Blackmailing His Bride (Court of Paravel)

The Duke’s gaze is pitying. “She’s not your daughter, Anthony. The girl is a bastard and she doesn’t belong.”

“Don’t you dare speak about Briar that way!”

Everyone in the family, except the Duke, winces at Lord Anthony’s raised voice. The brothers stare each other down.

Sachelle steps forward, her hands held tightly together. Her voice is soft and melodic. “Dad, does it really matter? Lord Anthony says he’s her daughter. Isn’t that enough?”

“Stay out of this, Sachelle.” The Duke’s eyes never leave his younger brother’s face. “Did you know about your wife’s infidelity and keep it quiet? I see she was too cowardly to come here tonight.”

“She’s my wife and you won’t speak about her like that.” Lord Anthony’s voice shakes with rage as he steps toward the Duke, both fists clenched.

Lady Sachelle darts forward and pushes between the two men. “Uncle, don’t. Remember that Dad’s sick. You’ll regret it if you keep shouting.”

She barely comes up to their shoulders and she’s sandwiched between them as anger crackles around them. An alarm starts buzzing in my head and I want to stride forward and grab her.

“Lady Anne can’t drag any offspring into Court and claim she’s got noble blood,” says Duke Balzac.

Lord Anthony turns a mottled shade of red and swings a punch at the Duke. I lunge forward, grab Lady Sachelle and pull her out from between them. The brothers are yelling, limbs flailing. Duchess Balzac is screaming at me to stop them. I ignore her and carry Lady Sachelle over to the far side of the room. She’s petite, only around five foot three. As soon as her feet touch the carpet, she tries to dash back to her father, but I slam my hand against the bookcase and stop her.

“No.”

“Let me go. He’ll hurt Dad.”

“Stay here. You nearly got hurt.”

Those round, violet eyes implore me again. “But Dad’s not strong. Please, help him.”

I turn around and look at the brothers, who are now shoving each other like a pair of schoolboys. The best course of action seems to be to get Lord Anthony out of this house, so I stride over to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

His elbow flies back and slams into my nose.

I clamp my hand over my face and groan, “Motherfucker.”

Blood drips down my face and onto my suit. I pinch my nose, yank open the door, and head out into the entrance hall. I sink down onto the marble staircase and try to breathe through the throbbing pain in my face as blood patters at my feet.

There are more raised voices, and a moment later, the front door slams. From within the lounge, I hear the Duke and Duchess talking in low, angry voices.

A box of tissues appears in my peripheral vision. “I’m so sorry about your nose. Does it hurt?”

I glance up. Lady Sachelle. “Better me than you, my lady,” I mutter, taking some tissues and holding them over my face. “You should be more careful about whose fights you throw yourself into.”

I should take my own fucking advice.

Sachelle stands before me as I bleed slowly through the tissues, staring pensively into the lounge. This is the closest I’ve ever been to her and the sight of her sweet face is better than any drug for the pain. Is she happy here in this big, luxurious house? Does she know I’m the one who put her here? When Varga was in power, she would have lived in fear. All the First Families were treated like dirt under the People’s Republic. I want to ask her if she feels safer now. Hint that it was me she should feel grateful to. I don’t want any thanks, but her gratitude must taste as delectable as her rosy lips look.

I open my mouth, but before I can utter one syllable, Sachelle turns away from me and walks back into the lounge. Through the open door, I watch her whisper softly to her father, a tender hand brushing his brow. Jealousy courses through me, thick and ugly. I’m the one who’s bleeding for her.

I stand up and shove the tissues into my pocket, and head out the front door into the night air. The summer heat lays thickly over the garden. Instead of going to my car, I step into the shadow cast by a mulberry bush and stand with my back to the high privet hedge.

An hour passes. Two. I don’t move. My head is pounding and I’m exhausted, but I’m not ready to leave without one more glimpse of her.

I fall into a kind of trance, perfected over a decade of long, lonely watches that could last all night. My eyes are open but my mind switches off. I wait.

And I wait.

A light goes on in a second-floor window. I breathe in sharply as Sachelle Balzac appears in the window, dressed in a white satin nightgown. One of the spaghetti straps falls down her shoulder as she gazes out into the darkness.