“My brother,” Devin said.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “It was in the alley. In this alley. It was your brother! I saw him die!”
And then, finally, the words didn’t seem hard to find at all. “Yes,” he told her. “And you saw me kill him.”
* * *
Natalie’s fingers tightened around the photos—wrinkling them in a rustle of paper protest. “No,” she said, taking a step back from him, because of course it was true. He’d never say such a thing if it wasn’t true. And still she shook her head and repeated, “Devin, no.”
He couldn’t quite look at her—sitting on the small rise of her entry, his knees drawn up and his body tight with tension. Not fuzzy, not distant, not faded. Totally here. Totally real.
Totally telling the truth.
He said, “Leo had the blade then. I think he got set off by something similar to what happened here the other night. Peyote, Enrique thinks. Not a lot, but...you know how it is with me right now. Probably wouldn’t take much.”
“Jimena,” Natalie found herself saying, a mere breath of a word.
He threw her a sharp look; the setting sun glimmered over the horizon one last moment to glint off the gray of his eyes, the line of his jaw. Fatigue and resignation settled in deep, but...determination, too.
“She had some of your leftovers.” Natalie’s voice went on without her; her body stood locked in place, enthralled by the horror of what she’d heard.
“Leo was further gone than I am,” Devin said. “With the blade, I mean.” He pulled a face at himself, waved that off. “Thing is, he didn’t know what was happening. He was fighting for his life, but he’d been doing it a lot longer—and he didn’t have you to help him.”
“I don’t—” She shook her head. Behind her, the porch light flickered on, having decided the dusk was shadowed enough. “I don’t understand.”
He made a sound of frustration, pushing off to his feet in a single, powerful thrust—a few hard steps away from the porch, a few steps back. “I know,” he said. “I know. So look at it this way. Think about last night. Pretend that whatever’s been going on with me has been going on for a lot longer, and I’m in a lot worse shape—I’m barely sticking with reality half the time, my reasoning is skewed, my motivations are driven by darkness. How do you think it would have turned out?”
Natalie closed her eyes on that particular truth. “Something threatened you,” she said. “You tried to strike at it. And I was there—”
She couldn’t go any further.
He didn’t fill in the silence.
And finally she looked at him and whispered, “Leo...tried to kill you.”
He pushed his palm against his brow—looked like he was pushing back pain. “He very nearly did.”
Natalie looked down at the photos—at the man who shared Devin’s eyes and the set of his mouth, but whose chin wasn’t as strong and whose facial structure wasn’t as defined. Brother.
And then she looked again at the alley. There, where she’d been with Ajay. There, where crystalline memory showed her a man silhouetted against wildly flickering light, braced and strong, the wide set of his shoulders suddenly familiar, the lean lines of a strong body, those she had since come close to claiming for her own.
Her throat ached with the enormity of it; she shoved an impatient hand along her wet cheek. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How does it all...I mean, Ajay must have known your brother. He must have gone there for...but I know he wasn’t expecting...” She shook her head, impatient with the jumble of pieces. “And now? All of this? How can this be coincidence?”
He looked as grim as she felt—as shaken. “I don’t think it is. There’s something going on—something bigger than you and me and a chance meeting in a dark parking lot. I’ll find it. I just wanted you to know....” He gestured at the photos; his expression tight with grief. “I didn’t want to believe it at first, but...you were there. You, and me...and Leo. It was the worst night of my life...and you saw it.”
“You killed your brother,” she whispered. She traced a finger over the thriving plants in the alley photo. “And now it’s a place of life. The very first one. How can that be coincidence?”
“It’s not just that one,” he said; his voice had that distracted sound, and when she gave him a hard glance she discovered what she suspected—that he’d lost himself for a moment—in the grief, in the memories, in whatever thing it was that had had a hold on his brother and now had a hold on him. And that he probably hadn’t quite meant to say those words out loud. Reluctance clear, he added, “They all have the same taste.”
“The alleys,” she said, somewhat flatly.
“Death,” he told her. “Fear. Anger. It’s sharp and hot and hard to breath... It’s the blade, reacting to them all. Just like the other night.”
“The blade,” she said, just as flatly, thinking about steel gleaming first one shape, then another. Thinking about a man, crumbling to the asphalt before her eyes.
Thinking about Devin James—fever-hot one moment, shivering the next. Gushing arterial blood...and cutting out his own stitches three days later. Deep and brooding and torn, just as quickly turned to that startlingly honest grin—or equally honest, irresistible desire.
Questions and inconsistencies. And she’d been holding on to them for far too long. Far too long for what hung unresolved between them.
And yet he closed his eyes; the look on his face was nothing but pain. Her chest tightened, stealing her breath—for she knew his answer. And she knew her own.
His words came as though torn from him. “I can’t—not yet. I just...can’t.”
She thrust the photos back at him, already reaching for the door handle. “Then you’re on your own. I hope you figure it out.”
* * *
You’re on your own.
As it should be.
But telling about the blade meant telling her all of it. The men he’d killed since, the inexplicable street hunt that had become his life, the not-so-inanimate object that drove him.
The inevitable and pending loss of self, the wild road already tugging at him.
Tugging hard.
She might not want to be with a man who wouldn’t give up his secrets, but she was no more likely to be with one who was about to lose his soul.
With some care, he slipped the photos back into their envelope, pressing the clasp securely closed, and walked away into the darkening night.
* * *
Natalie put her back to the closed door—eyes closed, head tipped back.
Even just standing there, she’d felt the pull of him.
But she wouldn’t let herself follow anyone blindly, not any longer.
What about Sawyer Compton?
“That’s not the same,” she said, words loud in the empty room. “That’s a job.”
The words didn’t sound as reassuring as they would have even a few days earlier.
Standing there, with the cool of the door against her back, she suddenly couldn’t see her life clearly any longer. With the memory of the pain in his face...the memory of her body responding to his...the memory of his instant honesty in every moment in which it truly counted...
Her reasons were good ones. It didn’t mean she wasn’t doing the wrong thing.
The sigh built from deep within her. She lifted her head from the door, opened her eyes to the dark room.
Blinked in sudden déjà vu confusion.
Light patches, dark shadows, vague assertions of form...the familiar glow of the kitchen clock, just barely visible from this angle.
Déjà vu.
What if she took a single step to the right?
Dreading it, Natalie did just that.
And found herself looking at the security web cam image from Sawyer Compton’s computer.
Chapter 15
Devin hadn’t truly expected any other reaction. Not from a woman so clear about her boundaries. Not when he would give her truth and trust but not al
l of it.
Didn’t mean he hadn’t let himself hope. Deep down, where he didn’t truly have any control. And he’d learned a lot about control these past weeks.
He’d see Natalie again. He didn’t have any doubt. Fate had brought them together not once but twice, and now they were too entwined to avoid another encounter.
He just wasn’t sure if he wanted it. Because damn, he couldn’t help but put his heart right out there when he saw her—when he wanted to draw her close and breathe in the scent of her hair and feel her hands dig gently into the muscle along his spine.
Watching her reject that...wasn’t going to be so good for that heart. Twice he’d walked away from her; lacking courage; now she’d drawn the line a final time.
He pulled the truck up alongside the curb outside Enrique’s. If he went into the gym like this—closed now, but Enrique would be in the back cursing over bills and paperwork and laundry—Enrique would take one look at him and kick him out on his ass, tell him to get right back over to Natalie and straighten this out.
Enrique had a matter-of-fact philosophy when it came to affairs of the heart. Don’t screw around, hijo. Don’t waste it.
Devin trailed his fingers over the battered envelope sitting on the passenger side of the bench seat. The alleys, the deaths...the territorial response of the blade. The gardens, the new restaurant...Sawyer Compton. Way too many pieces, far too little understanding of what tied them altogether. Just the bone-deep awareness that something did.
Maybe Enrique had found a thing or two.
He flipped the truck’s door handle, gave the door itself the extra kick it needed on a cold night like this, and slid out to pavement, high-top martial arts sneaks silent by both habit and nature, the hoodie and vest no longer nearly enough to keep out the night.
The blade snarled a warning.
Not the eager thrill of anticipated blood, but the same edgy feel from the evening at Natalie’s. The same lingering territorial anger as the alleys. Faint but distinct.
Devin knew it this time. Not just pending violence, not just the chance to bite flesh. But a threat perceived.
He ran for the door, hit the entry bar in frustration—locked, as it should be. Fumbling for the keys merely filled his hand with the knife; he flipped it to his other hand and went back to his watch pocket, digging out the key he always kept tucked away there.
He wasn’t surprised at the hot burn flooding his arm; he knew the knife had flung itself into the tactical blade, sweet in his grip and ready to bite. He found the key; the key found the lock.
He left it there as he ran into the dark gym, orienting...listening. Heeding the deep inner burn of his own personal directionals, bypassing the still-lit office and slamming through the swinging double doors to the back hallway—permanent odor of bleach, cleansers, sweat and wet shower tile.
A grunt echoed hollowly down the dim hallway. An old man’s pain. The showers—
He knew better than to run for it—to give up the advantage of those habitually silent feet in their dance-light shoes. But he moved fast enough, threading through a row of lockers and up against the wall outside the showers—hesitating just long enough to hear the sound of someone spitting defiance.
Ah, Enrique. Don’t you know you’re an old man?
Still snapping back in the face of defeat, as he had in the ring. Never giving up. Just that thing he instilled in his students now.
This time, it might just get him killed. The blade knew as much, burning hot up Devin’s arm.
“Who did you tell, old man?” The growl echoed in that shower room, coming with a loud rustle of movement. Devin had no trouble interpreting the actions that made them—a second man had Enrique, had jerked him to his feet—
Threat, the blade murmured.
Devin stepped into the communal shower. Hard tile floor, dripping shower head in the corner, someone’s forgotten shampoo tipped over on its side and filling the room with a manly fragrance.
That, and the raw smell of blood.
There were two of them, all right—both of them macho tough in black leather jackets that would have fit better with a little more shoulder and slightly less gut; both with snug black gloves; both with faces exposed.
If they thought they’d scare Enrique past identifying them—
No. Of course they didn’t. This was about gathering information and leaving a body behind.
Or it had been. Now, they would discover, it was about staying alive.
“Gently,” Devin said, his voice cold and tight; he gave Enrique a quick once-over. Nothing too serious, not yet. Maybe a broken cheekbone; stitches for sure. And the way the older man hunched over, could be a rib or two gone. “You’ll put him down gently. And then, if you can get past me, you might get out of here tonight.”
Want. The blade pulsed with it, thirsting for their blood, thirsting for their fear. Enticing Devin to play with them, to kill them slowly...one cut, one blow at a time.
Didn’t matter that there were two of them, or that the man not holding Enrique up would go for a gun at the very first opportunity. These men wouldn’t get past him. Not tonight, not ever.
Enrique lifted his head, squinted at Devin with the one eye that wasn’t already swollen closed. “Keep it in here,” he said, his expression hard and bright. “Easy to clean up the blood that way.” He spat again, hitting the shoes of the man in front of him. “Even fool’s blood washes off tile.”
Not that the blade would leave a trace.
“Don’t kill him yet,” the senior of the two ordered of the man who held Enrique. Curly hair cropped close to his head, big beefy hands beneath the gloves, coarse features. “We don’t yet have what we were sent to get.”
Enrique looked at Devin. “They want to know about the alleys. They want to know who cares that people have died there. They want to know who cares about a big man named Sawyer Compton.” He lifted his lip in a snarl of blood-smeared teeth. “I want to know who cares that someone cares.”
Abruptly, the man who held Enrique tossed him aside—from defiance to a heap of brittle bones in the corner, just like that.
They’d thought Devin would snarl fury; they’d thought he would hesitate, or make some aborted attempt to reach the old man.
Part of him did. Some inner part, the part not blade-honed and street-trained and battle-scarred.
The rest of him knew better.
He stepped in—a duck, a whirl, blade slicing air and whispering through leather and skin; his foot landed in the gut of the leader, trapping his hand as it reached for his gun. Breaking a bone, maybe two.
When he came to rest, one man had only just begun to realize how deeply he’d been cut and the other had dropped his gun—and Devin was no longer within reach of either.
From the corner, Enrique grunted something that could have been a laugh.
And the rush of the blade swept through Devin, gripping his soul. He shuddered, fighting it—losing to it. Kill them. Kill them now. Drink of them. He set his jaw, staring at the innocuous floor, tile smeared with more than just Enrique’s blood now. Staring hard. “I want to know,” he said, right through clenched teeth, “who cares.” Kill them. Drink of them. He lifted his head; he let the blade’s darkness show. “And does Compton care if you come back alive?”
“Shit,” breathed the man who had already tasted the blade’s edge, taking a step back. “Oh, shit. Ajay, let’s go. Let’s just—”
Ajay—Ajay?—turned suddenly sly and crafty; he dove for the gun.
The blade surged up within him, and Devin knew, he knew, if he rode the full strength of it, it would win this time. He wouldn’t be able to stay his hand. Never mind that he needed answers from these men, never mind that they could tell him what he needed to know. Natalie. Leo. Death alleys, masquerading as life.
Ajay saw Devin coming and fumbled the gun, his short, harsh cry of fear echoing off the tile. The beta guy’s eyes widened—
Threat! Fiery resentment flared down Devin’s a
rm, throwing him off balance; metal sparked and flowed, strobing light reflected off dull yellow ceramic. The feel of it shifted dramatically in his hand and he knew better than to question. He pivoted, the blade a sturdy, shaped quarterstaff of metal, perfectly placed, perfectly balanced—deflecting the blow that had been aimed for his head from behind.
Just a blur, that’s all he saw. Another black leather jacket, darker skin this time, rough-stubbled jaw and a meanly triumphant sneer turning to surprise. Metal crowbar clanged against mutable steel, a blow that reverberated down his arm.
But he wasn’t done moving by far. His other hand swept up, took the staff at the end; he whirled into the motion, soaking up the lightning glee of the blade set free, the metal reforming, the saber flowing into its graceful curve—
An extra whip of motion as he completed the pivot and the blade took what it had been looking for.
Life.
Control.
Sanity.
The crowbar clattered to the floor, chipping tile.
The body followed, eyes already dead, form already crumbling to the blade’s hunger. Devin stood braced against it, his body still fighting what his mind had already lost, the darkness swirling in around him—vaguely aware of Enrique’s shout, a harsh and liquid sound, and of a second body falling—the beta, succumbing to blood loss.
An explosion rocked the shower—gunfire, contained and echoed and magnified. Devin jerked; he hardly felt it. His leg went numb. A second shot; his entire torso rocked with it.
Ajay.
But when he turned, the blade a knife and ready to throw—no matter that his legs slowly gave way beneath him—Ajay scrambled to his feet, cast one last look at the blade—at Devin’s expression—and shook his head. “As crazy as your fucking brother,” he said, and fled.
Chapter 16
For a long time, Natalie sat in her car. Shivering inside and out...but no cameras.
Her home, under surveillance. Her life, unraveling, so many pieces proving to be only layers of truth.
And as she’d stood frozen in shock beneath the camera in her home, her very first thought had been of Devin. Not a logical thought, not strategic or practical.
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