Page 37 of Devotion

Layla: Dude, what the fuck?

Martinez: You have every right to be pissed. I’ll explain everything. Be there in fifteen. Tops.

I make up my mind then and there, if he doesn’t walk through the entrance in the nexttenminutes, I’m gone.

A thought pops into my head. Unfortunately, it isn’t myownthought. It’shis—The Widowmaker’s. He’d made it a point to highlight how little Martinez values me. Granted, he used the cheap taco joint I was taken to on a date as the example, but it goes so much deeper than that. Like now, tonight, as I sit in a building full of strangers, alone, vulnerable, no idea where the hell Martinez is or what was so important that he’s left me hanging.

I’m the one looking after you, taking care of you when you aren’t even aware. The one who’d drop a body for you simply because it’s a fucking Tuesday.

I shake off the sound of that impossibly deep voice that haunts me and focus when my new “friend,” John, speaks again.

“Your dress, it’s… nice.” His eyes slide down to my tits like before, and as I realize he’s getting bolder, I tense, remembering the can of mace in my clutch. For his sake, I hope he wrangles it in.

He glances out toward the crowd again, then his eyes—red and glassy—lock with mine.

“You know, Layla, I’m starting to think you weren’t completely honest with me.” He pauses and his expression turns serious. “I think you’re alone tonight.”

Yep, he’s going to be a problem.

I look him in the eyes and breathe deep, making sure he knows I’m not intimidated.

“Listen, John. I’m gonna level with you. I’m not interested in… whatever it is you’re trying to offer, so you’d be better off moving on. Maybe someone a little drunker than me.”

He frowns, and I’m guessing this is the part where he calls me a bitch for bruising his ego.

“Are you always this much of a bitch?”

A laugh slips from my mouth because I called it. “Only after seven,” I answer, downing the last of my drink.

He stands from his seat, maybe thinking his height will check me into submission, but working with the band of brutes at the department has made me immune to intimidation.

“Keep it up, and I’ll haul your ass to the bathroom and teach you why you shouldn’t mouth off so damn much.”

I can’t fight the snarl I shoot his way. “Fuck off, John.”

I smirk again, enjoying the way his name sounds paired with the other words. Just kind of rolls off the tongue.

Fuck off, John.

Apparently, I’ve gone too far. It’s evident when he grabs my wrist just as I’m about to raise my hand to ask the bartender for another Cosmo. My knee-jerk reaction to his touch is to snatch out of his grasp. Then, mysecondreaction is to reach for his drink and splash it in his face.

Beads of pungent liquid drip from his chin, and we’ve only drawn the attention of a small crowd due to the dim lights and loud music that has most people distracted. John’s initial shock gives me just enough time to hop off the stool and start backing away. But my steps halt when I slam into a solid body before I’m able to make it to safety. I gasp and it feels like time’s frozen as I peer over my shoulder, glancing up at the silhouette behind me—tall and imposing.

My initial thought is that he’s with John. Like, his equally creepy accomplice or something. But then I change my mind on that. All because the dark scowl on the stranger’s face makes it clear he’s not exactly Team John. It takes me a moment to look away. Yes, because I’m still scared shitless, trying to sort out what exactly is going on. But also, because thenewstranger is… attractive.

Veryattractive, actually.

The colorful lights beaming down from the rafters play on the contours of his jaw as it flexes, emphasizing the rage in his turbulent, gray-blue eyes. They’re piercing against tan skin and dark brows, and I don’t think I’m wrong to assume he’s seen some things, and maybedonesome things. Whatever the case, there’s no chance he’s been even remotely innocent in a very,verylong time.

His dark hair is trimmed and tapered on the sides, but at the crown, it’s disheveled and sexy, falling into his face a bit. It’s got that wild, I-don’t-give-a-fuck look that probably only requires him to quickly run his fingers through it after a shower. Meanwhile, every woman he’s crossed paths with today has probably felt butterflies fluttering between her legs.

I usually categorize men one of two ways. They’re either pretty or rugged. But somehow, he’s both. As I soak in this moment one millisecond longer, a word comes to mind that describes him perfectly.

Disarming.

There’s something raw and unsettling about his presence, but I can’t quite nail down what it is exactly that I’m feeling. I just know my pulse is racing faster now. Even faster than when I thought I might be in danger.

Hell, who’s to say I’m notstillin danger?

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