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Hell tried that shit with me.

Chained me up, tried to break me, tried to turn me into the weapon they wanted, and punish every part that refused.

I won’t watch it happen to her.

My hands curl into fists as another lick of smoke rises around my boots. I don’t give a fuck how deep this thing goes. I’ll burn Malgrave, Thessaly, and every fucker tangled up in it to ash before I let the Devil put a leash around Echo’s throat.

She reads the answer on my face before I’ve even managed to move.

“Carnage—” I step closer, and my hand comes up before either of us decides it should, settling over the column of her throat, not to silence her, just to feel it. The vibration of her voice hums faint and alive beneath my palm, fragile in a way nothing about her actually is, and I hold it there while I shake my head slowly, once, twice, the fire in my chest not banking even slightly.

She doesn’t pull away.

“I’ve spent twelve years running from people who think they own this,” she says, and her hand comes up to cover mine, holding it flush against her skin instead of pushing it off. “Running never stopped them coming. It just meant I was always alone when they found me.” Her eyes hold mine, steady despite everything shaking beneath the surface. “I’m not running this time.”

I shake my head again, harder, because it isn’t about whether she runs. Malgrave wants something from her, and now we know the fucking Devil is standing behind him. What we don’t know is why Echo matters to either of them, and until we figure that shit out, there’s no fucking chance I’m letting her anywhere near them.

Her fingers tighten over mine.

Then we make damn sure neither of them gets what they want.

She smiles as though she understands me, and something in my chest that’s been clenched since the moment she said Thessaly’s name finally loosens, just enough to let air back in. I nod, and she reads the decision in it. We aren’t sitting in this clubhouse counting down three days while the Conclave and the Devil circle closer.

We go to him first.

I kiss her again, harder this time, catching her around the waist and hauling her up against me without breaking away. Echo makes a sound against my mouth as her legs wrap around my hips, her arms tightening around my shoulders while I carry her the few steps to the clubhouse and press her back against the wall.

With her weight braced between the building and me, my hands are free to move, sliding beneath the back of her shirt and dragging over bare skin. She’s warm, soft, and when my fingers dig in, she arches into me with a quiet sound that sends heat ripping through my body. Hellfire flares beneath my skin, answering the pull of her power the way it always does now, hungry and wanting more.

I break the kiss just long enough to drag my mouth down her throat, teeth grazing the silver scars there. Echo’s head tips back against the wall, breath hitching.

“Carnage—”

I can’t answer.

So, I show her instead. One hand stays locked under her ass, holding her up. The other slides higher under her shirt, finds the edge of her bra, and pushes it aside. My thumb brushes over her nipple, and she gasps, fingers tightening hard in my hair. I do it again, slower, feeling her shiver against me.

She’s already moving, small, restless rolls of her hips that grind her right against the hard line of my cock. Every shift makes the pressure worse, no better. I press her harder into the wall and rock into her, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.

Echo’s laugh comes out broken. “We’re outside.”

I know, and I don’t give one single fuck.

My mouth finds hers again, swallowing whatever else she was going to say. Her hands are everywhere, one still in my hair, the other shoving under my cut and shirt, her nails scraping down my back. The contact sends another surge of her power straight through me, my hellfire surges to meet it until the air around us feels charged.

I yank the front of her shirt up just enough to get my mouth on her. Tongue, then teeth, sucking hard enough that she moans into the night air, and her legs clamp tighter. She’s grinding against me now, chasing friction, and every movement is pure-fucking-torture.

I lift my head, breathing hard, my forehead pressed to hers. Her pale green eyes are blown dark, her lips swollen, her chest rising fast under the rumpled shirt.

She reads the question in my face without me having to ask.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “I don’t care who sees.”

That’s all the permission I need.

I drop her legs to the ground and shift my grip, free one hand, and work it between us, popping the button on her jeans. I slide down her zipper, then my fingers ease inside, finding her already wet, already aching for it. The second I touch her, she bites down on a sound and drops her forehead to my shoulder.

I stroke her slowly at first, learning the angle that makes her hips jerk. When she gasps my name again, I push two fingers inside and curl them, my thumb working her clit in tight circles.