IRENE
The wind on the rooftop didn't feel cold anymore. It felt like a caress, or maybe that was just the lingering ghost of his hands on my skin.
I pulled away from him, my chest heaving as if I'd just run a marathon through broken glass. My lips throbbed. The metallic taste of blood—his or mine, I couldn't tell—sat on my tongue.
Devon didn't chase me. He simply leaned back against the concrete wall, adjusting his tie with a maddeningly casual grace. He looked like he had just stepped out of a boardroom meeting, not a time loop from hell, and certainly not like a man who had just been mauled by his sworn enemy.
"You're a psychopath," I breathed out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My hand was shaking. "You clawed your way out of a paradox just to torment me?"
Devon smirked, that dark, dangerous expression that made my wolf pace anxiously in my chest. "I told you, Irene. Hell was boring. The demons didn't scream as prettily as you do."
"I hate you."
