Page 3 of Greed: The Savage
“You always were befitting your name, Snap,” he drawled in what was the closest he ever came to actual humor. “You know you’re not always in trouble. I don’t even think you could find it with a map with a magnifying glass,” he said. “You’re good, Snap. You’re good at what you do. It’s why you deserve a promotion.”
What?
“A promotion?” she repeated dumbly.
“You’ve got too much skill to be dressing ladies.”
Addien opened her mouth, but he anticipated her next words.
“You do a fine job of it, Snap. But you’ve got an eye for danger. You can spot it. You can sense it, and you’re strong. Not afraid of any person.”
That wasn’t true. There was one man who’d set terror loose in her body, and even dead, serving his penance in hell, his ghost still had the ability to haunt her.
Taking an inhale from his cheroot, Dynevor stared at her.
This was where she was supposed to speak.
Anyone else would’ve jumped for joy at an advancement in one’s station. Not Addien.
As one who dressed the patronesses here at the Devil’s Den, the stakes were low. And for someone like her, who craved security, the last thing she wanted was an elevated position at the club.
When all was said and done, the greater one’s position, the more attention one drew. It didn’t take much to pick a fine gown out for some lady. In a higher position, any mistake made could cost Addien her place at the Devil’s Den.
Still, Addien couldn’t find words.
Dynevor smoothly exhaled another puff of white smoke. “It’s been a long time coming,” he said. “I’ve been searching for the right replacement for you, and I finally found the one.” His face shadowed with anger. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t the circumstances I’d have preferred to find out a shortfall with the club.”
“The circumstances?”
Dynevor flicked the excess ashes from his cheroot into a small, empty silver plate. “Wakefield’s new countess.”
Ah, yes. As if she could forget. The current Lady Wakefield, wed to one of the proprietors, had been sold against her will for an auction at the Devil’s Den. It was that kind of error which had the potential to take down a seedy gaming hell—even one run by a future marquess.
“I’m pulling you from the floors starting today.”
He was talking, but her thoughts were spinning as she tried to inject a word in every other statement he uttered. Only a bit of what he said penetrated her careening thoughts.
“…higher pay…”
“…better hours…”
“…close new rooms…”
At some point, Addien registered he’d stopped speaking and stared at her.
“I don’t want any of that,” she blurted with her usual honesty. She’d never been able to shut her mouth.
The earl sat back in his chair and looped his left ankle across his right knee. He took another draw of his cheroot.
Addien wrinkled her nose. She knew what was expected of her here. She didn’t even bother to muster a false face, not even for the head of the club.
“I don’t want it,” she said shaking her head. “Thanks, but no thanks, Dynevor.”
Addien stood.
“Sit your arse down, Snap.”
She instantly fell back into her chair, but did so with a mutinous set to her lips and a glower for the all-powerful proprietor.
