Page 8 of The Devil's Pawn

“How are you doing?” Her kindness is both unexpected and enormously welcome. I have to blink back a raft of tears that threaten to pour down my cheeks, and I’m not even that much of a crier. It’s the shock, that’s all. It’s all happened so fast, and I didn’t get time to prepare.

“I’m… okay.” I grimace. “It’s not as if I didn’t know this was coming.” Just not on the same day I graduated.

“Knowing something in the abstract,” she circles her hand in the air, “and having it actually happen to you are two completely different things. You’re allowed to feel angry, upset, confused, irritated, or any other emotion that bubblesup inside you.” She pops another olive into her mouth before tossing the cocktail stick onto the coffee table. “Hell, I know when my time comes, I’ll have all those feelings and more.”

“Will it? Come for you, I mean? I heard you guys talking earlier, and it sounded as if your elder brothers might fall on their swords, so to speak.”

“Oh, it’ll come. Arranged marriages aren’t only common in my family, they’re the only way any of us marry. It’s the way things are. I’m okay with it, depending on who Dad picks.”

She twists her lips to one side, her acceptance something to admire, if not one I mean to adopt. I have no intentions of sitting idly by and accepting my fate. Three months. That’s my target. If he doesn’t ask for a divorce by then… I’m not sure what I’ll do. Beg Zenith for an extension maybe? Or search around for a company with similar values and a project portfolio aimed at improving our world, not destroying it, as a lot of companies seem hell bent on doing.

“My advice, for what it’s worth, is to make a life for yourself here that’s more than your place as Alexander’s wife. Take walks in the countryside, bird watch, learn archery, photography, go horse-riding.”

It’s hard to ignore the fact she doesn’t say create a social circle, but I park that for now and focus on the first piece of good news I’ve had since I arrived. “You have horses?” Along with my love of architecture and drawing, horses are my jam. I used to ride a lot when I was younger, although I haven’t for a while. College work and socializing have kept me pretty busy.

“Oh, yeah. Lots. Dad owns several racehorses, although we have some regular horses, too. We all love to ride. I first got on a horse when I was…”—she wrinkles her nose—“two or three, maybe. Mum taught me.” Pain washes across her face, and she looks away, takes a few seconds to collect herself, then returns her attention to me. “Do you ride?”

I nod, taking her lead that talking about her mom is painful and not a subject she wants to discuss. “It’s been a while, and I can’t ride English style, but I’ve always loved horses, and they love me.”

“You should have Alexander teach you.”

I can’t help the laugh that climbs up my throat. “I’ll have to get him to talk to me first.”

She shakes her head. “My brother is?—”

“Don’t say complicated. That’s what assholes use as a get out of jail free card.”

A grin spreads across her face. “You’re going to make a fine match for my brother, Imogen, even if you don’t yet realize it. No, what I was about to say was he has his demons like many of us. Just give him a chance to show you the real him.” I stay silent, and she chuckles. “Fair point, considering how he’s behaved since you got here.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Your silence said it all.” She yawns, stretching her arms overhead. “Think it’s time for me to turn in.” Unexpectedly, she kisses me on the cheek and briefly hugs me. “Welcome to the family, Imogen.”

Left alone, I stare into the distance. Maybe it won’t be quite so bad being here after all. The rest of the De Vil family seems nice, although all the guys are a little intense. Except maybe Tobias. He’s… different. And Saskia is lovely.

The onset of a headache makes me finally get up. I need sleep, and I won’t get it lying here all night. I hope I can find my way back to our suite. The hallways are dimly lit, but there’s enough illumination for me to see where I’m going. IfI remember correctly, I took a left, then a right, and one flight of stairs to get here, so if I do that in reverse, I should be okay. That will bring me to the correct floor, at least. From there, I should be able to find our rooms.

Before I get to the stairs, though, another light and ajar door piques my interest. I peer inside to what looks like an office. Alexander is sitting behind an imposing desk, his head bent, a pen in his left hand flying over the pages. Seconds later, he sets down the pen and leans back in his chair. Blowing out a steady stream of air, he closes the book, picks it up, and slides it onto a shelf behind him, which houses rows upon rows of identical books. Locking the cabinet, he returns to his seat and opens a laptop.

Is that…? Does…? Does hejournal?

I’ve dabbled with journaling myself, but I can’t say I’m committed to the cause. But Alexander most definitely is if the sheer number of identical notebooks is anything to go by. Goodness, he must have been journaling for years and years to fill that many pages. Maybe there is more to this guy than just a pretty face and a chilly demeanor. If he journals then he must have some feelings, and that’s perhaps his way of expressing them.

“Is voyeurism a kink of yours, Imogen?” His unexpected question startles me. I step back, out of sight, even though it’s too late for me to hide. Holding my breath, I wait for him to say something else, but he’s silent. I creep forward again, peering around the door. He lifts his head, one eyebrow arched. “Well?”

“No… I mean… I didn’t mean to. I was on my way to bed.”

“Then, I suggest you continue.” He returns his attention to his laptop.

I sigh, then push open the door fully. “Look, Alexander. You’re clearly not happy about this wedding, and neither am I. There isn’t anything we can do about it, though, is there? So, what do you say to some kind of truce?”

“I wasn’t aware we were at war,” he replies in that clipped English tone of his.

There’s something about that accent that makes me feel as if I’m being scolded, and it irritates me enough that I fist my hands. Squaring my shoulders, I draw myself up to my full five feet eight inches.

“Well, you’re doing a mighty fine job of firing missiles.”

A muscle feathers his cheek, and his amber eyes stare at me for a few seconds. They’re so entrancing that I stare right back. He’s the only one of his family to have that color of eyes. The rest are shades of brown, like his father’s. Alexander must get his eye color from his mother.

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