Page 32 of The Devil's Hunt

Soon.

Be safe.

Always.

I carefully placedmy phone on my lap, feeling exhaustion wash over me. Leaning back against the soft leather headrest, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The car suddenly jolted to a stop, signaling our arrival at the parking garage of our townhouse. Lacey hopped out of the car and disappeared into her room while I slowly made my way up the stairs and into my bathroom. The hot water cascading over my body in the shower eased the tension in my muscles, bringing a sense of calm to my mind. Despite Lacey's apparent anger toward me, I knew that, given some time, she would return to her cheerful self, and this argument would be forgotten.

As I entered my room, I noticed a black box on my bed with a bright red ribbon neatly tied around it. Pulling on a comfortable T-shirt, I eagerly opened the box. When I peeled back the tissue paper, there was red lingerie—a see-through babydoll top and a matching red thong. I traced the delicate lace with my fingers, feeling a rush of excitement flush across my skin. The thought of wearing it for Archer while his tongue moved inside of me had me clenching my thighs. I placed the lingerie back inside the box and slid it under my bed.

Thank you for my gift.

I texted Archer.

I waited a few minutes to see if he would reply, but the message remained in “delivered” status. Plugging my phone in, I slid into my bed, wrapped my pink comforter tightly around me, and fell into sleep dreaming about my tall, dark, and handsome fuck buddy.

12

TWELVE

ARCHER

Ihated the city.

Downtown New York City was a cesspool of people, traffic, and trash. My father called me in for a meeting, and he wasn't a man you said no to.

Cassian King.

The King of New York City. And also the man running for governor. Elections were coming up, and he was working extra hard to campaign.

As I walked into my father's office on the top floor of a towering skyscraper, I couldn't help but feel suffocated by the stale air and oppressive weight of the concrete jungle outside. The immaculate furnishings and sleek, modern design only served to magnify my discomfort. My father sat behind his massive desk, his stern gaze fixed upon me.

"Sit," he commanded with his deep, authoritative voice. I obliged, sitting on the stiff leather chair across from him. His eyes bore into me, slicing through any pretense I might have held.

"I understand that you despise this city," my father began, his voice tinged with an unexpected softness. "But you must alsounderstand that this place holds our legacy. Our family built an empire here."

I sighed inwardly, suppressing the flicker of rebellion that danced within me. The weight of my father's expectations was suffocating, just like this city.

"Where are you at with the Grey girl?"

"I'm making progress," I answered, short and sweet.

"Making progress? You do realize we are in a time crunch here."

"I am aware, Father. But things like this don't just happen overnight. I don't tell you how to do your job; I sure as hell don't need you telling me how to do mine."

My father's eyes narrowed, a glint of steel in his gaze. "Watch your tongue, Son. Remember who you're talking to."

I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to lash out. It was a dance we had perfected over the years—his power and authority versus my rebellious spirit. But I couldn't afford to let that spirit consume me this time.

"Apologies," I mumbled, barely audible. "I'll step up my efforts with the Grey girl."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me intensely. "You know she holds the key to winning this election, right?"

I nodded reluctantly. The Grey family was influential, wealthy, and well connected. If I could secure my position next to Mila, I could control her and, in doing so, gain access to her father. Make it look like an accident.

"She's smart. I have to play my cards right, or I'll never get close to Daddy dearest," I reminded him, my voice firm. "I'm working on building a genuine connection with her. It takes time."

My father sighed, frustration evident in the lines etched upon his face. He leaned forward, his hands clasped together as if trying to contain the simmering impatience within him.

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