Page 12 of The Devil's Pawn

Initially, I thought Dad had chosen well, but for me, Imogen is a disaster. She’ssweet poisonon a silver platter.

A poison I cannot afford to taste.

Every part of me tingles as though I’ve jabbed my finger into an electrical socket. It wouldn’t surprise me if my hair was standing on end. My dick is, that’s for sure, and this morning jacket isn’t designed to hide an erection. If any of the guests lower their eyes, they’ll get more than they bargained for.

At least it’s done now. I’ve carried out my duty—or half of it, anyway. The second half—fathering children—isn’t something I intend to fulfill. I’ll proceed with my plan to isolate my new wife, make her miserable, and with any luck, before the summer is out, she’ll be back in the United States, with an impending divorce in the works.

Rows upon rows of cars line up outside the chapel waiting to take us, and several hundred guests, back to Oakleigh. I lead Imogen to the first car and motion for her to get in, leaving my driver to close her door while I walk around the rear of the car and climb in beside my new wife.

The silence between us is almost a physical thing, but if she thinks it will bother me in the slightest, she’ll soon find out that using silence as a weapon is something I excel at. I thrive on the quiet—crave it. It’s a tactic I use in business and in my… other activities.

Give Imogen her due, she doesn’t speak at all on the short drive from the chapel back to the main house. By the time I step out of the car, she’s already exited and is halfway to the main door, where many of our household staff have gathered to greet us. I hurry to catch up to her, gripping her elbow, and I’m not gentle about it, either.

“You’re hurting me.” She tries to free herself and fails.

“Stop being a brat,” I mutter, glowering when applause breaks out as we walk through the middle of the two lines of staff. “This may be an arranged marriage, but it doesn’t mean you can’t smile for the staff. They’ve bothered to turn out to greet you. The least you can do is show some grace.”

She snorts, upping her pace to get through the impromptu guard of honor as fast as she can. “I’ll smile when you do, and we both know you’re incapable.”

“Incorrect. I smile when there is something to smile about, such as the idea of giving you a good spanking.”

A growl rumbles through her chest, and my dick jerks. Who would have thought I’d enjoy Imogen’s backchat as much as I do? It’ll make the next few months far more interesting than I’d predicted before she arrived at Oakleigh.

When we arrive at the grand ballroom, we’re greeted by more staff, some familiar and some strangers. For such a big event, we bring in outside resources. There’s a hot buffet lining the far wall, with staff on hand to serve the hungry guests. I’d rejected the idea of a sit-down affair. This way, I can do my duty, circulate for an hour or two, then disappear and have one of the staff take Imogen to her rooms. If I’m not sticking around, neither is she. All part of my plan to isolate her. May as well start sooner rather than later.

My stomach rumbles, but it’ll be a while before Imogen and I have chance to eat. We have hundreds of guests to greet first.

“You can let go of me now,” Imogen says as the first of our guests arrive.

I release her elbow in time to shake hands with Imogen’s father and kiss her mother on the cheek. Jessica makes some joke about me calling her “Mom.”

Grief hits me in waves, an all-consuming ache that time has never dulled. It’s been nineteen years since I lost my twin sister and then, shortly after, my beloved mother, yet the pain is so fresh, it could have happened yesterday. I clench my fists, trying to center myself, but I figure my fury must register on my face when she visibly withers before my eyes.

“I already have a mother,” I clip out. “The fact she’s dead is irrelevant.”

Jessica blushes the color of a cherry, apologies trippingfrom her lips. Imogen looks equal parts horrified and enraged, as though she’s waiting for me to smooth things over, but I’ve already moved on to greet the next guest.

Eventually, we reach the end of the line, and the moment Imogen has shaken the last guest’s hand, she scurries over to the buffet, and I lose sight of her in the crowds. The next time I see her, she’s got her plate piled high, and she’s chatting with Donovan Sinner, the heir apparent to the Sinner Dynasty.

She throws back her head and laughs at something he says, and he touches her hand, bringing her closer to him. I grind my teeth, my body coiled, ready to spring.

Oh, no, you don’t.

It doesn’t matter to me that this is an arrangement. I’m a possessive bastard at the best of times, and Iwill nottolerate anyone flirting with Imogen, not even another member of The Consortium. Donovan Sinner is the biggest playboy I know, and I don’t like the way he’s touching my wife. Or looking at her.

I don’t fucking like it at all.

I’m about to march over there and rip her away from him when an important business associate stops me. By the time I’ve extricated myself, Donovan is chatting to my brother Nicholas, and Imogen has moved on. I scan the ballroom. Now she’s chatting with Uncle George, Dad’s brother, and his wife Alice. Whatever Imogen says makes George chuckle, and he pulls her in for a hug.

Fire ants crawl over my skin—that’s the feeling, at least. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough, yet she’s charm personified with everyone else. I recognize I’m being a dick. I’ve been short with her and made it clear I’m not interestedin developing any kind of a relationship, so it’s unsurprising she’s sought out friendlier company.

Unfortunately, I can’t allow that. My plan to isolate her includes cutting her off from my family. Unless we’re expected to attend a specific event, such as the monthly dinners Dad hosts, or the occasional ball we throw throughout the year, I intend to minimize Imogen’s contact with them, too.

She takes a sip from a glass of water, running her tongue over her lips to sweep away the excess. My gaze travels over the elegant curve of her neck, a few tendrils of her vibrant red hair brushing the tops of her shoulders. A sudden flush of heat spreads through my midsection.

This is not good. Not good atall. Kissing her was a mistake. A big fucking mistake, and one I don’t intend to make again, especially as she reacted favorably. If she’d pushed me away or stabbed my foot with her stiletto, I might be tempted to use sexual advances as a way to force her hand into divorcing me sooner rather than later.

But she’d liked it. I’ve kissed enough women to recognize attraction, and Imogen had virtually been putty in my hands, a plaything for me to mold. I imagine some of that might relate to her innocence, especially as I’m experienced, but whatever the reason, using any form of sex as a punishment isn’t going to work.

---