Page 31 of Dead Devil's Playground
"You need to sleep," Rev murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You're running on empty."
I know he's right. The adrenaline is fading, leaving me hollow and exhausted. The concrete is hard beneath my back, but I can't find the energy to move.
"Can't," I mumble, fighting to keep my eyes open. "Too much happening. The fire, the club..."
"Hudson's handling the fire," Rev repeats, more gently this time. "And the club is secure for now. You're no good to anyone if you collapse."
Kai's hand strokes my hair, careful to avoid the places where blood has matted it into clumps. "Just a few hours, gorgeous. We'll wake you if anything changes."
I want to argue, to insist that I'm fine, but my body betrays me. My eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the world blurring around the edges.
"Promise?" I whisper, already drifting.
"Promise," they say in unison, their voices the last thing I hear before darkness claims me.
I dream of fire. Of buildings crumbling to ash. Of shadowy figures watching from the sidelines, their faces obscured by smoke and malice. In my dream, I'm running, always running, never fast enough to catch them, never strong enough to stop the destruction.
Chapter 13
Ry
Iwakewithagasp, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The nightmare clings to me, images of fire and smoke still burning behind my eyelids. For a moment, I'm disoriented, unsure where I am until my eyes adjust to the darkness.
Our bedroom. Not the interrogation room. Not surrounded by blood and concrete.
My body aches pleasantly, reminding me of what happened before I fell asleep. I turn my head slowly, finding the twins on either side of me, their breathing deep and even. They look peaceful in sleep, dangerous faces softened, all sharp edges temporarily blunted.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, checking the time. Not even two hours have passed since we returned to the apartment. The twins must have cleaned me up and carried me to bed in the brief time I was out. No trace of blood remains on my skin or under my nails.
But the memory of Marcus's last words echoes in my mind, an insidious whisper that refuses to be silenced. Dead devils. Just lie down and die already.
Carefully, I slide out from between the twins, holding my breath when Kai stirs. He mumbles something unintelligible before settling back into sleep, one arm reaching across the space where my body had been.
My legs are unsteady as I pad across the floor to the closet. I grab the first things my fingers touch—a fitted black top and a flared leather skirt—pulling them on with clumsy movements. A small, hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat as I recognize the skirt. I wore it on a Dead Devil's Night almost two years ago, right before we'd consolidated our power.
The coincidence feels like an omen.
I stumble through the darkened apartment, my exhausted brain barely registering where I'm going. My body moves on autopilot, guided by an urgency I can't fully articulate. I need to see it—need to see the destruction with my own eyes.
I pull on a pair of boots by the door, not bothering with socks. The leather jacket hanging on the hook is the final piece. I slide it on, the familiar weight settling across my shoulders like armor.
The elevator ride to the parking garage is a blur. I lean against the wall, fighting to keep my eyes open as the numbers count down. The doors slide open with a soft ping that sounds too loud.
Kai's motorcycle gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, a sleek predator waiting to be unleashed. Hudson's voice echoes in my head, lecturing me about helmets and safety protocols. I mentally send him a hearty fuck you as I throw my leg over the seat, ignoring the helmet hanging from the hook nearby.
The engine roars to life beneath me, the vibration traveling up through my body, reminding me I didn’t grab underwear in myhaste but too tired to care. I guide the bike up the ramp and out into the night.
The city is still alive despite the hour, streets busy with people heading to clubs and bars. The Devil's Lair is already open again, the twins' efficiency evident in how quickly they managed damage control. The line outside stretches around the block, people desperate to be part of the story, to say they were there the night after the infamous overdoses.
I weave through traffic, the wind whipping my hair around my face as I aim the bike toward Seventh Street. To what was once my coffee shop, that served actual good coffee, not the bitter sludge most places in this city pass off as caffeine. A place where people could sit and read and pretend for a few hours that they didn't live in a cesspool.
I can smell the smoke before I see it, acrid and heavy in the air. When I turn the corner onto Seventh, my heart sinks. The building is just a blackened shell, still smoldering in places despite the firefighters' efforts. Emergency vehicles create a perimeter, their lights painting the scene in surreal flashes of red and blue.
I kill the engine, letting the bike coast to a stop across the street. For a long moment, I just sit there, staring at the ruins of something I created. Something good. The rage that bubbles up is different from what I felt at the club or the docks—this is deeper, more personal.
Dismounting, I cross the street. A firefighter spots me approaching the barricade and moves to intercept.
"Sorry, princess," he says, holding up a hand. "Nothing to see here. Area's closed off."
