My Cruel Salvation (Fallen Saint # 3) - J. Kenner Page 0,9
was the shadow of his father all over again, and right then all he wanted was to release this pent-up fury by pounding his fists against the leather of a punching bag. Or, better yet, flesh.
The pulling of this award was only the beginning, he knew. For years, he’d built a name and a reputation. Devlin Saint.
And now all of that was tumbling down. Packard and Livingston weren’t the cause of his fury—they were just a symptom.
Devlin had bigger worries now. Much bigger.
So instead of arguing or pleading his case, Devlin simply drew in a breath and slowly released it. “I understand your position,” he said. “I assume you’ll understand that Ms. Holmes and I won’t be staying for the banquet. In fact, if there’s a back exit, I think we’ll slip out now.”
“Yes,” Mr. Packard said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Please, follow me.”
Livingston stayed behind as Packard led them down the corridors to the alley. As they walked, Devlin tapped out a text to the driver, instructing him where to meet them.
“Here,” Packard said, stopping in front of a solid metal door. “I could step out with—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Devlin gave the bar a push, and the door swung open. He gestured for El to go first, nodded to Packard, who looked utterly miserable, then stepped into the alley himself.
The limo wasn’t there.
That wasn’t too surprising; the driver had probably parked blocks away, intending to pass the hours reading or listening to music.
What was surprising was the man he saw leaning against a rusty fire-escape ladder. A dark-haired, lean man with the kind of face that could make an actor’s career and a confidence that he wore like a familiar coat. A man Devlin had never met, but who he recognized instantly—former tennis pro turned tech billionaire, Damien Stark.
“Mr. Stark,” Devlin said, his brows rising in surprise. “I’m going to assume you’re not out here because you wanted some fresh air.”
“I wish it were something that innocuous. No, I wanted to let you know that committee’s decision to pull your award wasn’t unanimous.” He shrugged as he pushed away from the ladder and held out his hand to shake, his dual-colored eyes meeting Devlin’s. “I also wanted to introduce myself, something I’d intended to do after your speech. But I think this is the best I can manage.”
“I’m afraid so,” Devlin said, taking the other man’s hand. “But it means a lot that you came out here. Thank you.” He turned to El. “Elsa Holmes, I’d like you to meet Damien Stark.”
“I recognize you, of course,” she said. “And call me Ellie.”
“The pleasure is mine, Ellie,” Stark said. He turned his attention back to Devlin. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’m sorry about the circumstances. By all rights, we should have met about five years ago.”
For a moment, Devlin didn’t understand. Then it clicked. “The foundation. Our offices in Laguna Cortez.” He turned to Ellie, answering her questioning look. “The architect who designed the offices—Jackson Steele—he’s Damien’s brother.”
“It’s a small world,” Ellie said.
“That it is.” Stark glanced down the alley toward the approaching limo. “Looks like your ride is here. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to offer my condolences. And my congratulations.”
Devlin’s brows rose. “Congratulations?”
“You don’t need an award, Saint. The work your foundation does speaks for itself.”
Devlin nodded, letting those words sink in. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot.”
“I know a thing or two about being scrutinized by the press. Even more about what it’s like to be encumbered by the reputation of a father I neither like nor respect. You’ll do fine. It won’t be easy, but you’ll overcome all this bullshit.”
“I will,” Devlin said, because Stark was right. Devlin had no choice but to overcome it.
But what he didn’t say was that while it might be easy enough to shake off the controversy of being The Wolf’s son and prove to the world at large that his philanthropic efforts were legitimate, that wasn’t the real issue.
No, what neither Stark nor the committee nor the press realized was that by outing Devlin’s parentage, those eager reporters may have just plastered a target on Devlin’s back, one at which both his father’s former allies and enemies would be taking aim.
What was worse, though, was that their real goal would be to punish him. To hurt him.
And that meant that the very press Ellie worked for had painted that same fucking target on her back as well.