Page 9 of Devil’s Reign

Taking a deep breath, I press the small button beneath the keypad, then push at the door experimentally.

It opens.

It actually fucking opens. Just in time for me to hear a muffled sound, followed by a bright flash of light and a heavy thud.

My brain struggles to process what I’m seeing. A rapidly spreading pool of blood. A body lying motionless on the floor. And standing over it, a man in a suit holding a smoking gun, his eyes wide with shock when they land on me.

No. No, no, no⁠—

Then the gun points at me. I gasp, but the sound dies in my throat when a broad back suddenly fills my vision, moving with impossible speed to stand in front of me, and a large hand reaches out to wrench the weapon from the startled man’s hand.

“Help me. Please.”

The soft, desperate rasp pulls my attention to another man. He’s on his knees, hands tied behind him, next to the body still bleeding out on the floor. His terrified eyes plead with me, and I stumble back a step.

Swiftly, almost casually, the man in front of me cocks the gun and shoots the bound man point-blank in the head. A strangled shriek rips from my throat as a neat, perfectly round hole appears in his forehead. He drops like a log. The shooter turns to face me, the gun finding my chest, and everything in me goes cold when I see who it is.

The Devil himself.

My hands go limp, and the bottle of cognac I forgot I was holding slips from my nerveless fingers, shattering at my feet, the glass exploding outward as its golden liquid spreads across the floor.

All I can do is stare into Ivan Petrov’s cold, murderous eyes and wonder if I’m about to become the third body on his office floor.

4

IVAN

I curse at the shock in the girl’s eyes—Melani—as she glances down at the shattered mess at her feet.

“We’ll continue this conversation later.” I dismiss Salvatore, who looks seconds away from strangling her, and beckon my little spy forward with the gun still warm in my hand. Her skin goes ashen, and my chest tightens in a way it hasn't since I was a boy. Strange. I ignore it.

“What are you doing?” James demands, sounding surprised I haven’t killed her yet. Frankly, I don’t understand it either. Anyone else would already be bleeding out next to the other two bodies. “You can’t let a witness live. Kill her!”

The look I give him could strip paint. He doesn’t get to give orders here. I’m in charge.

“Leave.” My voice leaves no room for argument, and after a brief hesitation that has me tempted to blow out his kneecaps, he backs off and makes his exit. Lucky for him, we need him for the election, or he’d be learning about consequences the hard way.

The bodies of James' old partners don’t earn a second glance as I approach the woman hunching into herself in the corner. James shut the door on his way out, but I walk past her to lock it properly. Her sharp inhale tells me she knows what that means.

I should have locked it from the start, but it simply didn’t occur to me to—no one dares open my office door uninvited unless they have a death wish.

“Now, what am I going to do with you, my little spy?” I turn to face her, rubbing my chin with the warm barrel. She flinches, and I discover I hate the sight of it, which is absurd. She's right to be scared; anyone with half a brain would be, but watching that fear bloom across her face makes me want to put my fist through the wall.

Get your head on straight. The thought fractures the moment she looks up. Those honey eyes are so luminous, my throat locks.

“I–I–didn’t see anything.”

I tilt my head, studying her. What’s happening here? I’m cold and methodical by nature, that’s why I’m the enforcer instead of hotheaded Dimitri. The only time I let emotions in is with family. So how the fuck is this woman making me feel things without my permission? I take a single step forward, and she shuffles back.

“I’m not a spy, I swear. This was an accident—an accident. I saw nothing!”

Fascinating. Her perfect English slips, and a trace of an accent I hadn’t noticed before peeks through. Italian. In my club? "If you're not a spy, what are you doing up here?"

"I-I was just bringing your favorite drink." Her hands flutter towards the shattered bottle and the mess by the door. “Th–The Ararat. The expensive one.”

Ararat 20 Years Nairi Brandy. She did her homework. "I didn't order a drink."

I take another step forward, and she shuffles back again. The predictability of it sends a dark thrill through me, and my lips curl up. This is unexpectedly entertaining. I guide her trajectory with each advance, and she goes willingly, too busy tripping over her excuses to realize what I’m doing.