Page 115 of The Devil's Torment

“Not like this. Not until you tell us what you’re planning to do.”

“Kill. Him.”

“Xan.” Nicholas grips my upper arms, and my wife’s palm lands on my lower back, the heat from it bleeding through my jacket and shirt. “You need to talk to Dad.”

“Dad? That’s just it, Nicholas. He’s not my fucking father.”

“Yes, he is,” Imogen says. “Baby, he is. A father is more than DNA. Charles has been there for you your entire life.”

“Only because he doesn’t know the truth.” The bitterness in my voice tastes like ashes on my tongue, soot in my throat. “Once he does, he’ll see things differently.”

“He won’t,” Christian says. “Dad wouldn’t do that. You’re his son, his heir. He fucking adores you. Always has.”

Tobias nods. “Truth. I mean, I’m not bitter about it or anything.” He laughs. It’s textbook Tobias to try to bring humor to a highly charged situation, but he’s picked the wrong time.

I glare at him. “You think this is amusing, huh, Tobias? Fuck off.”

My genial brother—fuck, half-brother—doesn’t miss a beat. “Rail on me all you like. I’m happy to be your punching bag if that’s what you need. But for the love of God, give yourself a few moments to think this through. You’re the logical one. The unflappable one. I get it. You want George to pay, and he will. Believe me, that man will pay for what he did to our mother, but you have to talk to Dad first.”

Imogen moves into my sightline, and the minute I see the concern etched into every inch of her face, I deflate. My life might have been upended, and everything I’ve ever believed about who I am and where I came from crushed to dust, but she is real. Our baby is real and due any day now. My life with her is real and solid.

Like an open book, she reads my change in demeanor. She slides her arms around my neck and moves into my body, her pregnant belly pressing against me. The baby kicks, as though it, too, is letting me know everything will be okay.

My brothers are right; I have to talk to Dad, and before I say a word, I know it’ll be the hardest conversation I’ve ever had to have.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Imogen murmurs.

“No.” It’s better if I do this alone.

She releases me, then caresses my face. I capture her hand and hold it there for a few seconds. “We’re all here for you.”

I nod, words of gratitude sticking in my throat. I kiss my wife and place my palm on her baby bump. “Stay close. I need you.”

“I’ll be right here. I love you.”

My legs are like two blocks of lead as I make my way to Dad’s area of the house. Despite what I said back there, to me he is and always will be my father. The answer to the question I’m afraid to ask is whether he still thinks of me as his son once I share the truth of my birth. God, I hope so. Charles De Vil is someone I’ve looked up to my entire life, and I can’t bear the thought of him seeing me as less than.

He’s in his office, sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone. He motions to me, then points at the seat opposite his desk. My legs jiggle as I wait for him to finish his conversation, my gaze drawn to a picture on his desk of him and my mother. Dad swaps them out every few weeks, and this one is new. I reach for it and pick it up, tracing Mum’s face with my fingertip. I’d guess they’re in their early to mid-thirties in this photo. It’s taken outside, probably somewhere on the estate. Dad’s standing behind Mum, and he’s got his arms around her upper chest while she’s holding onto his forearm and smiling into the camera.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but your mum was pregnant with Saskia in that photo.”

I startle, lost enough in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard him end his phone call. I replace the photo on his desk.

“You both look happy.”

“We were. I spent eighteen wonderful years with your mother.”

“Not enough,” I murmur.

“No. Truthfully, eighty years wouldn’t have been enough. She was an incredible woman.”

He turns his gaze on the photo, and his eyes glaze over as though he’s lost in the memory of that day. After a few seconds, he blinks. Knitting his hands together, he rests them in his lap and leans back in his chair.

“What have you got there?” He gestures to the journal.

I grip the leather-bound book until my knuckles whiten and pray for the strength to see this through.

“It’s Mum’s.”

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