Page 17 of Ravaged By a Devil

I’m completely out of my depth, surrounded by snakes, and I don't know how much longer I can keep pushing back alone.

I stay in the quiet bathroom for a long moment, gripping the sink until my trembling hands finally steady. I force myself to look in the mirror, pat my hands dry with a paper towel, and remind myself that I’m still on the clock. I need this job. I need this money.

I take one last deep breath, push open the door, and step out into the hallway—only to slam directly into a far bigger devil.

My heart drops into my stomach.

It’s him, from last night. I still don’t know his name. And right now, I don’t care.

He looms over me in the narrow corridor, blocking my path completely. He looks so devastatingly handsome, towering and broad—no. Absolutely not. I can’t think like that. I hate him too. He’s just another dangerous criminal who thinks he can buy his way into my life.

At least, Nolan has tact. This one outrightly propositioned me like a slut!

He stares down at me with absolute, unwavering intensity. Gone is the slow, wicked smirk from my bedroom last night. His dark hazel eyes are cold, dangerous, and completely lethal.

"We need to talk," he rumbles, his deep voice vibrating right through my chest.

"No," I snap, my anger flaring right back up to the surface. "We don't need to do anything. I have had enough of dangerous men investigating my life, making offers, and backing me into corners. Move."

He doesn't budge an inch, but I don't care anymore. I plant my hand against his rock-hard chest, push him out of my way with every ounce of strength I have, and storm right past him back out onto the floor.

I just need to get through tonight.

The glass doors of the precinct push open with a dull creak, letting in the stale, over-caffeinated air of the station. I march straight toward the high front desk, my feet aching in my shoes.

My night shift ended two hours ago, and every cell in my body is screaming for sleep, but I force myself to stand tall. Rest can wait. It's up to me to keep my small family safe.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice raspy from exhaustion as I catch the eye of the clerk behind the desk. "I want to file a report. A formal complaint for harassment."

The clerk barely looks up from her screen, tapping a few keys before gesturing down a narrow hallway. "Take a seat on the bench past those doors, honey. Duty officer will be with you in a minute."

I sit on the wooden bench, bouncing my knee impatiently until a tired-looking officer steps out, holding a yellow notepad and a pen. He gestures for me to follow him to a small, cluttered desk in the corner of the room.

"Alright, miss," the officer says, settling into his squeaky office chair and clicking his pen. "What seems to be the problem?"

I lean forward, clasping my hands tightly in my lap to stop them from shaking. "A customer at my job has been crossing the line. He’s been showing up consistently during my shifts, leaving high-value gifts I’ve explicitly refused, and last night he made it clear he’s been digging into my personal life. He knows my home address, my grandmother's full name, and her medical history—information I have never shared with him. It’s escalating, and I need a paper trail on file."

The officer’s expression softens slightly with genuine concern. He nods, writing everything down on his pad with steady strokes.

"I understand. That definitely warrants a preliminary report for suspicious activity and unwanted contact," he says smoothly, flipping the page over to a fresh grid. "We can get the paperwork started right now. What’s your name?”

“Alexis Hayes.”

“Okay.” He scribbles it down. “What’s the name of this customer? Do you know it?"

I take a small, steadying breath, holding his gaze.

"Nolan," I say clearly. "Nolan Devlin."

The officer’s pen freezes mid-stroke, hovering millimeters above the paper.

Slowly, the sympathetic warmth drains completely from his face, replaced by a cold, hardened mask. He sets the pen down with a click, folds his hands over his notepad, and leans back in his squeaky chair.

"Miss Hayes," he says, his tone completely shifting from attentive to patronizing. "Sending a pretty girl a bouquet of flowers and a piece of jewelry isn't a crime. In fact, most women would consider themselves lucky."

I blink, stunned by the sudden turn. "Did you hear what I just said? He investigated my sick grandmother! He’s tracking my life!"

"Look, I suggest you take a breath and stop trying to provoke an important man," the officer cuts in smoothly, tossing his pen onto the desk like the matter is already closed.