Page 19 of The Devil's Pawn

Good luck with that, asshole.

Another fifteen minutes pass before curiosity gets the better of me. I jump off the bed, slide my feet into my slippers, and open the door. Outside, it’s silent, with muted lighting overhead. I make my way down the hallway. Most of the doors are closed, but I pass one that’s ajar and peer inside. There’s a single lamp on in the corner, and I recognize the room instantly. It’s the same one where the De Vil siblings gathered the other night.

Tonight, it’s empty.

I continue on, pausing by another closed door. I’m sure this is where he went the other night after he stormed off like a toddler. I tap on the door and open it. It’s dark inside, and Alexander isn’t here.

I’ve almost given up when the sound of ice being dropped into a glass drifts toward me. I make my way to the sound, happening upon a library that is every book lovers’ dream. Unfortunately, the beautiful sight is ruined by the vision of Alexander sitting in a high-backed chair nursing a crystal glass. He’s staring into the fireplace, his brows dipped low, and from this vantage point, he looks like a man with the weight of the world sitting on his broad shoulders. His tie is askew, his top button is unfastened, and he’s tossed his morning jacket over the back of the chair across from him.

I knock once on the open door and enter. Alexander doesn’t show any signs of hearing me, his attention still locked on the unlit fire.

“Alexander?”

No answer.

I venture farther into the library, the smell of old bookslingering in the air. I pause to check out a few of the titles, but I don’t recognize them. I move to within his line of sight.

“Where is my cell phone?” I don’t care that everything has been transferred from the old one to the new one. That phone belongs to me, and I want it back.

Ignoring me, he knocks back his drink, then stands and crosses to a table where a crystal decanter half-filled with an amber liquid sits. Pouring himself a glass, he glances over his shoulder for the briefest moment. There’s no reaction to my casual attire—such a contrast to his wedding outfit and the beautiful dress I’ve worn all day. It’s as though he doesn’t even see me now, or that I’m so unimportant, I could be wearing a trash bag, and he wouldn’t give two fucks.

“Do you want a brandy?”

I shouldn’t, especially after drinking two glasses of champagne, but what the hell? My nerves are shot. Maybe hard liquor is the answer to the knot tightening in my stomach.

“I want my phone.”

He swipes his jacket off the back of the chair and points for me to sit, then pours a second drink, even though I didn’t ask for it. When I sit, he appears to the side of me and hands over a glass engraved with the De Vil family crest.

“Thanks,” I mutter, smelling it before I sip. It’s strong and burns on the way down, but in its wake is a warmth I’ve been craving. Maybe because every time I’m around Alexander, I feel a chill.

“My phone, Alexander.”

Sitting back in his chair, he resumes his incessant staring, occasionally swirling the brandy in his glass. The silence stretches from seconds into minutes while I wait for him to answer my goddamn question. I’ve already figured out he’s a master at the art of silence, but I’m not all that bad at itmyself. I use the time to scan the room. This may become my favorite place to hang out, unless Alexander is here. Then I’ll probably give it a swerve.

Time is a strange phenomenon. If you’re happy and enjoying yourself, it passes faster than a comet streaking through space. In uncomfortable silences, like now, each second feels like an hour, but I refuse to give in. The previous times he tried this, I was the first to speak. On this occasion, I’m determined he’ll break first. I calculate at least fifteen minutes must pass by, during which we both finish our drinks. He doesn’t offer me another one, nor does he rise to refill his own.

If he hadn’t been so unpleasant to me from the first moment we met, I may be more inclined to feel sorry for him. It’s clear he’s deeply unhappy with our marriage, yet he went through with it anyway. If he truly is as stubborn as his father made out, then he’d have dug his heels in and refused. I’d wager there’s more to his compliance than simply an expectation passed down from generation to generation.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, breaking the quiet,stillnot answering me. Is he being infuriating on purpose? His refusal to tell me where my phone is strips the joy from beating him at the silence game.

“Why?”

“We’ve a long day tomorrow. The flight will only take us as far as Edinburgh, and it’s a two-hour drive to Thistlewood from there.”

He speaks as if I should know what or where Thistlewood is. “Thistlewood?”

He scowls, pursing his lips. “Where we’re spending our honeymoon.” If he’d tried to sound any more disparaging, I doubt he’d have managed it.

“Oh.” I put the empty glass on the table beside me. “What’s it like?”

A sigh spills from his lips. “Remote.”

“Yippee. Just what you and I need. Time alone.”

My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. His scowl deepens. “There’s plenty of room for us to avoid each other.”

“Which is clearly what you want.” While I’m partial to the idea of avoiding him, the thought of spending all that time alone in a remote and strange part of the country doesn’t appeal to me. Oh, God, I hope I can get phone signal. What if I can’t? It’ll be torture.

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