of light from the impact. He wanted to punch the fucker. He wanted to lash out and smash him in the face. One on one, he knew that he could take him. But there were no good odds in this circumstance, and if he did start a fight—even if he had the slightest chance of winning—he knew damn well that Brandy’s presence reduced his odds.

At the end of the day, one of them would be dead, and he couldn’t live with himself if it was her.

Bottom line, he wasn’t a stupid man; he wouldn’t fight. And he wouldn’t let her fight either. “Do what they say,” he told her, glaring at the man and daring him to hit him again. “Just do exactly what he says.”