by J. Kenner
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.
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 an
d 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.
“Mr. Stark,” Devlin said, his brows rising in surprise. “I’m going to assume you’re not out here because you wanted some fresh air.”
“I wish it were something that innocuous. No, I wanted to let you know that committee’s decision to pull your award wasn’t unanimous.” He shrugged as he pushed away from the ladder and held out his hand to shake, his dual-colored eyes meeting Devlin’s. “I also wanted to introduce myself, something I’d intended to do after your speech. But I think this is the best I can manage.”
“I’m afraid so,” Devlin said, taking the other man’s hand. “But it means a lot that you came out here. Thank you.” He turned to El. “Elsa Holmes, I’d like you to meet Damien Stark.”
“I recognize you, of course,” she said. “And call me Ellie.”
“The pleasure is mine, Ellie,” Stark said. He turned his attention back to Devlin. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m sorry about the circumstances. By all rights, we should have met about five years ago.”
For a moment, Devlin didn’t understand. Then it clicked. “The foundation. Our offices in Laguna Cortez.” He turned to Ellie, answering her questioning look. “The architect who designed the offices—Jackson Steele—he’s Damien’s brother.”
“It’s a small world,” Ellie said.
“That it is.” Stark glanced down the alley toward the approaching limo. “Looks like your ride is here. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to offer my condolences. And my congratulations.”
Devlin’s brows rose. “Congratulations?”
“You don’t need an award, Saint. The work your foundation does speaks for itself.”
Devlin nodded, letting those words sink in. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot.”
“I know a thing or two about being scrutinized by the press. Even more about what it’s like to be encumbered by the reputation of a father I neither like nor respect. You’ll do fine. It won’t be easy, but you’ll overcome all this bullshit.”
“I will,” Devlin said, because Stark was right. Devlin had no choice but to overcome it.
But what he didn’t say was that while it might be easy enough to shake off the controversy of being The Wolf’s son and prove to the world at large that his philanthropic efforts were legitimate, that wasn’t the real issue.
No, what neither Stark nor the committee nor the press realized was that by outing Devlin’s parentage, those eager reporters may have just plastered a target on Devlin’s back, one at which both his father’s former allies and enemies would be taking aim.
What was worse, though, was that their real goal would be to punish him. To hurt him.
And that meant that the very press Ellie worked for had painted that same fucking target on her back as well.
Chapter Six
My heart aches for Devlin, and not just because that asshat Livingston maneuvered the committee into withdrawing the award. No, what Mr. Stark said was true—award or not, the Devlin Saint Foundation does amazing work, and the world damn well knows it. An award won’t change that.
What makes me shake with rage is that those fucking reporters have now painted him with the same brush as The Wolf. And Devlin isn’t anything like the murderous, drug-pushing, human-trafficking prick who fathered him.
We’re in the back of the limo, heading toward the hotel, and Devlin hasn’t said a word in the last five minutes. I reach over and take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Are you okay?”
There’s a pause before he answers, and when he turns to me, I see the pain in his eyes. “I think I always knew the truth would get out someday, no matter how much I hoped I could bury it. I would never have chosen to associate with that man, and the fact that I managed to break from him was one of the primary joys of my life. To now have—”
He cuts himself off, his hand tightening painfully around mine as if he’s trying to funnel the pain of his parentage out of his body.
“I know,” I say. “But you’re nothing like him. The world knows that. This is just so much smoke, and once it blows over, the world will only see the good that you’ve done. The sins of your father aren’t your sins.”
He turns to face me, and I see the shadows on his face along with the doubt in his eyes. “Aren’t they?”
Fury stabs through me. “Don’t you dare say that. You don’t believe it, and neither do I.”
“Don’t you?”
I feel my shoulders sag in frustration. Not at him, but at myself. “You know I don’t,” I say. “I wouldn’t be with you if I did. Devlin, I—”
I cut myself off as I take a breath. “I love you no matter what. And Saint’s Angels is nothing—nothing—like what your father was.”
“He killed. We kill.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” I snap. “Or are you just in a pissy mood and you’re trying to punish yourself. You know that’s not true. Your father killed for revenge. Because people annoyed him. Saint’s Angels rescues people. It balances the playing field. It renders justice.”
The words are out of my mouth before I have time to consider them, and I see the way his eyes widen as he tilts his head to the side. His brow furrows as he studies me, and right then I want to call back the words. Not because they aren’t true, but because I don’t know what to do with that truth.
“Justice,” he repeats softly. “I wasn’t sure that was how you felt.”
I shrug, hoping I look more casual than I feel. “It is what it is.”
Saint’s Angels is a vigilante group that Devlin founded even before he started the Devlin Saint Foundation. They’re entirely different entities—no money flows from the legitimate charitable organization to the not-so-legal secret vigilante operation. But there are players who overlap, Devlin and his best friend Ronan Thorne being the primary two.
I’d been knocked sideways when my journalistic investigation into the assassination of a serial murderer and child abuser had revealed that Devlin was the shooter. That kind of vigilante justice goes against everything I’d been brought up to believe. There’s a reason that law enforcement and courts exist. A reason why the rules of the Wild West have faded away.
But that’s about the rules and who is meting out the punishment. Not about whether the outcome looks like justice. Maybe that’s a fuzzy line, but it is a line. For a while, it was even a chasm. But it’s one that I crossed to be at Devlin’s side, and I don’t regret it. And I am damn sure not going to let him latch on to my personal mores to fuel his pity party about being aligned with his father.
“Your father murdered and cheated and manipulated. He put people in danger. He exploited them. And he killed on a whim. You so much as whisper that you are like him again, and I swear I’ll slap your face.”
For a moment, he’s silent. Then he pulls me roughly to him and kisses my forehead. “God, I love you.”
“Good. Stop talking shit about the man I love. You’re in the business of justice, Devlin. Don’t forget it.”
His gaze remains steady, then he nods and looks away, his hand tightening around mine. I don’t know if he truly feels better about what he does versus what his father did, but for now the conversation is tabled because we’ve reached the hotel. The driver foregoes the regular entrance and heads around back like Devlin had instructed once we were away from the theater. He’d also called ahead and asked the manager to gather our luggage and bring it to the limo.
Originally, we’d planned to spend one more night at the hotel on the Council’s dime, drinking champagne and making love in the well-appointed suite to celebrate his award.
Now, we don’t want to linger. Not when the press knows perfectly well where the Council had put him up.
Instead, we’re going to my apartment near Columbia University and Morningside Park. It’s small, but I like to think of it as cozy. And since we’d planned all along t
o go there tomorrow, I’d already asked Roger, my friend and editor at The Spall Monthly where I work as a staff writer, to stop in and stock it with food.
In a way, Roger’s the reason I’m with Devlin. I’d been assigned to write a profile on the Devlin Saint Foundation, located in my hometown of Laguna Cortez, California. I’d accepted the assignment eagerly, especially since I’d also intended to use my time there to investigate my uncle’s murder back when I was a teenager.
At the time, I’d had no clue that Devlin was also Alex Leto, the only boy I’d ever loved. Let alone all the rest of the secrets and drama that came with that revelation.
Now, of course, I’m planning to stay in California. And part of the purpose of this trip is to pack my things, find someone to sublet my place, and enjoy a bit of time in New York with Devlin before I become a full-time West Coaster.
As we wait, the driver opens the trunk for the valet and secures our luggage. Then we’re back on the road. “I like this better,” Devlin says. “The hotel was nice, but your apartment is a home.” He squeezes my hand. “And right now, the idea of being home with you is very, very appealing.”
“It is,” I agree, snuggling close as he puts his arm around me. I close my eyes, wishing that I had magical powers so that I could wave a wand and make it all better for him. Instead, I simply let myself be soothed by the rhythm of the limo and the feel of Devlin’s arm around me.
Traffic is light, and before I know it, we’ve pulled to a stop in front of my building. The area isn’t exactly one of the best neighborhoods in Manhattan, but it’s close to Columbia, which was great for me. And because I have rental income from the house I inherited when my dad died, with the studio’s cheap-for-Manhattan rent, I was able to cover all my personal and school expenses without having to hold down a job while I was working on my Masters.