Page 10 of The Devil's Torment

Dad grimaces. “Nicholas. Don’t make this any harder on the girl than it needs to be. She’s lost her only sister. She’s grieving. Have some empathy.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Dad chuckles, shaking his head. “You always were the stubborn one. Well, you and Alexander. It’s a tie for first place.”

I laugh because it’s true, but in fairness, it’s a De Vil trait. My other siblings aren’t far behind in the stubborn stakes.

“At least she’ll have Imogen to bitch and whine to.”

“Nicholas.” Dad’s tone holds a warning that he’s edging toward the end of his patience.

I hold up my hands. “Fine. Fine. I’ll see what I can do to explain to her this isn’t the life sentence she’ll undoubtedly believe that it is.”

He nods in agreement as if it’s that simple. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that it’ll take a miracle to convince Victoria that marrying me is anything more than her worst fucking nightmare.

Until, that is, I put my plan into action. And the best part? She won’t even see it coming.

ChapterFive

VICKY

Yesterday marked the seventh day of my incarceration. If I was a teenager, I’d call it “being grounded” but as I’m twenty-three, that sounds ridiculous. I’m sure people who don’t move in the same circles as I do would think a woman of my age allowing her parents to ground her was not only lame but weak.

That’s because they don’t understand my world.

It’s part of the reason those of our ilk tend to flock together. It’s simply not done to defy one’s parents, let alone givethemost powerful family in the country a piece of my mind, especially in front of five hundred gawking spectators. Basically, calling Nicholas De Vil a murderer at Beth’s funeral was stepping way, way,wayoutside the bounds of acceptability, yet if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

My parents have hardly spoken to me since we arrived home after Beth’s funeral. My father told me he was ashamed of my behavior and to get out of his sight, while Mum played the disappointment card. Funny, isn’t it, how a parent can yell and scream and throw things, yet when they pull out that horrible word “disappointed,” it cuts through you like a newly sharpened scalpel through a single sheet of paper?

Don’t get me wrong. My parents aren’t bad people, but I am the less favored child. The black sheep, the disobedient one, the opinionated one. The one who isn’t Beth. Growing up, I lost count of the number of times my mother would trot out the “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” line.

I won’t lie. It hurt. Every fucking time. But as the years passed, I learned to hide how much it smarted knowing I was second best. Yet the unfair comparison only made me love Beth more. She wasgoodright down to her bone marrow. Kind, loving, and funny in her uniquely quiet and unassuming way.

Another rush of tears comes at me too fast to stop them. I let them fall, surprised I still have any left considering I’ve cried myself to sleep every night since she died. I’m tough, but Beth was my weakness, and without her I feel adrift in a stormy sea with no land in sight.

I’m not averse to spending time alone, but Dad confiscated my phone and my laptop. I’ve no idea if my friends have tried to contact me, nor if he’s replied in my place to let them know I’m alive and kicking. At least he didn’t confiscate my books. I’ve occupied myself by catching up on the long list of novels I keep meaning to dive into but never find the time.

Losing access to my laptop is a bit of a kicker, though. I’ve recently started an interior design business, and while I haven’t landed any clients yet, I could have spent the time refining my website and following up on a lead from my best friend Eloise's dad. It’s nepotism, I guess, but a girl’s got to take what she can get when starting out, and I’m not too proud to accept a leg up.

The door to my bedroom opens, and Dad enters without knocking. I push myself upright from where I’d been lounging on the bed, silently hope this is it. Release day.

“Hi, Dad.” I give him a bright smile, making sure there isn’t an ounce of rebellion in my voice or expression, although I nearly fuck it up when I add, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Fortunately, Dad doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “Can you come downstairs, please? Your mother and I need to speak with you.”

Glad to leave these four walls, I jump off the bed. “Sure. Everything okay?”

He hesitates before he answers. “Couldn’t be better.”

Trekking after him, I plod down the stairs and into the living room. Mum is sitting primly on the edge of the sofa, her smile tight, tension in her jaw. I frown, my gaze volleying between my parents. Both seem on edge, come to think of it.

Squinting at them, I plant my hands on my hips. “What’s going on?”

“Sit down.” My father’s tone brooks no argument.

I plunk on the couch next to Mum. Something’s off. I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt while Dad paces in front of the fireplace.

“I’ve been speaking with Charles De Vil.”

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