Page 97 of Ruined By a Devil

“I know…”

“I love you, Malachi.”

I don't hesitate. I can’t wait for a better moment because I don’t think there could be a moment better than this one to say it. The words leave my mouth easily, completely honestly, probably the first time I’m saying something with so much certainty.

And he goes completely still for a few agonizing seconds. When he lifts his head from my shoulder and looks down at me, I notice that the shadows in his green eyes are gone. There is no hesitation, no more holding back.

“I love you,” he says, the words a heavy, permanent, carved in stone.

He leans down and kisses me. It isn't a desperate kiss, or a rough one, like the ones we’re used to. It is slow and deliberate, a quiet promise in the dark.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine.

“Did Elijah call?” I ask, my voice quiet.

Malachi nods slowly, the softness in his face fading, replaced by that tactical focus of the man who owns this city.

“They found the jet,” he says. “Abandoned on a private strip in Texas. The pilots were paid in cash to walk away and Nolan is gone.”

I look up at the ceiling. The threat is still out there. Nolan Devlin is smart, he is well-funded, and he knows exactly how to hurt us.

“Are you worried?” I ask.

“No.” Malachi traces his thumb over my jawline. “He can run, he can buy new passports, hire new men, and hide underground for a few months. But he can’t stay hidden forever. He'll have to come up for air eventually.”

“And if he’s just a cyborg who doesn’t breathe?” I joke, hoping to lighten up the mood a little.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he smiles back.

Malachi’s eyes lock onto mine, cold and absolutely certain as he casually asks if I’ve eaten, followed by a quick: “And when he does,” he says, “I will be waiting.”

EPILOGUE

Malachi

Two months later…

It’s been over sixty days since the white jet cleared the runway at Hangar seven.

Sixty-three days, to be exact.

I know because I stopped sleeping properly after the first week.

The rain hits the windshield of the parked SUV in heavy, uneven drops. I sit in the passenger seat, staring through the dark, water-spotted glass at the brightly lit entrance of a high-end restaurant across the street.

New Jersey looks nothing like New Orleans.

There is no humidity hanging in the air, no warm glow coming off the streets, no familiar smell of the river mixing with expensive perfume and gasoline. Everything here feels colder somehow.

Which is oddly appropriate for what we’re doing.

I am snapped out of my thoughts by the sudden buzz my phone makes in my jacket. When I take it out, I see Jade’s message on the screen.

Did you eat?

A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.

Two months ago, I would have ignored the message until the job was finished. Now I find myself reaching for the phone before Cain can even glance in my direction.