Page 19 of Firethorne
“I think my mental capacity can cope with that,” I joked, and I heard her laugh quietly as I made my way out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Despite it being early in the morning, the house was dark and foreboding. The corridor I walked down was dimly lit with mahogany wood panels on the walls, and dark, ornate ceilings. Large windows let in light, but even they seemed to dim in the shadowed grandeur of this gothic mansion.
I reached the staircase, and with each step I took on my way to the second floor, I heard a sinister creak, as if it was groaning with age. I kept a tight grip on the tray as I made my ascent, navigating my way to the floor I needed.
Once there, I turned right, walking past the elegant sconces set in the walls either side of me, with dimly lit lamps. My heart was beating out of my chest, even though it was such a simple task. Take the tray in, ask Mr Firethorne if he wanted me to serve the drinks, then leave. It wasn’t rocket science. But still, I felt my nerves spike as I approached the end of the corridor.
Once I reached the door to his office, I stopped, balancing the tray on one hand as I knocked on the door. I could hear deep, muffled voices coming from inside, but upon hearing my knock, a loud voice called out for me to enter.
I turned the door handle, and let myself into the room, faltering a little when I saw who sat there.
Mr Firethorne was behind a large mahogany desk, smoking a cigar. His eyes fixed on the man sitting opposite him as they exchanged small talk. That man was middle-aged and balding. He was someone I’d never seen before. But to the left of them, sitting with his feet stretched out and looking as smug as anything, was Damien.
I took a breath, trying to keep my nerves in check.
I didn’t want him to know he was getting to me, so I ignored him, walking forward as the door closed behind me. I placed the tray on a side table against the wall and started to arrange the cups, ready to pour the coffee.
“Thank you, Maya,” Mr Firethorne announced.
I turned to face him, but he didn’t break eye contact with his guest to look at me.
“Would you like me to serve the coffee?” I asked, my voice steady and confident.
I felt the bald man shift in his seat to face me, and the heat of his stare made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“You can service me if you like,” he said, lounging in his seat with his legs spread wide in that way that some men do to make themselves feel important. And even though ripples of revulsion pulsed through me, I kept my cool and smiled sweetly.
“What would you like, Sir?”
He huffed, smirking at some inner joke he’d amused himself with, then tapped the desk in front of him and said, “Coffee. Cream, two sugars.”
I poured the coffee into a cup, added the cream and sugar and carried the cup and saucer over to the desk, placing it down gently in front of him. I was just about to ask Mr Firethorne what he’d like when I felt a rough, calloused hand touch my leg and run slowly up my thigh. A spike of dread, nausea and repulsion coursed through me, and I froze. Part of me wanted to vomit, and the other half wanted to smack him for touching me. I decided to opt for the latter and I spun around, ready to slap the man’s face.
But I was too late.
Another hand had beaten me to it.
I peered down in disbelief at where Damien’s fist was wrapped tightly around the man’s wrist, and I watched dumbfounded as he yanked his hand away from my leg with a viciousness that he then injected into his voice as he spoke.
“We don’t behave like that here,” Damien hissed through his teeth. “We’re not fucking animals. You need to learn some fucking manners.”
Damien was seething, his face growing red as he clenched his jaw angrily. But across the desk, the elder Mr Firethorne let out a long and weary sigh. And he tapped his fingers on the desk as if what he was witnessing was a tedious waste of time for him. Mr Firethorne obviously didn’t think his client was an animal, like Damien suggested.
I stood for a moment, unsure what to do or say. I didn’t know how to play this. I just wanted to leave.
I took a step back, and Mr Firethorne huffed again. Then, in a low, almost bored tone, he said, “You can let him go now, Damien. I’m sure Edward will behave himself. It was just a touch. A mistake. Isn’t that right, Edward?”
I watched as Damien glared at Edward, his nostrils flaring as he breathed deeply, and part of me thought he might ignore his father. But after a beat, he released his wrist, then sat back in his chair. But his eyes pierced through Edward like he wanted him to drop down dead.
Edward, on the other hand, sneered back at Damien. “I don’t make mistakes,” he hissed. Then he turned his attention to me, looking me up and down like he had every intention of touching me again, and no one was going to stop him. “But I’d make all the mistakes in the world if she was who I was making them with.”
He made me feel sick.
And I had no doubt he meant every word he said.
I wanted to get out of here.
I cleared my throat, standing taller, ready to ask Mr Firethorne if he wanted me to pour him a drink, even though I wanted to tip the contents of the coffee pot into Edward’s vile lap. But for some reason, I failed miserably at finding my voice.
