Luck of the Devil

By: Meghan March

I nod at it, and Goliath approaches it at my side. We stand in front of the door and he motions like he’s going to handle it, but I hold up a finger as Donnigan’s words roll through my head again.

“At first it looked voluntary, but then there was a struggle.”

Banked rage roars to the surface, and I take a step back before ramming the sole of my shoe into the door beside the handle with every bit of force my six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-pound frame can muster.

The door swings wide and whacks into the opposite wall.

With guns drawn, Goliath and I rush inside toward a man jolting up from where he was bent over a table, a rolled bill held nearly to his nose.

“What the fuck! You can’t—” His protest cuts off when his gaze lands on the Glock in my hand and the giant at my side. “What do you want? I don’t have any cash.”

Another door swings open, and de Vere leans against the frame.

“He doesn’t want your cash, Mickey. He came for something very, very different.” De Vere looks over his shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Indy?”



He’s here. Forge is here.

I push out of the chair where I parked myself behind the desk with the turntable to keep my distance from Bastien while he proceeded to toss back drink after drink and talk shit about Forge.

As soon as I’m on my feet, the room wobbles from side to side. From hitting my head? I hold on to the desk for support and take another step toward Forge’s voice. Everything feels weird, including the smooth, cool wood beneath my fingertips.

I blink a few times, trying to get the room to stop spinning, but it doesn’t help. My palms are clammy and sweat breaks out on my brow. Something’s wrong.

I look around the room, and the light hurts my eyes.

I’m fucked up. What the hell is going on? I attempt another step toward the door, but cool air hits my skin and tremors ripple over me.

I have to sit down. I stumble toward the bed and plop onto it, gripping the red coverlet with my fists to stay upright.

“Sorry, Forge. Your wife is in no hurry to leave my bed.” Bastien’s lazy drawl reeks of innuendo.

“Get the fuck out of my way, de Vere.” Forge’s voice deepens to the point where it’s almost inaudible.

My head bobs as I try to stand again. Nope. I shut my eyes, hoping that will help me regain a modicum of balance or control.

“Feel free to stay in bed, Indy. You don’t have to leave with him if you don’t want to.” Bastien’s tone is even more smug now, and I don’t need to see him to know that he must be grinning like the cat who got the cream.

What the hell is happening to me? I shouldn’t feel like—

Then I remember the pills I took out of the pain reliever bottle.

He drugged me. Bastien fucking drugged me. Again.



With the gun pressed to de Vere’s chest, I lower my voice. “Move, or I won’t hesitate to pull this fucking trigger.”

De Vere shows no fear, which shocks me because he’s always been a fucking pussy. “You won’t do it. You would’ve killed me years ago if you had the balls, but you don’t.”

Despite his bold words, he backs into the room and moves to the side, revealing India sitting on the bed, slowly rocking back and forth like she’s catatonic.

“What the hell did you do to her?” I demand.

“I told her some of the truth.” He laughs, but clearly he’s the only person who thinks there’s a damn thing funny about this situation. “Isn’t that right, my dear? Why don’t you tell Forge how upset you were when you found out he lied about your sister’s rescue to get you to marry him?”

“Why should I believe either of you?”

When India finally looks directly at me, I realize something’s very wrong. Her blue eyes are nearly solid black from her completely blown pupils.

“What the fuck did you give her?” I jab the gun into de Vere’s chest where his shirt hangs open.

“Whoa . . .” India stands with her arms out to the side for balance, and sways back and forth like she’s on the deck of a ship sailing through a gale. She blinks a few times before rubbing her hands down her face. “I’m fucked up.”

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