Page 69 of The Devil's Pawn

From his reaction, I’m guessing he hasn’t heard me order this before. “The butt end. You know. The outer layer.” I pronounce each word with precision, as if I’m talking to the dumbest person on the planet.

He tilts his chin up, looking down his snooty, aristocratic nose at me. “You mean the crust.”

“No. I mean the butt end. Or if you prefer, the trash end.” I give him my sweetest smile. His lips thin and, ever so deliberately, he returns his attention to his phone.

Taking a deep breath, I hit him with my news. “It’s obvious my presence irks you, but fear not, Prince De Vil. I’ll be out of your hair on Saturday.”

“What’s happening on Saturday?” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

“I’m going home to visit my parents and see my friends from college.”

I expect him to look at me then, but nope. Instead, head still buried in his damn phone, he takes a sip of water and says, “No, you’re not.”

I flex my jaw. Asshole still thinks he can tell me what to do. “You can’t stop me.”

With a sigh, he puts down his phone and focuses on me. “I think you’ll find that I can.”

“Oh, yeah? What you gonna do? Lock me in the panic room again?” I wouldn’t put it past him.

He smirks at me, like he’s got this big secret he can’t wait to divulge. “Where’s your passport, Imogen?”

“In my nightstand.” I know this because I needed it to book my flight less than forty minutes ago.

“Hmm. Is it?”

A chill runs through me. Shoving my chair back so fast that it crashes to the floor, I tear to my rooms and yank open the nightstand drawer. My passport is gone. It was right there on top of my book. I rifle through the drawer, even though it’s futile.

The bastard! How did he know I’d booked a flight to California? Prickles race along the back of my neck. That damn phone does more than monitor where I am. It’s monitoring what sites I visit.

I march back into the dining room. The staff, possibly expecting another fiery argument, have scattered. I can’t blame them. At least there won’t be witnesses when Ikill him.

Shoving my palm near his face, I snap, “Give me my passport.”

He acts as if I haven’t spoken, tapping away on hisgoddamn phone.

I slam my palms on the table. “Give me my fucking passport!”

I thought my cursing might earn a reaction, but he’s coolness personified. “Sit down.”

“Not until you give me my passport.” Tears pool in my eyes, and to my utter fury, a couple spill down my cheeks. “I want to see my parents, my friends.”

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he lets it out.

“Alexander, please.” I normally hate pleading with him, but I’m at the stage where I don’t care as long as I get my passport back. “I have to go home. Ineedto.”

“And you will, as soon as you start behaving more like an adult and less like a petulant child.”

I feel myself getting hotter, closer than I’ve ever been to blowing a fuse. “Petulant? Ha! You’re the one who locked me in the panic room all day without food.”

“Because you did this.” He points at his missing eyebrow. “Which is the act of a child, not a grown woman.”

“You deserved it. You fired Will.”

This time, when he takes a deep breath, he closes his eyes.

“I’m lonely, Alexander. I’m so lonely.” Admitting it is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but if it gets me my passport back, it’ll be worth it. “I’m stuck here in this house. I never get to go anywhere. I don’t have any friends here. Please let me go home for a few days. I booked for Saturday, so I don’t miss the family dinner on Friday.” I’m hoping my thoughtfulness buys me a little credit.

I should have known better.

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