The bedside lamp bathed Marissa’s face in soft light, her features less haunted in sleep. Atticus had encountered his fair share of gruesome cruelty in his life, and still, what he’d seen in that room in the warehouse…it rivaled his darkest memories, chilled his soul.

Made him want to kill that fucker all over again.

Marga had taken care of Marissa after they’d returned to the old Victorian, had obviously cleaned her up after she’d carried her upstairs by herself, ignoring Atticus offers of help. He understood, though. The only time Marissa had looked at him, her scent had spiked with gut-wrenching terror. He was, after all, a demon of...