Page 6 of Firethorne
Maybe we weren’t going to get the warm welcome my father had hoped for.
The welcome that I knew was probably wishful thinking on his part.
Trust no one.
The driver cut the engine, removed his gloves, draped them over the steering wheel, and then opened his door. We opened ours too, and I stepped out, following the driver to the rear of the car, watching as he went to lift out our cases from the boot. I made a grab for mine at the same time as him, and his cold, callused hand pushed mine away as he scowled at me.
“I can carry my own stuff in,” I griped, expecting him to let it go, but he didn’t.
Instead, he snapped, “It’s my job,” before lifting the two pitiful suitcases we had with us out of the boot. All the time, he stared down at me with a stony expression that showed he wasn’t all that impressed with the newly hired help he’d brought to Firethorne tonight.
I spun on my heels as he pushed past me and walked up the steps. One deep breath in and another out, and then I followed him, my eyes boring into his back, hoping he’d trip over as my father kept in step beside me, huffing and puffing his way up the steps.
The driver pushed open the doors of the mansion and a waft of warm air hit us.
I was surprised.
I’d expected the interior to be as cold and foreboding as it was on the outside.
But as we stepped into the grand entrance, with its sweeping staircase, wood-panelled walls, and huge stained-glass windows, I gave an involuntary shiver. Despite the initial comforting warmth, I felt a chill when I saw the tall, menacing figure that waited for us at the foot of the stairs.
Chapter Four
The Firethornes
Damien, Lysander, and Miriam
“It looks like your new pets are here,” Miriam purred as she stood in front of the drawing room window in her cream, tightly fitted, designer pantsuit.
Her long blonde hair flowed down her back, glistening as it reflected the light from the fireplace. There wasn’t a hair out of place because that was who Miriam was, what she wanted the world to see... outward perfection. The inside, however, was a different matter entirely.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the windowsill and gave a quiet gasp of anticipation as the car headlights shone in the distance, lighting up the dark grounds of the estate. Then, she tilted her hips seductively and cocked her head to the side as she hummed in approval, watching those headlights creep closer.
Miriam was easy to please.
Just like a cat when you give it a ball of wool to keep it amused. She couldn’t wait to start batting and clawing away at the new playthings making their way to the front door.
“I wonder how long these ones will last?” she remarked, and then whipped her head around with a look of disgust as she heard a resounding snort. “What?” she chided. “Like you’re any good at keeping staff. Apart from your father’s lacky, Beresford, who’s driving that car, and Mrs Richardson, who cooks your meals every day, you haven’t managed to hold onto a single member of staff for longer than a month.” She turned back to focus on the impending arrival. “Maybe you’re both losing your touch.”
“Or maybe we just don’t give a shit and prefer to keep our staff numbers small. Exclusive. Like that club you got thrown out of last weekend,” Damien remarked, his demeanour as dark as his jet-black hair, his attitude as cutting as the sour look he always had on his face. He didn’t even glance up from the book he was reading as he spoke.
Miriam decided to ignore his cutting remark and barked back, “Or,Damien dear, your father is a tight-ass who doesn’t pay well enough.”
“That too.” He shrugged nonchalantly.
She spun around, turning her back to the window so she could face the room head-on with her killer smirk as she said, “Knowing how fussy my two darling cousins are, how everything has to be just right, I’d have thought you’d have pestered daddy dearest to dig a little deeper into his pockets to pay for decent staff. It’s not fair to expect Mrs Richardson to pander to your every whim, Damien. Or to clean up all your shit, Lysander. Not to mention the complete mess that seems to follow you both around.”
Her narrowed, accusatory stare flickered from her dark, brooding cousin, Damien, to the one who lived his life with sunshine smiles as bright as the blond hair on his head.
Lysander.
The eldest son of Nicholas Firethorne. The one she was always drawn to. But they were both hers, despite what Damien might say to the contrary. Her dark and light angels... or should that be demons?
She took a few steps forward and reached out a hand to stroke Lysander’s cheek. “For such pretty boys, I’d have expected you to pile on the charm and make them stay. All those pretty girls right under your roof, ready to do whatever you want.” She dropped her arm dramatically and sighed. “But no.” She paused, then gave a low chuckle and grinned wickedly. “Scrap that, I’m not surprised at all that they left. In fact, it’s a wonder they lasted as long as they did with you scowling at them from the shadows, Damien, using your sharp tongue to nick them every chance you got. And you, Lysander, with your constant demands and over-inflated?—”
“I don’t havedemands,” Lysander butted in, trying to argue back. “We all have standards here, and mine are no different to both of yours. Don’t drag me into your arguments, Miriam.”
“Who’s arguing?” she replied with a sickly-sweet grin. “All I’m saying is, everyone has their price, but being in your company for any length of time was obviously too high a price for them to pay. My dark and dirty princes of Firethorne.” She winked as Lysander scoffed and glowered at her.
