The night bled into dawn before Devil realized he hadn’t slept again.
He sat in his office, boots propped on the edge of the desk, a half-empty bottle of bourbon at his elbow. The soft crackle of the old record player in the corner was the only sound, playing some faded blues that Haru said their daughter seemed to calm down to. He glanced toward the hallway every few minutes, half expecting to hear Hope’s tiny cries echoing down from their room.
She was barely two months old, yet she had already rewritten his world.
He’d held her last night while she slept against his chest, her breath a small, fragile rhythm he was almost afraid to disturb. That tiny weight had done something to him—something no blood feud, no MC war, no bullet ever had. It cracked him open.
And now, sitting there in
