Page 9 of Firethorne
Miriam let out a low chuckle. “Oh, Lysander. Always so confident, so self-assured.” And she moved to stand in front of the roaring fire, warming her hands as she said, “The fire in Firethorne. I like it. I don’t know how much I believe it, but I like it.”
“Seeing is believing, cousin, and when I win this bet, you’ll do more than like it.”
The flames from the fire reflected a luminous glow on Miriam’s conniving, evil grin. A grin that showed she was more than ready for the wicked games that were about to begin.
But not all of them were as excited as she was.
Damien frowned, a dark, brooding glare painted on his face as he said, “If I wanted to fuck the hired help, I would. But I don’t want to. You can count me out of this one.”
Miriam cocked her eyebrow in surprise. “Throwing in the towel so easily, Damien? What happened to your legendary fighting spirit?”
“I’m saving it for a fight that’s actually worth winning.”
Miriam huffed, but her eyes glowed with wicked intent. “And being crowned the best Firethorne isn’t worth it? Well, if you change your mind, let us know.”
“I already have that crown, and I won’t change my mind.”
“He will,” Lysander butted in. “I give him a day.”
“Whatever,” Miriam purred, dismissing them as she flicked her hand and sauntered across the room. “I say the bet stands for both of you. For all of us, in fact.” As she reached the door,she called out, “Come on... let’s go out there and meet our new guests. The sooner we start this, the sooner I can prove who’s the best.”
“Which is me,” Lysander replied, making his way across the room to join her.
“In your dreams.” Miriam cackled, then added, “Wouldn’t it be something, if I managed to beat you both?” She lifted her chin in defiance, and strolled through the door to head out, calling over her shoulder, “May the best man win... or should I say... the best woman.”
Chapter Five
Maya
“Itrust you had a pleasant journey.”
The man standing at the foot of the dark, sweeping staircase in the foyer didn’t make any effort to come to us, or give us any kind of warm or heartfelt greeting. All he offered were blandly spoken words as he watched us with an unapproving eye. He stood tall. Eerily menacing, some might say. Quietly studying us like we were curiosities. He was keeping his distance, observing everything as we walked into the centre of the foyer.
He was an older man, probably in his late forties, or early fifties. His blond hair was thinning in places, but you could tell from his chiselled, strong jawline and pronounced cheekbones that he’d been attractive once upon a time. He wore a black suit, his face stony and expressionless as the driver placed our cases on the floor beside us and took a step back.
“Thank you, Beresford,” the man said, and I turned to see the driver, who’d regarded us with such disdain, bow in acknowledgment.
I could feel the nervous energy radiating from my father beside me, and he stepped forward, offering his hand to this stranger in a jovial manner that was in stark contrast to the chilly reception and dark, gothic surroundings where we stood.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Sir,” my father gushed. But the‘Sir’in question, Mr Firethorne, I presumed, just stared at my father’s hand, like taking it was the last thing he intended to do, and he couldn’t quite believe the audacity of my father in offering it to him in the first place.
“Yes, quite,” he replied abruptly, and left my father to drop his hand when he realised a handshake wasn’t going to materialise.
I wasn’t all that thrilled to be here, a fact I was struggling to keep from the world around me as my brow furrowed and my jaw ticked despite myself. I wanted to be supportive, but I couldn’t deny that my father had made a rash decision in coming here, taking up this position in an effort to claw his way back to the polite society he loved so much. A society I wasn’t all that keen to rejoin, if I was being completely honest. But right then, I was beyond furious at the audacity of this stuck-up asshole for being so bloody rude to him. Mansion or not, who the fuck did he think he was?
I was about to make a cutting, snide remark about his lack of manners when my father, no doubt guessing what’d happen next, blurted out, “I can’t thank you enough, Sir, for giving me... I mean us... this opportunity.” My father turned to look at me, a pleading promise whispering in his eyes as he added, “Isn’t that right, Maya?”
My mouth opened and closed as I tried to conjure up the words to express what I felt in that moment, without upsetting my father or getting us kicked out of the house before we’d even started.
But I didn’t have to worry.
Mr Firethorne beat me to it.
“Ah, yes. Thedaughter,” he replied, his voice dripping with condescension.
His dark, piercing eyes fell on me, and I began to retreat into myself, feeling a little smaller. So, I straightened my back in an effort to counteract the effect. I wasn’t going to be belittled. Not by anyone.
“She’s exactly as you said she would be,” he added, and an icy chill sliced through me as he looked me up and down.
