Page 21 of Wicked Believer
Those innocent doe-like eyes flick toward me. Like she expected something different. “I ... got caught up with something.”
My gaze tracks the less-than-subtle movement of her hand as she slips it behind her to smooth out her skirt. A pathetic attempt to hide it from me.
But already I’ve seen and sensed the damage. The flash of a freshly healed wound on her palm that, had she still been human, would have scarred deeply.
My jaw tightens.
Whatexactlyis my fiancée keeping from me?
I return to my seat. “Don’t let it happen again.”
At the reprimand, she goes rigid in her chair.
And that’s the exact moment I hear it. Her voice inside my head. Her thoughts suddenly open to me.
Or what?
My eyes widen, and I cough, sputtering on my sip of whisky.
Imani’s brow furrows in confusion. “Lucifer, are you ... okay?”
And no wonder. In all the years she’s known me, I’ve never once been this uncollected, this unhinged.
“Fine,” I mutter, swiftly shifting my attention back to where my fiancée sits before me.
Unaware that her bratty thoughts are now an open book.
AndIam her most eager reader.
Charlotte glances between us, her expression a little hurt as she says, “I thought it was going to be just the two of us tonight, considering I think we have some ...” She casts a sidelong glance at Imani, hesitating, like she’s uncertain how much she’s allowed to say. “Urgentfamilymatters to discuss. Something I think you might have forgotten to mention to me.”
My Father’s apocalypse, she means.
No doubt she overheard my Mother the other evening.
My Father’s apocalypse waits for no one, even me.
But I refuse for our lives to be interrupted by something as bloody trivial as His divine will.
To Imani’s credit, she doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m happy to do this later, if you’d rather—”
“No. Stay,” I order. “We’ll dine after.”
“Lucifer,” Imani says, questioning me.
But the look I give silences her. Even Imani knows when not to push me.
A trait my fiancée has yet to learn. Though she will.
Now that I’ve realized how thoroughly she can hurt me.
“Right,” Imani says, clearing her throat. “I’ll make it quick then.”
She reaches to the small stool one of the staff placed beside the table for her, where one of her Hermes purses and her portfolio wait. She retrieves the portfolio, a standard leather company issue, which naturally showcases Apollyon’s logo—a coiled serpent, prepared to strike—then flips it open, the hard angle of her jaw practically giving me the cut direct.
“Media coverage is looking surprisingly good after the Met Gala debacle. Our numbers recovered quickly. The riot at the funeral did us a favor. Bought sympathy. And the impressions on your socials are still holding steady, though Charlotte’s account growth outpaces yours by a mile, Lucifer.”
“He never posts.” Charlotte glances at me from beneath her long lashes like she means to defend me. “I’ve tried.” She smiles like the expression is meant to tease me.
