Page 32 of Heart of a Devil

“You okay?” he asks, seeing my expression. I nod and pick my way around him. I don’t want to sit next to him. I don’t want him to touch me at all, because if he does, I’ll lose myself. After filling up a glass of water, I sip it at the kitchen sink. I don’t want to feel like this. I hate feeling like this. I want to be able to cuddle up with Seb on my couch, to ask him to stay the night, to see where this whole thing leads. To be goddamn normal for once.

He joins me in the kitchen, which now feels dominated by him. I back up against the sink, and of course he notices. His eyes flash with first anger, then sadness, and he shakes his head. “That time again, is it, Lauren? The time when you shut down and kick me out?”

I close my eyes, wishing he were wrong. “I think it probably is. Don’t be mad. I never promised you anything more.”

He slams his bottle down on the counter. “No. You never promised me anything at all, did you? And like a fool, each time I hope it will be different. But no matter how much you trust me physically, the shutters come down as soon as the fucking is over, don’t they?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when your dick was in my mouth,” I retort, my anger surging to the surface to match his. “Let’s not pretend that this is anything other than sex for either of us. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t do sleepovers before you get it through your thick skull? I’m not in the market for a boyfriend, and I never will be.” I hate myself for lashing out, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

He takes in a deep breath, nostrils flared, obviously trying to keep himself in check. His rage is directly under the surface, shining in his eyes. The smile he gives me is a bitter and twisted thing. “You know what’s really fucked up about all of this? We talk about the deep shit we talked about at dinner and then againtonight. We share secrets. We do all the crazy stuff we do in the bedroom, which by the way is the best sex I’ve ever had. We both come from worlds full of danger, and we both have our scars. But me sleeping over?That’swhat scares you? That’s the most fucked-up thing I’ve heard all night, which is saying something. You say you want to reclaim what’s been taken from you. What those cunts in Florida took from you, what your uncle took from you, even whatever your twat of an ex took from you. What you don’t seem to understand is that now, there’s only one person taking anything from you—and that’s Lauren Hayes.”

I gape at him as he storms out of the kitchen. I want to hit him with a snappy comeback, but I can’t find one. Shit. He might be right.

He shoves his tools back into his tool bag and turns to leave. “Cameras are working. I’ll get the feed diverted to Gabriel’s phone, my phone, and Archangel HQ. Don’t do anything in these rooms you don’t want a bunch of horny bruisers to see. Bear in mind the system is digital, which means it’s not foolproof, so I’ve left you some gear as well. Keep it with you. And Lauren? Just to let you know, I wasn’t planning on sleeping over. I already have plans tonight.”

What kind of plans? With another woman? Is that what he’s telling me? And why should I care anyway? But the thought of him with anyone else eats me up with jealousy.

Chapter

Sixteen

SEBASTIAN

There are dive bars, and there are dive bars—and this one is the kind you’d need a deepwater submarine to find. The place is tucked away in a quiet corner of Soho, and there’s nothing on the door to indicate what’s inside. No sign, no lighting, not even a bell to ring. Just a grungy old door painted a grim shade of puke green, hidden in a graffiti-covered alleyway. Any tourist who wandered down here by mistake would soon come running out, chased away by the smell of stale piss and the rats scurrying around beneath piles of garbage. It’s a shithole, and a dangerous shithole at that, which means it perfectly matches my mood.

I check my phone, part of me hoping she’s called, but all I see is a message from Taylor asking me if I need any help tonight. Jeez, that kid is clingy. I ignore him and instead fire my own message off to a mate of ours, a retired cop called Phil Campbell who is the dog’s bollocks when it comes to digging up dirt and doing background checks that go deeper than your average mineshaft. Something about Taylor Grant is setting my spider senses tingling, and I’ve learned to trust them over the years.

After that, I hammer my fist on the door, knowing that someone is already watching me from the camera that’s hiddenon the first-floor window ledge. I look right up at it and give it the finger. Within seconds, the door opens, and a woman wearing a rainbow-colored turban on her head smiles at me. She was probably a knockout once, but these days, the lack of teeth and yellowing eyeballs have caught up with her.

“Evening, Larissa,” I say as she gestures me inside.

“Sebastian. Long time no see. Handsome as ever, darling.” She offers her hand up for a kiss, and I oblige. I’ve never figured out where she’s from or what her story is, but she’s been a fixture here for as long as I’ve been knocking around. A wise man will always kiss Larissa’s hand, even if he’s unsure where it’s been. “Our friend told me you’d be coming, sweetie. He’s in his usual booth. Do watch out for the girls, won’t you? They look especially hungry tonight, and you’re such a tasty morsel, my angel.”

I nod and make my way down the dingy steps to the basement. It looks like a bomb shelter that’s been dressed up as a theater, all faded red velvet and gold tassels, little tables and alcoves set up at discreet distances from each other. The bar features some of the world’s most expensive wines and spirits, because no matter how shabby this place looks, the people who come here have money, and they don’t mind spending it on small luxuries. Every shelf is top shelf, and privacy is king. This place doesn’t have a liquor license—it doesn’t even exist, and that’s the way its clientele like it.

I nod at a few people I recognize and make my way to the corner booth. The man I’m meeting is flanked by two bottle blonds, both with huge fake boobs and equally fake smiles. At least I assume the smiles are fake—I might just be in a bad mood. Lauren is messing with my head, and it’s got to stop. It’s not even her fault, because she’s right—she’s been honest with me from the start. She didn’t sell herself as the girl-next-door, settling-down type. It’s me who wants more and me who keeps thinking we’ve made progress only to watch her pull away. It’spathetic, and I’ve had enough. I need to get back to being my usual shallow self.

“Evening, Sasha. Ladies,” I say, sliding into the red velvet seat. “What are we drinking tonight?”

Sasha Stepanov is blond, handsome, and elegant. He’s always dressed like a fashion model, and I’ve never seen him with a hair out of place—not even after shooting a man in the face at point blank range. He’s a rare find, a Russian gangster who usually works in a gang of one. He grew up a street kid brutalized by the criminal crews in his native Moscow, and as soon as he could, he escaped first to Barcelona and then to London. He took what he learned on those streets and perfected it, turning himself into one of the most ruthless killers I’ve ever met. Although he looks like a pampered society brat, he’s one of the hardest men I know—and one of the best connected. We’ve worked together a few times when it’s suited us both, and while I wouldn’t call us buddies exactly, there is a bond of mutual trust.

“We are drinking vodka, of course, my old friend,” he says, gesturing expansively to the two women. “Come and join us. Elizabeth, pour Sebastian a drink would you, my darling? He looks like he needs a drink. Trouble, Seb?”

The girl fills up a shot glass for me, and I hold it up and clink glasses with Sasha as we both say “cheers.” I say “cheers” anyway—he says something long and Russian that probably translates to “May your children have plentiful rabbits and live forever in the light of the space station.”

I glance at the ladies and raise an eyebrow, which he interprets correctly and shoos them away. “They’re not here against their will, are they, mate?” I ask.

He clutches his hand to his heart. “My friend, you wound me. Elizabeth is from somewhere grim and rainy up north, looking to find a way into the adult film industry, and her friend Carla is an off-duty lap dancer. Both lovely ladies, I assure you, and bothhere willingly to make connections, and yes, possibly earn the gratitude of a few generous gentlemen along the way.”

I shrug and nod. I’m not one to judge on either count. As long as this is what they’ve chosen, not what some sick fuck has chosen for them, then fair enough. “Sasha, I’m looking for information. Anything you can give me about a man called Ivan Volkov.”

A flicker of distaste crosses Sasha’s refined features, and he pours more vodka. “Ivan Volkov is two things, Seb. He is dangerous, and he is scum, even by my standards. He trades in flesh and the drugs that control the flesh. Men, women, boys, girls, any combination, any age. Nothing is too nasty, nothing is too low. If your thing is masturbating over the freshly killed body of a beautiful young woman, he’s your man. If you enjoy watching children get raped, call Volkov. If you are into inserting red hot pokers up the anuses of rent boys?—”

I hold my hands up to stop him. I’ve heard enough sick and twisted shit already tonight. “Okay. I get the picture. He’s a sick puppy who caters to other sick puppies. What are his weaknesses?”

“What makes you think that I would know, Seb? And even if I did, what makes you think I would want to have a man like that as my enemy?” His eyes have narrowed, and some of the surface bonhomie has dropped away. He’s intrigued, at least.

“You know everything, Sasha, about everyone. As to why you’d help me… Just to cause chaos, I suspect.”

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