Page 9 of My Cruel Salvation

Beside him, Ellie nodded. “Yes.”

“Goddammit.” He slammed his fist into his thigh, wanting to feel. He wanted fury. Wanted indignation. He wanted something other than this haze of numbness. And the horrible, pressing fear that no matter how far he ran—no matter what he accomplished—he would forever be tainted with the sins of his father.

Chapter Five

“Devlin.”

Her voice was soft, almost tentative. And just like that, he knew that he could get through this. Because no matter what else the universe threw at him, he still had El beside him.

Slowly, he reached for her, closing his hand gently around hers. She squeezed, as if offering her strength, and he pulled her close, then held her tight before bending his head to press a soft kiss on her sweet-scented hair.

“Are you okay?”

He pulled back, and she tilted her head to meet his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, wanting only to erase the worry in her eyes.

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not. But so long as you’re with me, I’ll get through this.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He wanted to pull her close. To bury his anger in passion. But that wasn’t possible now. Hell, with the door opening and Packard walking back in, even a kiss wasn’t in the offing.

Instead, he held her hand as he turned to face Packard and the second man who’d joined him.

Devlin saw the truth etched in the lines of their faces and spoke first. “You’re pulling the award.”

“I’m very sorry,” Packard said, looking both frustrated and embarrassed. “It wasn’t my decision.”

“It was mine,” the other man said, his chin lifted as he stepped forward. “I’m Blair Livingston. I’m in charge of all of the council’s operations. And under the circumstances, I’m afraid we can’t risk our reputation.”

“You think your reputation will be served by denying a humanitarian award to my foundation simply because of who my father is?”

“I think it’s a public relations risk we aren’t willing to take. You’ve kept your parentage a secret.” Livingston shrugged. “Who knows what other secrets you’ve been keeping.”

Devlin tensed, a violent fury rising in him. This wasn’t something he could fix with money or power or a sniper’s rifle. This was the shadow of his father all over again, and right then all he wanted was to release this pent-up fury by pounding his fists against the leather of a punching bag. Or, better yet, flesh.

The pulling of this award was only the beginning, he knew. For years, he’d built a name and a reputation. Devlin Saint.

And now all of that was tumbling down. Packard and Livingston weren’t the cause of his fury—they were just a symptom.

Devlin had bigger worries now. Much bigger.

So instead of arguing or pleading his case, Devlin simply drew in a breath and slowly released it. “I understand your position,” he said. “I assume you’ll understand that Ms. Holmes and I won’t be staying for the banquet. In fact, if there’s a back exit, I think we’ll slip out now.”

“Yes,” Mr. Packard said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Please, follow me.”

Livingston stayed behind as Packard led them down the corridors to the alley. As they walked, Devlin tapped out a text to the driver, instructing him where to meet them.

“Here,” Packard said, stopping in front of a solid metal door. “I could step out with—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Devlin gave the bar a push, and the door swung open. He gestured for El to go first, nodded to Packard, who looked utterly miserable, then stepped into the alley himself.

The limo wasn’t there.

That wasn’t too surprising; the driver had probably parked blocks away, intending to pass the hours reading or listening to music.

What was surprising was the man he saw leaning against a rusty fire-escape ladder. A dark-haired, lean man with the kind of face that could make an actor’s career and a confidence that he wore like a familiar coat. A man Devlin had never met, but who he recognized instantly—former tennis pro turned tech billionaire, Damien Stark.