The Devil’s Cut

Chapter 2: The Devil’s Claim

Gunfire tore through the walls. Glass shattered. Screams filled the air.

Eloise barely had time to scream before massive hands grabbed her waist.

Ethan didn't hesitate. With terrifying speed, he hauled her off her feet, throwing her to the floor behind the solid, reinforced mahogany bar.

She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs.

Before Eloise could scramble away, a heavy weight came down on top of her.

Ethan pressed her flat against the carpet, his large body covering hers entirely to shield her from the spray of bullets tearing through the drywall above them.

The air was instantly thick with the bitter smell of cordite and plaster dust, but beneath it all, Eloise could only register him.

His chest was pressed flush against her back, heavy and hard as stone. His arms bracketed her sides, and the sheer heat of him in the frigid, terrified dark was overwhelming. Between the sounds of violence tearing the club apart, she could feel the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat against her spine.

He wasn't afraid. He was completely, unnervingly calm.

"Stay perfectly still," Ethan breathed against the nape of her neck, his voice deathly quiet in the chaos. The brush of his lips against her skin sent a wild, inappropriate shiver straight between her thighs.

Calm. Completely calm.

Chaos raged around them—but he wasn’t afraid.

And somehow, that terrified her more than the bullets.

She whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut as another volley of bullets shattered the mirror above them. Glass rained down, bouncing off Ethan’s broad back. He grunted slightly, adjusting his weight so his hips pressed agonizingly flush against hers.

"I'm scared," she gasped, her hands gripping the edge of the bar tightly enough to draw blood.

"Don't be," Ethan murmured, his tone shifting from mockery to a dark, possessive intensity. He shifted, his hand sliding down to firmly grip her hip, holding her flush against him. It was a protective hold, but the sheer strength of his grip—the intimate pressure of his fingers biting into her flesh through the silk of her skirt—was staggeringly sensual. "Nothing will touch you while you're under me. Do you understand?"

She nodded frantically, unable to speak. The friction of his heavy thighs against her legs as he shifted his weight made her stomach hollow out in sudden, blinding heat. The juxtaposition of imminent death and the hard, undeniable line of his body pressed into hers created a chaotic, primal energy in the cramped space.

Suddenly, the gunfire slowed. Heavy boots crunched over the broken glass, stepping cautiously into the Vault.

“Check the back!” a ragged voice yelled in Russian.

Ethan’s demeanor changed instantly. The warm, heavy weight shielding her shifted into a coiled spring.

"Keep your eyes closed, Eloise," he whispered against her ear, the words a dark, lethal promise.

He rolled off her in a fluid, soundless motion.

Eloise huddled beneath the bar, her hands clamped over her mouth to muffle her own ragged breathing. She heard the heavy footsteps of the gunman approaching the bar.

Then came the sound of violence—fast, brutal, and intimate.

There was a sickening thud, a garbled choke, and the heavy snap of bone breaking. The gunman’s rifle clattered onto the floorboards right beside Eloise’s hand. A warm, wet spray of crimson splattered the polished wood in front of her.

Someone gurgled, a wet, horrifying sound, before a heavy body collapsed to the floor a few feet away.

Silence descended on the Vault, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wailing of police sirens in the city outside.

Eloise kept her eyes squeezed shut, trembling violently. The adrenaline crash hit her all at once, leaving her limbs weak and her lungs gasping for air.

"Open your eyes."

The command was soft, but it pulled her from the dark.

Eloise slowly blinked open her eyes and looked up.

Ethan Marcello stood over her. The bespoke suit jacket was ruined, a long tear running down the shoulder. A spray of deep red blood painted his sharp jawline and ruined the pristine white collar of his shirt. In his right hand, he held a sleek black stiletto blade, dripping crimson onto the expensive carpet.

He didn't look like a kingpin in an office anymore. He looked like the monster she had been warned about. He looked like death.

He reached into his pocket with his clean hand, withdrew a silk handkerchief, and slowly, meticulously wiped the blade clean. He tossed the stained silk over the dead body beside him before looking down at her.

Those chilling blue eyes slowly raked over her crumpled form beneath the bar. He took in her trembling, the way her silk blouse had slipped off her shoulder, the wildly dilated pupils of her eyes.

The heat in his gaze was palpable. It wasn't pity. It was acquisition.

He slipped the knife away, reached down, and gripped her arm gently, hauling her up to her feet. Eloise gasped, stumbling forward. Her heel caught on the rubble, and she pitched into his chest.

Ethan caught her effortlessly. His arms wrapped firmly around her waist, pulling her flush against his solid, blood-spattered body. He smelled like copper and bourbon, and heaven help her, she didn't want to pull away.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his thumb coming up to trace the line of her panicked jaw. He tipped her face upward, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"You—you killed him," she stuttered, her chest heaving against his.

"He interrupted our conversation," Ethan said simply, as if discussing the weather. His thumb moved heavily over her lower lip, parting it slightly. The gesture was incredibly bold, incredibly familiar, and sent a rush of liquid fire straight through her veins.

"I have to go," Eloise whispered, though her hands had instinctively clutched the lapels of his ruined jacket to steady herself.

"No." Ethan’s voice was suddenly very quiet, very firm. He leaned in, closing the distance until their lips were a breath apart. The raw, unfiltered desire rolling off him was terrifying. It was a cage of heat and power, and the door was locking behind her.

"You don't get to go back to your normal life after tonight, sweetheart," Ethan murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth before pulling back up to hold her wide, terrified eyes. "You owe me a drink. And I think I'd prefer if my personal property... remained exactly where I can see it."

He didn't wait for her to agree. He released her, turning his back to the c*****e as if it bored him, and walked toward the ruined exit.

"Come along,Eloise," the devil called over his shoulder.

And, God help her, her feet started moving to follow him.