Page 9 of The Devil's Pawn

Eventually, he blinks. “Go to bed, Imogen. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

He turns his back on me, his dismissal cold and unnecessarily cruel. I rack my brains for something equally horrible to say, but come up empty.

I pivot and return to the hallway, leaving him alone.

Chapter Four

IMOGEN

Many girls dream of the perfect wedding day: the dress, the flowers, the exquisite church, and horse-drawn carriage. The perfect groom with hearts in his eyes, waiting to whisk you into your new life. Children living out their fantasies by hanging pillowcases off the backs of their heads while they prance around in their mom’s shoes.

I did the same. Even though I’ve always known my future husband wouldn’t be one of my choosing, I fantasized about him being a white knight who was as excited to marry me as I was to marry him. On the few occasions my parents mentioned Alexander, which wasn’t often, they’d speak about him in reverent terms, as if he was some kind of god.

Alexander De Vil isn’t a god. He’s the Devil dressed in a sharp suit.

His cold brushoff when I interrupted him in his study on Thursday night has played on my mind. I’m mad I let him dismiss me so easily without fighting my corner, especially considering I have to make him despise me enough towantto rid himself of me. He kept true to his word, though. Ihaven’t seen him since, and soon, I’ll walk down the aisle to marry a stranger, who’s as reluctant for this union as I am.

I may have come here with a plan to get out of this marriage as fast as possible, but it’s going to take huge amounts of time and energy to battle constantly with my husband.

Maybe he’ll cave after a week.

I bark out a laugh. Somehow, I can’t see it.

“What are you laughing at?” Mom appears from the dressing room with my wedding dress draped over her arms—yet one more thing I didn’t get to choose. The De Vils have organized everything, with no input from me. The lack of involvement has made me feel so distanced from this charade of a marriage, and so isolated, not just from everything familiar to me, but from this new life, too. Even though I don’t want to marry Alexander, a part of me is still that little girl who dreamed of the fabulous wedding.

“My future husband.” It’s an honest answer.

“He’s not here, is he?” Mom’s head whips left and right. “Because he can’t see you before the wedding. It’s bad luck.”

I laugh again, this time with more humor than bitterness. “Mom, I’m marrying a man who doesn’t even like me. I don’t think him seeing me in my dress will make much of a difference.”

Her lips pinch, and she narrows her eyes. “Imogen, he doesn’t know you.” She plucks a strand of hair off my shoulder and lets it fall to the floor. “It was the same for me when I married your father. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I’ve had twenty-four of the most wonderful years with him. My only regret is that we didn’t have more children. Still, we’ll have grandchildren soon, won’t we?”

She frames it as a question, but it isn’t one. It’s anexpectation, although how I’m going to stop Alexander from having sex with me without protection isn’t something I’ve worked out yet. Maybe I’ll tell him I have syphilis or chlamydia or something. Or I’ll tell him I’m on my period and get myself to a doctor as soon as possible to organize contraception. Unless he’s into period play. I’ve read romance books that include men who like that kind of thing.

Quit it, Imogen. You’re overthinking.

“Once you’re married, everything will change,” Mom says. “Trust me.”

Yeah, things will change all right. I’ll hopefully be on my way to being a divorcee by the time I hit twenty-two in August.

“Now,” she continues when I say nothing. “Let’s get you into this dress and down the aisle.”

I can’t deny the dress is beautiful, and I look beautiful in it. A luxurious silk gown with thin shoulder straps and a cowl neckline whispers past my curves before falling to the floor with a flare. It’s sophisticated, classy, and probably the choice I would have made for myself if I had been given the chance to pick my own gown.

“Oh, Imogen.” Mom stands back and presses a hand to her chest, her eyes misting as she runs her gaze over me. “You look like an angel. Doesn’t she, Maisie?”

Maisie is the maid the De Vils assigned to me. She’s a sweet girl, but a little too formal. I’m hoping I can loosen her up a bit.

Maisie nods. “A real angel, Miss Imogen.”

An angel marrying a devil. It’d be funny if it wasn’t true.

Briony, my hair and makeup artist, approaches me with a can of hairspray. “One more spritz for the road?” She doesn’twait for my approval before enveloping me in a haze of sickly-smelling hairspray.

I close my eyes as tiny droplets land on my shoulders. My auburn hair is piled on top of my head, with ringlets caressing my neck. I look pale, my eyes luminous, and even though it’s warm in here, my skin is covered with goosebumps.

Drawing in a deep breath, I take the bouquet of cream and red roses from Maisie and turn my attention to Mom, my heart galloping faster than a racehorse sprinting across the finish line. I’m putting on a brave face, for me as much as them, but inside, I’m scared of what’s ahead of me.

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