Chapter 8

I haven’t seen my husband for days. He’s kept his distance, holed up in his home office, ever since he chased me into the library and left me unsatisfied and enraged. I should be grateful—I am grateful—but I’m also bored, having searched every inch of his house for something to use against him. Some kind of clue about what happened to my father. I haven’t seen or heard from Lauren.

“Do I dare ask what you’re doing in Mr. Delacroix’s bedroom?” his secretary, Miss Sanders, asks from the doorway. “You know it’s out of bounds.”

I keep dusting itching powder over his branded underwear. “Oh, I almost forgot my life is a Beauty and the Beast retelling.”

She suppresses a smile. Miss Sanders is actually nice and always immaculately dressed in pencil skirts and matching blouses. “What trouble do you intend to stir today except for making your husband itch?”

Humming, I shut the drawer and spin around in my new Louboutins. “I heard from a fly that he has an important meeting tomorrow about a weapon delivery. According to sources, the Bishop will have everyone’s heads if it falls through.”

“So not only are you eavesdropping, but you also thought you’d make him itch.” She fails to suppress her smile. “You’re on a mission to drive him insane.”

I roll my eyes. “He trapped me in his gilded cage. What does he expect?” Something occurs to me, and I turn my body toward her, feeling strangely fidgety. “Have you and Mr. Delacroix…?” My cheeks heat, but I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

“I’m his secretary,” she responds, unable to meet my gaze.

Silence speaks louder than words. My chest tightens, so I clear my throat and breeze past her, handing her the itching powder.

Of course, Darian has slept with her. It’s not like he’s a virgin. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my high heels click on the floor, but the unpleasant sensation clings like a cheap perfume.

I need a plan; I can’t stay imprisoned in Darian’s luxury mansion forever. Why am I even here? He doesn’t like me and doesn’t strike me as a man who needs my fortune. He’s already one of the richest men on the planet. So why marry me? What does he get out of it except for my father’s money and a high-maintenance wife who hates him? It doesn’t sound like a fair trade when plenty of influential families have unwed daughters he can pick and choose from.

I accepted the marriage because I had no choice if I wanted Lauren to live. I’ve heard of the initiation games they play at the Reckoning. Join or die. If you choose to join, you have to play a game. Sometimes, one that’s impossible to win. Delacroix set out his terms. Marry him or die.

What other choice did I have? I want him gone, but I can’t kill him if I’m dead. No, this was a good outcome, even if it’s a struggle not to strangle him every time I lay eyes on his indifferent face. Keep your enemies close.

I draw to a halt when voices drift from his office. The door is cracked open to reveal Darian seated behind his desk, looking regal and formidable. He has an air about him that makes grown men quake in their boots. Behind him, two Pawns stand guard.

Scanning the corridor, I inch closer, careful not to let my heels click on the floor. Darian listens to the blabbering man across from him, but his attention is elsewhere. He fingers a gun on the desk, while the men behind him hover like statues.

“Please,” Darian’s guest pleads, loosening his collar, sweat beading on his shiny forehead. “I’ll get you the money by Wednesday. I just need a few days’ extension.”

“I don’t offer second chances, Mr. Gorey. You knew my terms and conditions. You will deliver the money and the thirty percent interest rate by five p.m. tonight, or I’ll see to it that your limbless torso is gifted to your wife.”

“Thirty percent?” the man chokes out, and from my hiding spot, I see him lean forward in his seat. “The interest rate was twenty percent.”

“You inconvenienced me, Mr. Gorey. Now it’s thirty.” He collects the gun, kicks his feet up on the desk, and inspects the weapon. “You can leave now. We’re done here.”

“But Mr. Delacroix, with all due respect, I can’t possibly… I don’t have the money right now.”

Darian hums, placing a silencer on the gun. “That’s a shame.” Extending his arm, he plants a bullet between his guest’s eyebrows, and I fall back with a gasp, barely slamming my hand on my mouth in time to silence the sound.

Darian puts the gun on the table, calm and collected. “Did you seek me out because you miss me, Mrs. Delacroix, or are you here to tell me that you set the kitchen on fire?”

My heart gallops wildly. I’m still breathing hard.

“I don’t have all day.”

I lower my hand from my mouth and brush my hair out of my eyes, trying to steady my trembling. Darian is waiting for me to enter, so I steel my spine and tip my chin.

The moment the door creaks open, he leans back on his royal throne, hands interlaced, and lets his eyes travel down my body and back.

I’ve seen dead people before, but I still break out into a cold sweat at the sight of the blood trickling from the bullseye between the slumped dead man’s eyebrows. My new husband is ruthless.

“You haven’t cooked since you entered my home, so I doubt you set the kitchen on fire. What can I do for you?”

I stop beside the corpse, clenching and unclenching my hands. “I want to see Lauren.”

“That’s out of the question.” He gestures to the Pawns. “Take him away.”

“Why won’t you let me see her?” I ask when the guards remove the bleeding body.

“Hmm, let me see.” He counts on his fingers. “So far, you’ve trashed most of my very expensive art collection, thrown my books, set fire to the curtains in the ballroom because you wanted to let in the daylight, and hurled more items at me than I can count.”

Despite my previous shock, I cross my arms over my chest and pop my hip. “Are we playing tit-for-tat? You murdered my friends, so the least you deserve is a few damaged paintings and maybe a broken nose.”

“Not the nose,” Sinclair says from the doorway, entering with an obnoxiously big smile. “Hello, troublemaker.” Sauntering past me, he flops onto the chair across the desk.

Darian glares at him, but he pays him no heed. Instead, he flashes another smile at me and says, “Why don’t you make yourself useful, sweetheart, and pour us whiskey.”

I flip him off. At the same time, Darian says, “Smile at my wife one more time, and I’ll rearrange your smug face. She’s not the fucking help. Pour your own drink.”

Sinclair turns his attention to me and jabs his thumb in Darian’s direction. “Please tell me you’ve fed him the cream, at least.”

That’s my cue to leave. I lift my chin. “The only cream I’ll ever let my dear husband come near is the curdled, out-of-date one in the fridge.” I pivot on my heel, my skirt flaring around my thighs, and Sinclair’s laughter follows me through the hallways as I stomp to my bedroom.

I need to get hold of Lauren somehow. Make sure she’s okay. But how? My husband is as agreeable as a sour lemon. Unfortunately, I can’t murder him in his sleep because of his threat about what would happen to my friend. Such a shame. I’d love to put a pillow over his face.