Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,51

them apart once more. Why? Did he truly believe she could not be happy sharing her life with him? Did he fear the potential for danger? Or was it merely a more painful truth—that he was not in love with her?

A strong hand steadied her. But it was not the hand she wanted.

“Lady Evie?” Dom’s voice prodded. “Are you well? You look pale.”

Inhaling slowly, she opened her eyes, hating the pity she saw reflected on her brother-in-law’s face. “I am as well as I can be. Will you…will you tell Theo I wish him well?”

Her voice broke on the last word, as the possible finality of this moment hit her. Theo had not died today, but he intended to disappear from her life just the same.

For now, she had no choice but to let him.

Chapter Thirteen

The pain was scorching. Searing. Intense.

He was dwelling in some manner of hell. That had to be the answer for it. He was hot. Aflame. Burning alive. Devil had never known such agony, such acute misery.

But through it all, there was something, a presence, a lightness. And somehow, he knew that presence was her.

Evie.

He tried to say her name, but all he managed was a croak.

A soft, soothing voice reached him. A cool cloth bathed his brow.

And then he surrendered to the darkness once more.

He was drowning in a sea. Struggling to stay afloat, to paddle to the distant shore. But his shoulder was weak and painful. His left arm hung limply. Would he ever be able to use it again?

The mocking laughter echoed all around him.

He recognized the sound of that bitter cackle, that voice. The scent. Blue ruin.

The woman who had given him life had always stunk of it.

By the end, it had stolen her looks and robbed her of life. Her eyes had been dull and lifeless, cold as her heart when he had seen her shortly before her death. She had come to ask him for coin, of all things. And Devil, stupid sod that he was, had given her some. Enough to keep food in her belly, to give her a roof over her head. But instead of spending it on such worthy necessities, she had used it to procure more spirits. The last penny he had ever given her had been poured down her throat.

“Stupid,” she whispered, the taunt turning into a chant. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

The dream shifted, changed.

He was no longer in the sea but at The Devil’s Spawn.

Cora was there. Beautiful, faithless Cora.

Telling him he was not worthy of her. That she would sooner be a lord’s whore than a thief’s wife.

Her back was to him, and when he reached for her, she turned.

It was not Cora looking at him, but Evie.

Evie with her tousled golden curls and her tearstained face.

“Live for me,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“Evie,” he tried to say, but his voice was hoarse.

She fell away.

That was when the flames returned, burning him into nothing.

Devil woke in the night with a jolt, pain lancing him. His head ached. His shoulder was on fire. But hovering on the air was a sweet scent he recognized. Or at least, he thought he did.

That scent tore him from the bowels of whatever perdition he had been inhabiting. It called to him like a siren’s song. He was in the grips of delirium again, he was sure. Delusional from the fevers attacking his body. Infection had set in, and he had been paying the price, torn between the abyss of mindlessness and terrible nightmares that threatened to steal his soul.

He was cloaked in darkness, the chamber bathed in shadows. He could scarcely keep his eyes open—the lids were so damn heavy. Nothing made sense, and yet everything did.

He recalled pieces of what had happened. Wilmore’s pistol against his back, the gunfire that had erupted as Jasper Sutton had struck first, killing their mutual enemy.

Not before Wilmore had landed a bullet in Devil’s shoulder, however.

None of that mattered. All that did matter was that Evie was safe. Wilmore’s power had been doused by his death, and his men would be left scrambling. The hell would close. The threat was over.

And Devil had made certain she would return to her aristocratic world where she belonged. To the lord she would marry. The thought was more painful than the ball that had torn through his flesh.

He shifted on the bed, trying to find comfort for his aching back, but the movement was nigh impossible. His body felt as weak as a