Page 103 of Devil in Disguise

The air crackled with unspoken menace.

King’s roar, a guttural bellow that shook the very floorboards, ripped through the tension. He shoved past the onlookers, his presence a physical force, the scent of expensive cologne clashing violently with the reek of sweat and determination. “Who the fuck are you?” King’s voice was a sledgehammer, each syllable a blow. Sinclair’s smile was thin and cruel.

“Crispin Sinclair. And this”—he gestured to Rowen Shay, whose icy gaze cut through me like a shard of glass—“is my associate. I believe you’re acquainted with my... charge, Dante Sharp, and his... husband, Sypher.” His voice dripped with a chilling politeness, the perfect mask for the storm brewing behind his eyes.

King’s gaze, a burning coal, fixed on me and Danny. “You know this... fucker?”

Danny’s snarl was a low growl, a primal response to the palpable threat. “Yeah, we’ve met.” His knuckles, white as bone, showed the strain he was battling to control. The bitter taste of fear rose in my throat.

My whisper was barely audible, a choked gasp lost in the cacophony of adrenaline and dread. “I shot you.” The memory—the sickening thud, the spray of blood, the chilling emptiness in my gut—slammed into me with brutal force. I hadn’t believed Sinclair would be here, wouldn’t dare show his face... but here he was, a predator stalking his prey.

Sinclair’s voice, like ice cracking, sent a shiver down my spine. “Yes, you did, dear Dante.” The word ‘dear’ was laced with such venomous sweetness it was almost physically painful. Sinclair’s eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a blizzard, hardened, glacial.

The air grew colder, heavier, as he continued, each word a carefully placed stone in the wall closing in around them. “Which reminds me...” The unspoken threat hung in the air, a suffocating weight promising a reckoning long overdue. With shocking speed, the son of a bitch lashed out, his fist a brutal projectile that slammed into my face, sending me sprawling against Danny. And that was all it took for Bane to charge the fucker, knocking Sin to the ground, punching him repeatedly until Rowen placed a gun at the back of Bane’s head.

In the blink of an eye, every brother in the Silver Shadows had their guns out and pointed at Rowen as King walked closer and sneered. “You come into my motherfucking house, disrupt my fucking party, and start making demands. Motherfucker, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but this is fucking Silver Shadows territory and I’m the motherfucking King!” the furious president roared. “Gunner, Ghost, take these two fucking assholes and throw them in the hole!”

“Touch me and you will never see Grace again.”

The room went deathly still.

No one moved.

No one breathed as Sinclair got to his feet and dusted himself off before smirking. “Did you honestly think I would walk in here without a backup plan, Mr. O’Rourke? You may be the bastard son of Braesal O’Malley and the president of a second-rate motorcycle club, but you are no Steele and you are certainly no Reaper. Now, before things get out of hand, say goodbye, Dante. We are leaving.”

A phone shrieked, a jagged tear in the silence. King’s hand, slick with a cold sweat, snaked into his cut, his knuckles bone-white as he wrestled the phone free. The metallic tang of blood filled my nostrils, a faint, coppery scent clinging to the air like a silent scream. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His spine, a rigid question mark, conveyed the chilling answer.

Sinclair wasn’t playing games.

Grace was gone.

Their relationship—King and Grace—was a simmering unspoken truth, a wildfire hidden beneath polished surfaces. But the raw, primal fear that flickered across his face left no doubt: she was his anchor, his lifeline. Just as Danika and Danny were mine.

My blood pulsed a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Sinclair. I knew the labyrinth of his depravity. The chilling symphony of his violence echoed in my soul. I couldn’t let him touch her, not one hair on her head.

“Danny,” I breathed, his name a prayer, a curse.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Danny growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the room. His eyes, usually pools of molten gold, were glacial, hard as granite.

Shaking my head, I met the gaze of the man I loved, a bitter smile twisting my lips. The taste of ash and betrayal filled my mouth. “He’s got Grace. I can’t let him hurt her. You need to stay with Danika. She needs one of us.”

“You’re not going!” His voice shattered, splintering into a thousand shards of agony.

Ignoring his pleas, I cupped his face, the rough stubble scratching against my palm. Our kiss was a desperate plea, a farewell etched in fire and heartbreak. The taste of him—sharp, clean and utterly devastating—lingered on my tongue. “I love you,” I whispered, my words as fragile as spun glass.

Stepping back, I met the unwavering gazes of Ghost and Ryder, two shadows sculpted from granite. “You’re going to have to lock him down.”

“You’re not leaving!” Danny’s roar echoed, a primal scream against the impending doom.

Ryder and Ghost moved with the lethal grace of predators, their hands closing on his arms like steel manacles. “We’ll get him back, Sypher,” Ryder promised, his voice an inaudible murmur, but his eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering loyalty. His words were meant to comfort, but they only intensified the fear that clawed at my insides.

“NO!” A scream tore from Danny’s throat, raw and ragged.

Ignoring him, my gaze found Bane’s. “Call Malice. Tell him I’m going home. He’ll understand.” The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

I turned to King, his face etched with grim resignation. “The second we’re airborne, he will release her. He never wanted her. He only used her to get to me.”

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