Page 24 of The Devil's Torment

A regular?Not anymore, he isn’t.

“Got an address?” I’ll be pissed if he doesn’t. Noir is a members’ only club, and while we allow members to bring a guest from time to time, their details are also logged.

“Yes. I’ll text it to you.”

He taps on his screen, and my phone pings a few seconds later. I check the address came through okay, then slide my phone into my pocket.

“Thanks for your help. Cancel his membership. He won’t be needing it.”

“Of course, Mr. De Vil. And can I say how sorry I am for the trouble. I take full responsibility.”

“Not on you,” I reply gruffly. “Only one person is to blame.”

I climb back into my car and give Sol the address. Ten minutes later, we pull up outside one of London’s newer apartment buildings. I check the address once more. Ditchfield lives on the eleventh floor in apartment 1136. A security code box is mounted on the wall by the lobby entrance. I could crack the code, given time, but buzzing apartments is a far easier way to gain access. On the seventh attempt, a buzzer sounds and the door clicks open. We slip inside and take the lift up to Ditchfield’s place.

“Wait here,” I say to Barron. “If I need extra muscle, I’ll shout.”

His brows knit together in a way they always do whenever I suggest something he doesn’t agree with, but Barron’s been my shadow for long enough now to know I won’t change my mind. Victoria is my fiancée. This ismyfight,myrole to defend the woman who will be my wife in seven days.

It’s one in the morning when I rap on the door. No answer. I knock again, louder this time. “Police, open up, please, Mr. Ditchfield.” Calling him mister makes me grind my teeth, but shouting “Open up, fucker, so I can pound your face into mincemeat,” won’t encourage him to open the door voluntarily. Not that it’d make much of a difference to me. I’ve kicked more than my fair share of doors down.

“Coming,” a faint voice shouts. “If this is to do with earlier, Officer, I?—”

He draws back the door. I don’t give him a second to realize I’m not the police. I’m his worst fucking nightmare.

I plant my fist in his face, getting in an early shot. He stumbles back, and I follow him, slamming the door shut behind me. Blood spurts from his nose, and he clasps it as the unmistakable scent of iron fills the air.

“What the fu?—?”

I hit him again, and again, and again. He goes down, and I follow, straddling his hips while I continue pounding his face until he’s a bloody mess, and my knuckles are bruised and cut.

Blood oozes from his mouth, and he moans. I clamp my hand around his throat and squeeze. I could easily kill him. The urge to do exactly that engulfs me, but like I said to Xan when I brought in Patrick Mahoney, the head of the Irish mafia, to kill that piece of shit Edgerton who kidnapped Imogen: every death leaves a stain on our souls. Just like Edgerton wasn’t worth leaving a stain on Xan’s, this piece of shit doesn’t deserve to leave a stain on mine.

“Let this be a warning to you. If youeverhit a woman again, especiallymy fucking woman, I will not only kill you but take the lives of every single person who means something to you. Mother, father, sisters, brothers, friends. They’re all fucking fair game.”

He gurgles and lets out another pained moan. When I climb off him, he rolls to the side, curling his knees into his body. Speckles of blood hit the legs on the coffee table in the center of the living room as he coughs. For shits and giggles, I kick him in the kidneys.

“Remember what I said. I don’t make idle threats. Oh, and in case you’re thinking of reporting this to the police, I’ll make it easy on youandon them.” I drop to a crouch, my face mere inches from his, and condescendingly pat his cheek. “Tell them Nicholas De Vil came calling.”

I leave him groaning on the floor and head into the hallway to meet Barron.

“All okay, sir?”

I rub my sore knuckles and nod. “Yes. Let’s go home. I’m fucking exhausted.”

ChapterTen

VICKY

My wedding day dawns on an unusually bright morning for late October in England. I throw back the curtains, greeted by a cloudless sky and the merest wisp of a breeze. The last two weeks have gone by in a blur of decisions, including dress fittings for Eloise and Briony, my maids of honor, and me. The wedding planner told me it was tradition to only have one maid of honor. I told her I was having two, and that was the end of that.

This may be an arranged marriage, but marrying into the De Vil family is a one-way street, and as this is the only wedding I’ll ever have, I’m going to make it fucking count.

Even if it is to the man who I once thought I loved and now think of as my archenemy.

An enemy doesn’t come riding to your rescue when you take a punch to the face.

Quashing that inconceivable and unwelcome thought, I scan around the only bedroom I’ve ever slept in and take a mental picture. Light falls on my dressing table, reflecting off the antique mirror that belonged to my maternal grandmother, who died when I was seven. With a sigh, I check the time. Six hours to go. Briony and Eloise should be here soon. I can’t wait. Their incessant chatter will take my mind off the fact that the next time I climb into bed I’ll have Nicholas lying beside me. And something tells me that whatever he thinks of me personally, he isn’t going to live like a monk.

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