Page 58 of Ruined By a Devil

Cain turns his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “That wasn't the plan.”

“It's the plan now,” I reply, my voice leaving no room for argument.

“Forget the plan, we have to respect tradition,” Elijah says.

“The arrangement was clear, Mal,” Levi says, stepping out of the side study with a leather folder tucked under his arm. "Jade travels with her father's men and you travel with us in the middle car. Old man Moretti insisted on taking his daughter to the church himself. It's the only traditional part of this entire circus he actually cared about.”

“I don't give a damn about Moretti's traditions,” I say, my jaw tightening as I glance up the grand staircase leading to Jade's room. “She stays in my sight.”

“Switching the seating arrangements ten minutes before we roll out is a bad move and you know that,” Elijah says, stepping directly into my path. “If Nolan has eyes on the house or the route, any sudden change in the convoy pattern signals that we're paranoid or expecting a hit. It draws attention to her car.”

“He's right,” Cain nods, his eyes fixed on mine. “The separation keeps the profile normal. Moretti's men are heavily armed..”

I stare at Elijah for two heavy seconds. Every instinct in my gut demands that I put Jade in the seat beside me, where my hand can rest on her knee, where I can monitor her pulse myself. The thought of her sitting in a separate vehicle, surrounded only by her father's men while Nolan Devlin's threat hangs over us, makes the blood burn hot in my veins.

“If anything looks off on the perimeter feeds,” I growl, my voice dropping into a warning, “We pull her car into the middle of the stack immediately.”

“Understood,” Levi says, opening the heavy front door as the sound of heels echoing down the upper hallway reaches us.

“Let's move,” I command, turning toward the door as my brothers fall in step around me. “I have to honor another stupid tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jade

I replay the conversation I had with Riley earlier as I stare out the tinted window, watching the damp gray trees of the highway blur past. Up ahead, the lead SUV carrying four of my father’s men sets a steady speed, its rear red lights glowing through the thin fog left behind by last night's rain. Behind us, another heavy vehicle follows close by, keeping the distance tight.

I should be used to this world by now, considering I have never known anything else, but being surrounded by literal soldiers while I’m on my way to my own wedding, feels incredibly wrong.

My fingers dig into the soft fabric over my knees. The corseted bodice of the gown cuts tight into my ribs, making every breath shallow. As if I wasn’t nervous enough. I have to admit it’s beautiful, though.

My heart beats hard against my chest as I keep seeing Malachi’s face in my head, his green eyes, the heavy weight of his hands on my waist, the way he told me in the dark of my bedroom that anyone who touches what belongs to him will die.

Maybe Riley’s advice wasn’t so bad.

I glance at the front seat.

The man at the wheel wears a crisp black suit, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel. His dark hair is cropped short, the back of his neck thick and pale. My father told me this morning that Marco, one of his long-time drivers, would handle the car for the chapel run. But looking at the sharp profile of the man in the mirror, something feels off.

Marco has a long scar running from his left ear down to his collarbone. He got it ten years ago during a turf dispute. The skin on this man's neck is completely smooth.

“Hey,” I speak, trying to sound relaxed. “Since when did you take over Marco's rotation?”

The driver keeps his eyes fixed straight on the asphalt ahead as he speaks. “Marco was reassigned to the perimeter detail at the chapel, Ms. Moretti. Direct orders from your father.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” I reply, panic slowly starting to take over.

“Last minute change.”

Up ahead, the lead SUV slows down, its turn signal flashing orange as it prepares to take the off-ramp toward the chapel downtown. But our car doesn't slow down. The driver taps the gas pedal, accelerating past the lead vehicle and sweeping straight ahead on the main highway toward the abandoned industrial zone by the river.

“You missed the turn,” I say, standing up as far as the small backseat allows, my voice dropping into a sharp line. “The chapel is three miles south.”

“There’s a delay on the main route,” The driver says in a cold tone, not checking his rearview mirror. “We’re just taking the faster route.”

“If that were the case, every other car would have taken this route,” I snap, my blood freezing.

I reach out, grabbing the internal door handle on my right, yanking it up so hard it almost snaps, but nothing happens. The mechanical latch clicks uselessly. I pull it again, harder, driving my shoulder into the heavy door panel.