Page 26 of Firethorne
“Here you are,” Miriam purred as she found Damien sitting in a high wingback chair, well hidden in the recesses of the Firethorne library.
He’d chosen the space to avoid a meeting such as this, but luck wasn’t on his side today. The universe really was testing his patience. A fact he didn’t hide from his sour-looking face.
“Here I am, indeed. How lucky for me that you found me,” he replied, his tone jaded and laced with sarcasm, not once looking up from the book he was reading as Miriam glared at him expectantly.
“Why have you always got your head stuck in a book?” she fired back, sauntering over to sit in a chair opposite him, her high heels clicking on the polished wooden floor as she went.
“Because life is boring. And as for the people…” He deigned to glance up now, a blank, vacant look in his eyes as he observed her, then he went back to reading, as if to reinforce how tedious he found their exchange. “I find fictional characters far more complex and much more pleasing.”
“Having no luck with the newchallengethen?” Miriam was gleeful as she tried to tease him, but Damien had to care in order to actually be teased.
“There is no challenge,” he replied drolly. “I already told you. I don’t fuck the hired help.”
“He’s right,” Lysander announced confidently as he strode around the corner towards them. “There is no challenge. I’ve got this one in the bag.”
“You’re at the body bag stage already?” Damien cocked his brow and then sarcastically whispered to himself, “Like I said, breathing or not, you’re not fussy. You’ll take whatever you can get.”
“And I get what I want,” Lysander shot back. “The Firethorne charm never fails to win them over. Some of us have it by the bucket load, and some of us…” He pinned his stare on Damien, unable to hide the hatred in his gaze. “Only have half.”
The fact that Lysander despised his half-brother wasn’t a secret. But Damien didn’t care.
“The Firethorne charm,” Damien mused. “Something our father has always used to his full advantage. His bucket overflows.” He rested his arm on the side of his chair, his hand gripping his chin in thought. “Do you ever think there might be more clones of me out there, just biding their time, waiting for the opportunity to claim the Firethorne name?”
Lysander clenched his jaw, but Miriam interjected, “God forbid. We struggle to cope with one of you.”
Damien whipped his head around to stare at her.
“Why are you still here?” Damien snapped; his gaze full of fire. “Don’t you have some other poor sod to torture?”
“It’s your turn today,” she quipped, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “You’re the lucky one.”
“Your definition of lucky is somewhat distorted, cousin dearest,” Damien sneered.
“Then it’ll align with your whole world, Damien darling. Distorted is your middle name, after all.” Miriam smirked, feeling content that, in her mind, she’d won. Then she sighed dramatically. “I saw you in Uncle’s office, scaring the girl half to death. Whatever you did, Damien, it didn’t help your cause.”
“I already told you, I’m not competing in your petty games,” he replied plainly, his tone clipped and bored.
“Whatever,” Miriam replied with a flick of her hand. “And you, Lysander. I had such high hopes for you, inviting her up to your studio to show her your etchings.”
“She was upset, and I took care of her,” Lysander replied. “I fail to see how that was a loss in your eyes.”
Miriam gave a sly smirk. “Because she bailed on you, walking away like you’d shown her a dead corpse.”
“Sounds like an oxymoron to me,” Damien shot back. “Can a corpse be anything other than dead?”
“You two are the only morons around here,” Miriam hissed, clearly agitated. “But me? I’ve well and truly locked that shit down, and I think it’s time to move to phase two.”
“First, how exactly do you think you’ve locked anything down?” Lysander questioned as he leaned against a bookcase, folding his arms nonchalantly. “I was with her hours ago, and I think if anyone is winning at the moment, it’s me.”
“Oh, really?” Miriam questioned.
“Yes, really.” Lysander pushed himself off the bookcase to stand taller.
“That’s funny.” Miriam tapped her manicured nail on her chin in thought. “Because I’ve already given her my number and gained her trust. I’m the first one she’ll come running to when either one of you fucks up, which you will.”
“You gave her your number?” Lysander repeated, frowning.
“Yes, dummy. Engraved on a locket that I insisted she wears, even though the little weirdo said she doesn’t wear jewellery.”
