Page 24 of Nocturne

“I’m not a dog,” My voice is light as I frown at him.

He doesn’t reply to that but turns to the sleazy man.

“Your name,” Devlin says.

It’s not a question; it’s a demand. His voice is low and authoritative

“Ri… Richard Kent, sir,” Kent stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Women are meant to be respected, Richard.” Devlin starts.

His words surprise me. I would never peg this man to be a gentleman out of everything. Before that thought could solidify,

“The next time I hear your mouth spew shit about her, I’ll have your head on a spike. It’ll make a fine exhibit over the gates, don’t you think?”

I exhale shakily, the weight of his words settling over me. Thank God the cameras don’t have audio, or there would be widespread cardiac arrests.

Kent’s face turns ashen, and he trembles like a leaf in a storm.

I glance at Devlin’s profile—sharp, unyielding, his jaw set in an expression that promises he’s not bluffing. No, this isn’t just a threat. It’s a promise.

“Y…yes, sir,” Kent stutters.

Devlin takes a step closer, and despite my dislike for Kent, I almost pity him. Almost.

“I think it’s time you retire, Richard,” Devlin says, his tone flat and final.

It’s the way he says Richard’s name like the whisper of a grim reaper who calls for your name before your soul gets snatched from your body. There’s no room for argument. Even with his calm delivery, the command is clear as day.

“Right away, sir,” he mutters, his voice shaking.

“Now, fuck off.”

Kent bolts, nearly tripping over himself as he rushes out the door.

The room is silent. It’s just me and Devlin now, and I know I should be terrified. He just casually threatened someone withmedieval violence, and yet here I am, fixated on the way his back muscles ripple under his tailored suit.

“Don’t be a pushover, little siren.”

Little siren? My brow furrows as I look up at him, startled. Did he just call me a pushover, too?

The audacity!

Before I can muster a response, the hulking man is already walking away, disappearing out the door like he wasn’t just handing out death sentences moments ago.

I’m left standing there, hot, bothered, and thoroughly annoyed.

* * *

“Well, things just got interesting,” Ivy mutters, dodging the fry I weakly toss her way. It doesn’t even make it halfway across the table. My arms feel like lead, and my head is heavy, caffeine failing me—a new and unwelcome betrayal.

She leans over, pressing a cool hand to my forehead, then my cheeks.

“You’re running a fever,” she says, her worry evident.

That explains the irritability, the grogginess, and why my body feels decades older overnight. Relief trickles in—at least I’m not suddenly ancient.

“I guess I’m taking her home, then.”

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