Chapter Seven
Devinstumbledintohisapartment above the Black Heart, knocking over a side table and sending a stack of letters flying through the foyer. He didn’t even have the excuse of alcohol. At present, he was miserably sober.
He retreated to his apartment in the Fells, craving familiar walls instead of lingering reminders of life’s cruel tragedies. Tonight held enough cruel tragedies to contend with.
It was a bachelor’s apartment, but large and expensive. The only personal touch he added among the pre-furnished fixtures aside from a bed, were special curtains to block out the sun. Servants were instructed to open them each dusk, as opposed to dawn.
He meandered toward the sitting room, not bothering to fiddle with the lanterns, and relying on the moon and muscle memory. It would be daylight soon. He could sense the sun pushing the moon from the sky. He needed a drink.
Tonight, had been hell. Crawling over the arm of a sofa with a groan, his face sank into the soft cushions, and he reached forone of the bottles that encircled the couch like a liquor moat. The staff was instructed to never move his collection, as he liked to have bottles on hand for nights just like this. His fingers closed around the cool glass, and he pulled it to his lips.
Fuck. Empty.
He tossed it to the carpet, and it rolled with dull thuds as he reached for another. Empty. Another. Empty.
He clawed at his face and hair, messing up his valet’s attempt to make him presentable. It was laughable that he thought he could do this. And though he had plenty to worry about, it was not Graves’s inevitable retaliation that haunted him just now.
Miranda.
Their embrace was supposed to be a chaste show to keep their true motives secret. Miranda was a lady! He would have bet his club that she was not the sort to explore passionate embraces with men in dark corners. All evidence suggested she was an innocent, a maiden. Yet, she’d kissed with the finesse of a savant, and he’d reacted like a virgin teenager necking for the first time.
The cynic in him boasted that working with her had been a mistake from the beginning. If he thought he was doomed after dancing with her, kissing her was a dive into insanity from which he couldn’t charm his way out. Yet, what did he hope would come of continuing his acquaintance with her? He had only to listen to her father to understand his place in her world.
Lord Wilde had rambled on about honor and marriage and how dare he take liberties with his daughter. Devin had listened. Acknowledged the man’s anger. Apologized. Assured him he would never see Miranda again. All empty platitudes. He was numb to the bombardment of emotions at that point.
But it had made clear one thing. He was not cut out for Miranda’s world and he had no place in it.
Don’t kid yourself.Youdon’t think you’re good enough for her.
Devin stared into the harsh shadows of his apartment. None of this mattered. The kiss was over. There was no need to muse over what-ifs. Miranda was gone, her father would never let her leave the house after this. She was better off.Hemay have slipped into a new tier of hell, but at least she would be okay.
Would she be okay? His thoughts spiraled to the look on Miranda’s face while Graves had spoken of their past. Miranda, the confident and capable woman he knew, shrank to a stony girl desperately trying to hide her fear and shame.
It had taken every single shred of self-control he possessed to keep from tearing Graves apart as he listened to him carefully craft his words to threaten and sting.
Devin shifted, trying to get comfortable despite his legs still stuck up at an odd angle on the arm of the too-small-for-him-couch. With effort, he managed to flip onto his back, which was better, and Miranda returned once again as he closed his eyes.
This time the feel of her hands on him, pulling at his hair, her lips so willing and eager, how he had felt her in parts of his soul he’d thought locked away and crushed under the cruelty of the world.
He opened his eyes again. There was little use in pretending he’d ever have a moment’s peace now, like he wouldn’t see her every time he closed his eyes. He tasted her lips, knew the sounds she made when lost in pleasure, and no dream could compensate.
Was she home now? In her room, maybe, just as tortured and lost as he was?
Devin sat up and attempted to kick one of the bottles. He missed and the bottle merely tipped with an unsatisfying thud.
What was he even hoping for? That she’d look past his flaws enough to bed him? Is that really all he wanted from her? Physical satisfaction and then, what, he’d go back to pretendingthat she’d never strolled into his club and challenged the very fragile fabric of his reality?
Miranda is not coming back.
“I bloody know that,” he snapped at the darkness.
This is why he avoided attachment. This is why he kept everyone at a distance. Or loss was inevitable.
His mother. Lost to despair and rejection while their meager loft literally poisoned her over the last seventeen years of her life. Trace exposure to iron had weakened her to illness. Devin might have realized sooner, but he wasn’t affected by iron.
His fellow soldiers when Graves had ordered they retreat. They’d been outnumbered, trying to hold their position when Graves gave the command to run. Despite having better cover holding their position, Graves ordered them to surround him while he made a break for it. A barricade of bodies.
Devin had slipped in his friend’s blood pooling on the grass. Felt it spray on his face as another fell. Heard their cries as they succumbed to injuries in the midst of the enemy with nowhere to turn. Graves had doomed them all.
