Chapter Devil’s Lily: BONUS EPILOGUE

Two weeks later…

I rub my sweaty palms down the front of my pants, parting my lips slightly as I time my exhales to the pounding staccato of my heart and the low footsteps that have been tailing me relentlessly—three blocks now without a single tactical error.

Thump, thump, thump. Exhale.

Thump, thump, thump. Exhale.

Thump, thump, thump. Exhale.

Who the hell could it be? This isn’t one of Maximo’s men—they have never managed to track me this cleanly. No, whoever this bastard is, he’s in a different league.

Doesn’t matter who, though. He picked the wrong target tonight. This cat-and-mouse game ends now.

12th Street stretches out in front of me, and I purposely slow my pace just enough so my stalker doesn’t suspect anything as I turn the next corner. Once I’m safely out of sight, I dash over to a narrow gap between two tall buildings and flatten myself into the shadows, my heartbeat racing as I wait for him to take the bait.

He doesn’t disappoint.

Right on cue, I catch a glimpse of movement. He slows and scans the empty alley. All I can make out is the shadow of a very tall, very muscled man, his face hidden beneath a dark baseball cap. Damn it, who the hell is this guy? No way this is some random stalker who spotted me on the streets of New York. I grit my teeth. If I wasn’t a highly trained U.S. agent, I might never have realized he was there at all.

I watch, waiting as he surveys the area. Then, just for a split second, he angles his body a few degrees away from me. That’s all I need. It’s go time.

With my weight balanced on the balls of my feet, I sneak up behind him, gun drawn and ready.

The instant I close the gap, I jam the muzzle right against the back of his skull and flick off the safety. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

The stalker slowly raises both hands, but he stays maddeningly silent. Frustrated, I dig the gun harder into his head. “You don’t seem like one of Maximo’s underlings. Who do you work for?” Nothing. Deafening silence. I want to scream. And I do. “Tell me who sent you!”

Ever since I kidnapped Elira two weeks ago, Maximo has been sending his men after me nonstop. A pointless, desperate waste of manpower in his misguided attempt to hurt me because of what I did.

Evading those fools has been child’s play.

So why is this guy⁠—

In a burst of movement almost too quick to process, he whirls around, reaching for my gun. Oh no you don’t! I leap back, aiming a brutal kick at his calf while simultaneously swinging my arm to knock away his hand.

But it’s like he saw it all coming. He twists effortlessly out of the way and somehow manages to punch the gun clean from my grip. Damn it! The weapon clatters to the ground and skids away into the darkness. But I don’t waste time crying over it.

Feigning retreat, I take a step back, only to spin around and drive my foot into his chest with every ounce of power I have. The impact sends him staggering several feet, arms windmilling as he fights to keep his balance. While he’s distracted, my eyes dart, searching frantically for my lost gun.

There!

He seems to spot it the same time I do, and we both lunge for the weapon. But I’m faster. I hurl myself forward, reaching, grasping. My fingers close around the handle, relief surging through me⁠—

A quiet snick pierces the air, and cool metal kisses my throat. I glance down and see a knife poised right over my jugular.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, piccola. Why are you still in my city?”

The world stops spinning.

That voice. Those words. It can’t be…

My fingers tighten around my gun reflexively as my throat closes up for a moment. “Rafael?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question. But then again, you’ve always been a little impudent.”

It is him.

I swallow hard against the knife still pressed firmly to my throat. “What do you want? Are you here to kill me?” Now that I know who it is, adrenaline rushes through me, and my finger slips to the trigger. If I’m dying tonight, I’ll make damn sure I take him with me.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he starts with a scoff. “But now, I’m rather tempted to do so.”

I take that as a no, so I slowly reach up to push his knife away, my palm getting slightly nicked in the process. What a wickedly sharp knife. I wipe my hand down my pants to clean off the blood as I slowly get to my feet. His knife stays pointed at me, so I raise my gun, aiming dead center at his chest.

I squint, trying to make out his face, but the shadows from his cap and the glare of the distant street lights hide his features. So damn frustrating. I need to see his eyes. I need to know what he’s thinking.

“Holster your gun so we can talk,” he orders, giving the knife a little wave for emphasis. Is he kidding me?

“How about you sheathe your knife first, then we’ll see about talking?” I return sharply. His lips quirk up in that familiar, infuriating smirk, and my blood boils.

“Let’s both lower our weapons together. On two. Ready?” He pauses, waiting until I give a tight nod. “One… two.”

Neither of us so much as twitches. Weapons still out, still aimed.

“Why are you following me, Rafael?”

“Elira. Two weeks ago,” he says flatly. “What the actual fuck, Emilia? She could have lost her life.”

Even though his voice stays level, I can feel the pure, seething rage roiling off him. He spits out a curse and lowers the knife. With a deft flick of his wrist, the weapon vanishes up his sleeve.

But I don’t lower my gun. I keep it trained on him, finger dancing along the trigger. This is it—my chance to kill him. Despite my betrayal all those years ago, he still has a measure of trust in me, huh? Enough to let his guard down.

He’s wide open. Defenseless. I can end this, end him, once and for all. End the man who murdered my father.

Do it! Pull the trigger!

I glare at him, my finger twitching. Every instinct screams at me to do it, but I… I can’t. Maybe it’s because of his darned near constant interference in my life over these past few years. I feel like I owe him. The bastard has saved me from a tight pinch more than once.

This is why I hate owing people.

“Emilia.” His voice holds a maddening calm, his posture relaxed, like he just doesn’t give a fuck if I decide to shoot him or not. Fuck him, and fuck me too for being too principled to just pull the damn trigger. Like he can read the decision in my gaze, he says, “I know you’re not going to shoot me. Drop the fucking gun and explain what the hell you were thinking kidnapping Elira.”

My glare fades, and with a sharp exhale, I slowly holster my gun, shoving aside the biting guilt that’s been on my heels since the incident two weeks ago. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far. You guys made it escalate, not me,” I try to say flippantly.

“What?” he snarls. He reaches up and rips off his cap in a burst of fury, fingers tearing through that dark hair I used to love to touch, and my lungs forget how to work. “You fucking broke into Maximo’s house and kidnapped his wife. This after shooting at him at the fucking airstrip, almost costing him his life and the lives of the kids with him!” His voice rises at the last notes, practically a shout.

“I saw the last child get on board before my men and I opened fire.” Despite telling myself not to care what he thinks of me, defensiveness wraps around me like armor. “I didn’t know there was still one more with him.”

The memory flashes in my mind. When I got the intel that Maximo and the Nightshades—those bastards with their ridiculous nickname—had gotten their hands on over a dozen little girls, my mind just blanked out. I didn’t think. I couldn’t think. I abandoned my post in Chicago, mobilized a few of my colleagues, and went after them even before getting approval from my supervisor. All I could see was what happened nine years ago playing out all over again.

The reminder of what happened nearly a decade ago fans my anger, burning away any lingering guilt and defensiveness—for now. “I wanted to rescue the girls, not kill them. And we used low-caliber bullets that wouldn’t pierce the plane’s hull.”

“So why did you leave so quickly when you couldn’t rescue them?” There’s a note of derision in his voice, but it doesn’t cut through the fog of my emotions, and there’s a host of them battling inside me. “Shouldn’t you have stayed until you got them out?”

I don’t miss the contempt in his steel-grey eyes or the flicker of something hotter—an anger tinged with desire that echoes my own internal war when it comes to Rafael Moretti. He’s a monster. What he did nine years ago… there aren’t words. He did worse than traffic girls. That’s why I was so reckless with the shooting two weeks ago, why I couldn’t let history repeat itself. And yet, that’s not even the worst of his crimes.

So what does it fucking say about me that I still care about his monstrous hide?

My hands curl into fists at my sides, my arms shaking with the conflicting urges assaulting me. I want to punch him, claw his damn eyes out with my nails, sink my teeth into his ears and tear and tear until he screams. But God help me, at the same time… I want to kiss him. I want him to hold me and tell me I’m not alone. Not alone.

Except I am alone.

Because of him.

I spin around, taking one unsteady step, then another. I have to get the hell away from him. I have to clear my head before I do something reckless again.

After the incident, I’ve been put on a month-long ‘break’ from work. Some fucking vacation. And why? Because I made a damn fool of myself. It turns out Maximo and the guys weren’t trafficking the girls at all, but saving them. Yes, saving them.

And Elira, well, she never needed me to rescue her from Maximo.

I fucked up. I fucked it all up. Almost lost my colleagues[C1] their jobs too. Hell, I’m lucky I still have mine. I can’t risk another disaster now. Not after this. If I screw up again, I’ll definitely lose my job. And I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

It’s the only thing I have now.

A rough, warm hand clamps around my upper arm, sending sparks through my body as I’m wrenched back around to face him. I gasp, my eyes widening up at Rafael. He’s so close I can see the flecks of light blue dancing in his silvery gaze.

“I’m still talking to you, damn it. You think this is like last time?” His voice is a low growl, demanding, but when his eyes search mine, I see a little bit of his anger drain away.

“And what time is that?” I ask, grateful I don’t sound breathless, because I am. God, I am. I can barely draw in air without getting a mouthful of his drugging cologne. And he’s so close, so close—too close.

I can’t get my eyes off his lips, from the perfect curves and planes of his gorgeous face. Damn him. He fucking hurt me so deeply, I should hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him. I do hate him. So why can’t I crush the rest of the foolish emotions that mix with the hate every damn time I see him?

Even so, hatred isn’t supposed to make you ache like this, isn’t supposed to make you want to taste and touch and⁠—

“What time, Rafael?” I repeat, getting a little angry now. Anger is safer than desire. Anger I know how to handle. “The time you gave me that disgusting ‘gift’? Or when you–“

“That time I found out you still have that ‘disgusting’ gift,” he taunts with a ghost of a smile that sends a fresh wave of anger and maddening lust through me. “That you keep it close…”

“It’s evidence,” I bite off, trying to pull my arm free from his grip. But he only tightens his hold, trapping me against him. Damn him, I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I’m on the verge of doing something reckless.

His smirk widens. “Evidence you say, then why⁠—”

I surge up on my toes and crush my mouth to his, cutting off his words. I only mean to shut him up. I need him to stop taunting me, just for a second, so I can think. And try to breathe.

It’s supposed to be just a light peck to put him in his place. But the moment our lips meet, it’s like he’s been waiting—expecting me to cave. His grip on my arm tightens even further, his free hand sinking into my hair as he kisses me back with fervent hunger. No, he devours me.

Electricity crackles in my brain, sending bright sparks behind my closed lids, and the rest of my thoughts fizzle out until I can only feel. And oh, what glorious feelings. It’s like coming home, like finding the missing piece of myself.

Like I’m drowning and he’s air.

His tongue forces my lips apart, and I gladly let him in, moaning when he gains access, my arms lifting to wind around his neck. I thrust my tongue up to meet his, letting it glide against the rough ridges of his mouth. A deep groan vibrates in his chest, echoing through my body, and my core contracts, leaking wetness as if on command.

My fingers dig into the corded muscles of his neck as he deepens the kiss further. He eats out my mouth, drawing my tongue between his lips and sucking hard enough to make my knees buckle. The sound that escapes me is barely human as I claw at him, pressing my body closer until I feel his cock, hard as steel against my stomach.

I gasp at the contact, breaking the kiss briefly as I release one hand from his neck to caress down his body and cup the rigid heat straining through his pants. Mine. The primitive thought scares me, almost jolting me out of my lustful haze. But Rafael’s fingers tangle in my hair, massaging my scalp, and the fear fades into a needy moan.

Oh God. I want it. I want him inside me.

My fingers tighten on his cock as I start to rub him up and down through the fabric, earning a hiss from his lips. His hands slide down to my ass, gripping firmly, and with no warning, I’m lifted off the ground as though I weigh nothing. I gasp again, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck.

For an endless, aching moment, we just stare at each other breathlessly, chests heaving. Then he leans in and claims my mouth again. But this time, his eyes stay locked on mine.

And for the first time in years, I feel that familiar pressure building in my head, my brain crawling as I stare into someone’s eyes.

Come back to me.

I snap my eyes shut against the sudden, crystal-clear thought and push at his chest, trying to drown out the deep ache blooming in my heart.

He breaks the kiss with a wet pop. “Emilia? Are you okay?”

The hand on his chest closes into a fist, and suddenly I’m hitting him as tears I can’t stop slip down my cheek. “Hey, piccola, what is it?” His voice is so soft, so tender, it almost breaks me. My eyes remain stubbornly shut as I try to gain control of my emotions and the unbearable ache.

“Let me down,” I murmur. A plea. I hate how small and broken I sound. His hands tighten around me instead. The contradictory asshole. “Please, Rafael. Just… let me go.”

He hesitates. For a terrible, airless moment, I think he won’t. That he’ll keep holding me, caging me against him. But then, slowly, he lowers my feet back to the ground. His hands stay on my hips, though, burning through my clothes.

I force my eyes open, risking a glance up at him, and nearly drown in the well of concern and hurt on his face. It’s so much, I almost fool myself into believing he’s the man I fell for so long ago. The man who asked, no, demanded I become his wife. But he’s also the same man who did what he did, knowing how much it would destroy me.

“I can’t do this with you.” I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

I turn away from him as self-loathing hits me. Whore. Slut. What is wrong with you, shagging up with the enemy. Are you that hard up for it? That lonely? Fucking–

“Emilia.” Rafael’s voice stops the voices in my head, and I glance at him one last time.

“I’m sorry Elira got caught between us, and I…” My voice catches, because I know that if they didn’t hate me before, the other guys surely do now. I hate myself for what I did through my thoughtlessness. I hate that my hatred for Rafael means I have to lose out on a relationship with them.

Some hatred, my mind mocks. You were just sucking tongues with the devil.

I drag in a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” I rasp again, forcing the words out past the jagged lump in my throat. “I really am.”

Then I run.

I bolt down the alley as fast as my shaking legs will carry me. I don’t look back. I can’t. Because if I do, if I see his face, I’ll break. I’ll shatter into a million pieces right there on the filthy concrete.

So I run. I run until my lungs burn and my muscles scream. I run until the sobs finally break free, tearing out of me in great, wrenching heaves. I run from him, from the memory of his hands, his mouth, his eyes.

But most importantly… I run before I give in to one of my most compulsive desires.

Fucking him.

Or killing him.