Devil's Sinner (Fallen Dynasty 3)

Jasper turned on his feet, ready to leave the room, and as he was about to leave, he turned around to look at me over his shoulder.

"For the record, Sir..." He hesitated, then finally spat out his true thoughts on the matter. "I think you're making a terrible mistake."

"For the record, Jasper," I growled in response. "I don't give a shit what you think."

He sighed before giving me a curt nod and shutting the door on his way out. I was left alone with my thoughts.

I disagreed with Jasper, obviously. I doubted he knew how important Violet was to me, had always been to me. He couldn't possibly understand that I had to get her back... no matter what the cost was.

The cravings to have her back, to run my fingertips along her pale skin, to hold her, were almost unbearable.

My head was swimming with possibilities. Of what had happened, of what I wanted to happen. Every single thought I had revolved around finding Violet, bringing her back to the Windsor Manor where she belonged. By my side, as was her rightful place.

I missed her, as hard as it was to admit, and the only thing left of her was her room. Aimlessly, I wandered down the hallway from my study, coming to a stop in front of her room and seeing a figure moving in there with swift motions. My hopes soared, but as I stepped into the room, I realized it was just the maid, Belle, faithfully cleaning Violet's room as if its inhabitant had just ran out to run an errand, and not disappeared without a trace.

"Oh, Mr. Windsor," Belle muttered, giving me a curt bow. "I didn't see you there, so sorry, didn't mean to bother you."

"It's alright, Belle." I lay my hand on her forearm, only noticing then how badly she was shaking. "I know this has impacted you too. You must be worried sick."

"We all are, Sir," she confided in me, nervously biting her lower lip as her eyes danced across the room. "Oh, everyone's so worried about Miss Cabot. Everyone in the kitchens, every member of the staff... She's so sweet and kind, everyone likes her."

Including me, I added in my head bitterly as my thoughts swirled with inexplicable jealousy. Of course everyone liked Violet. What was not to like? She was a stunning, sweet young woman. She was only bratty for me, at least from what I'd seen. The memory made the corners of my lips twist upward, but the moment I remembered what was happening, my expression hardened yet again.

"Keep dusting," I told Belle. "I'm just going to take a quick look around. Try to see if I can find another clue."

She nodded wordlessly, returning to her task as I paced the room.

I looked in her closet, filled to the brim with beautiful clothes I'd bought for her, heels that would elongate her legs and jewelry any woman would be jealous of. There was nothing here that would hint at her whereabouts, nothing out of place. Belle had kept the room clean as ever, as if Violet would return to her rightful home any second now. It fucking hurt, because I had no idea when - or if - she'd be back.

A stack of dirty books caught my attention then, and I walked over to the loveseat in the corner. The stack was in front of the seat, a sharp contrast to the rest of the room that was spotless and tidy.

I examined the books, wondering out loud, "What are these doing here?"

"Oh, the books." Belle approached me, still fearful and hesitant, as if she were afraid I'd snap under the weight of all that pressure.

She needn't have worried. I was saving all my pent-up aggression for Peterson. Once I finally got my hands on him, he was fucking dead.

"One of the gardeners found them scattered over the driveway, right after Miss Violet disappeared," Belle went on, making me knit my brows together in worry. "I assumed the books belonged to Miss Violet... the name inside says Cabot. I never looked at the rest, I didn't think it was my place."

Damn right it fucking isn't.

"Why did nobody tell me about this?" I barked at her, and she instinctively took a step back, paling with fear. I forced myself to calm down, saying, "Doesn't matter now. I'll look through them."

"I'm sorry," she managed sheepishly before leaving the room in a hurry. I could hear her breath of relief the moment she closed the door, separating us. She really is fucking scared of me.

I lifted the journals into my hands, the whole stack, at least seven or eight of them. Carrying them out of the room, I headed for my office and piled the books high up on my desk before picking up the first one.