Page 20 of Realm of the Wicked

Agatha hesitated. ‘I could show you to his office. But he doesn’t enjoy being disturbed during the day.’

If he didn’t want to be disturbed, he shouldn’t have brought me back to his house and left me with no answers to go on. I didn’t bother saying this out loud but my face must have said it all, because Agatha sighed.

‘Come on then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if he’s a grumpy bastard.’ She waved me through the kitchen doors.

‘Are you allowed to say that?’ The way Agatha spoke about Damien was almost comforting. If she felt comfortable enough around him to say things like that, maybe he wasn’t as terrifying as he let on. He definitely didn’t sound like the kind of person who snuck into unsuspecting women’s bedrooms in the middle of the night.

She shrugged, not bothering to turn around. ‘Does it matter? I’m the only one who’s put up with him for decades. He might not like what I have to say, but I think he hates being alone even more. But you didn’t hear that from me.’

‘Of course,’ I murmured, filing away my new information with the rest of the knowledge I’d collected about Damien.

Agatha stopped in front of a nondescript door at the bottom of the stairs, completely at odds with the carved wooden doors I’d seen so far. ‘This is his office. Come find me in the garden after, and I’ll show you around there. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than being cooped up inside here all day.’

I froze with my hand halfway to the door. ‘You’re not coming with me?’

‘This is all you.’ She was already backing away from the door, a small smile gracing her face before she turned around.

‘I thought you weren’t scared of him!’ I called after her.

‘Speaking my mind around D and not being scared of him are two different things, I’m afraid. You’ll be fine, though. See you in the garden!’ With a tiny wave of her fingers, Agatha disappeared around the corner, leaving me alone in front of Damien’s office.

For a housekeeper trapped by the Devil, she seemed so content. Like she’d seen it all and nothing could surprise her. Maybe one day, I’d be the same. For now, I was here. I’d demanded to see him, but now doubts weighed heavily on my mind.

I needed answers. Damien had answers. And I was outside his office. Besides, maybe Agatha just interrupted him at all the wrong times, leaving him annoyed.

The image of him lingering too close to my face last night flickered through my brain, unbidden. I wanted you. I’ll try not to hurt you.

A shiver raced down my back, and I tried my best to convince myself it was the chill of the hallway.

Suck it up, Stella. You can do this.

I took a deep breath and raised my fist.

Before I could knock, a deep voice echoed out from behind the door. ‘Are you going to stand out there all day debating whether or not to come in, or are you going to open the damn door already?’

8

STELLA

My fear was immediately replaced with the much more familiar feeling of irritation.

Fuck him if he thought I was going to let him think he scared me.

Even if he kind of did.

No. That was wrong. He didn’t scare me. Not knowing what he was capable of was what frightened me. The unknown frightened me more than any man.

I huffed out a breath and swung open the door.

Damien’s office was decorated in the same heavy, ornate style as the rest of the house, barring my room, and Agatha’s kitchen. The only thing that set it apart was a large painting of the ocean, set over the fireplace mantle. For a moment, it made me wonder who had decorated my quarters. The creamy walls and light bedding of my room didn’t exactly seem like Damien’s taste.

He sat behind a large wooden desk, with more carvings engraved into each of the legs. These ones depicted delicate winged creatures, almost fairy-like. I leaned in a little closer to instead see terrifying faces carved onto their beautiful bodies. Jerking away, I studied Damien instead. His dark hair was tousled and pushed away from his face, giving him the illusion of a youth he definitely was not.

He also didn’t bother looking up from his papers as I stood in front of him with my arms crossed. I waited for him to look up at me, to acknowledge my presence, to tell me off. Instead, he was silent, nothing but the quiet scratching of pen on paper separating us.

In another room, a clock tolled the hour, a sickeningly hollow chime. Eleven. Eleven in the morning – or so I assumed based on the bright light that shone in through the kitchen windows. Then again, who was to say all of this wasn’t fabricated, an illusion of the highest kind.

‘You think so loudly, I can practically hear it from here.’