Page 39 of Ruined By a Devil

My soaked pussy is throbbing with a heavy, humiliating pulse, completely slick just from the memory of his filthy words near my ear and the trace of his perfume that I can still smell on me even though it’s long gone.

“Don't wear things like this around me unless you're ready to lie on this counter and let me fuck you until you can't walk.”

I brush two fingers against my clit, and the touch makes my thighs instinctively shake. I want to slide the fingers inside, want to work myself until the ache vanishes, but the moment I close my eyes, it isn't my own hand I picture, its his.

I snap my eyes open and pull my hand away, letting the thong snap back into place.

No. I am not doing this.

I’m twenty-eight years old, a woman who has guarded her body like a fortress in a world full of men who treat women like meat. I’ve spent my entire life turning down arrogant mafia heirs and powerful men my father tried to sell me to. I always assumed that when I finally gave up my innocence, it would be a conscious, strategic decision, or at least something under my control.

I never imagined I would be standing here, so painfully horny for a man who bought me like a piece of territory, aching to be ruined on a kitchen counter by a Kavanagh who views me as a tactical wedge against the Devlins.

The truth is that I don't want him because I don’t care about him. I don't have feelings for Malachi Kavanagh. Zero feelings. Zilch. He’s just a dangerous, oppressive, and infuriatingly attractive man, naturally awakening my pure, raw instincts. It’s nothing more than that.

I head to the bathroom and quickly put on a pair of black silk pants and a plain grey tank top, leaving my hair wet and loose over my shoulders. I slide on a pair of converse sneakers, the need to move overwhelming and in control of my actions. I need to get out of my head before the silence in this massive house eats me alive.

The quiet in the main hallway is absolute as soon as I step out of the bathroom. Malachi has been gone for an hour or maybe longer, and the house feels different without his presence. While it’s less compressed, it’s nowhere near to being less dangerous. Milo, Malachi’s primary right-hand man, is posted down in the main foyer near the front doors, and while he’s incredibly friendly, I know where his loyalties are and if I were to try and sneak past him, he wouldn’t hesitate before handing me over to Malachi.

I avoid the main staircase and head down the long, carpeted corridor toward the west wing.

This marriage is a deal. It’s a public performance to destroy Nolan’s leverage and keep my father from handing me over to a predator. But I wasn't born yesterday. Alliances shift and contracts break. If things go wrong and if the Kavanaghs decide I’m not needed anymore, or if the Devlins kick the doors down, I need to know how to get out of here on my own feet.

I check the first set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the side courtyard. The glass is thick reinforced, bulletproof laminate. The latch at the center is heavy steel, but when I test it, it’s locked electronically from the main security console. I look out into the dark garden.

Two men in charcoal suits are walking the perimeter path, their ears fitted with subtle earpieces, the faint outline of shoulder holsters visible beneath their jackets.

I move quietly down the hallway, turning toward the back exit. The back door is heavy, reinforced iron with an electronic keypad and a biometric scanner mounted to the frame.

Standing near the threshold, checking his phone in the dim light, is a guard I haven't seen before. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with short-cropped brown hair and a broad, thick neck.

That’s your chance.

I step into the doorway, letting my feet make just enough sound against the polished tile to announce my presence.

That’s enough to get his attention and he snaps his head up, his hand dropping instinctively toward his belt before he recognizes me. He clears his throat quickly, standing straight.

“Mrs. Kavanagh… sorry, Ms. Moretti. Can I help you with something?”

“Just getting some air,” I say casually, leaning my hip against the edge of the stainless-steel counter. I cross my arms, letting my tone sound relaxed, entirely unthreatening. “It's quiet in the house tonight.”

“Mr. Kavanagh ordered double security on the rear perimeter while he's away,” The guard says. “You shouldn't be back here, ma'am. It's a restricted area.”

Restricted area, my ass. I’m a prisoner after all.

“Oh, it’s restricted?” I raise my eyebrow, a smile touching my lips. “Since I live here now, I like to know my surroundings. Does this back door lead directly to the garage, or through the garden paths?”

“It leads to the secondary driveway,” he says, his tone tight, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “And it stays locked.”

“And if there's a power failure?” I ask, taking a half-step closer. “A fire? A raid? How does the manual override work?”

The guard’s jaw hardens. He might be young, but he’s a Kavanagh soldier, trained to keep his mouth shut around leverage and it doesn’t take him long to realize what I’m doing. Or trying to do.

“If there's an emergency, Mr. Kavanagh’s team handles the evacuation,” He explains, his voice flat, professional, and entirely unhelpful. “You don't need to worry about the codes or the exits, ma'am. You just need to stay inside the house where it’s safe.”

“I see,” I hold his gaze for a long second, hoping to scare him into telling me more information but he doesn’t budge. He doesn't even flinch, the message is clear: I am being protected, but I am also being contained.

I turn on my heel and walk back without another word.