Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife #1) - Sienna Blake Page 0,30
soul like the devil was at my door. She will burn as I did. She will suffer as I did.
“Are you okay, Mr Wolf?” Emily is gazing at me with concern on her pretty features.
I realise I’m grimacing. I shove my thoughts aside, forcing my features to relax. “Fine. I didn’t notice any pictures of your late mother,” I say to distract her.
“There are none in the house.”
“Why not? She must have been very beautiful to produce such a lovely daughter.”
Emily lets out a wistful sigh. I can almost hear Alena choking behind me. I want to laugh out loud at each of my mini-triumphs. This is just the beginning, Alena. Just a taste of the pain you have tormented me with these last five years.
“I don’t know,” Emily says. “Papa doesn’t like to keep any photos of her, I guess.”
We make our way through the manicured gardens, which I dislike instantly. They’re too neat and soulless, straight rows of perfectly trimmed hedges, polite little roses and posies. Emily is like a bubbly child as she points out her favourite wrought-iron bench or a treasured rectangular section of delicate pink carnations. I am forced to fake interest in them.
Emily craves order and safety, I muse. She’d make a placid, polite little wife for a wealthy stuffed shirt. We reach the end of the gardens, a wall of bushes separating us from the grounds beyond.
Alena has said nothing this whole time.
“What is your favourite part of the garden, Alena?” I blurt out, spinning on my heel to face her for the first time since we started walking. For some stupid reason, I want to hear her voice. I want to know what she thinks.
Alena starts. She seems startled that I’ve even spoken to her at all. As startled as I am. I had planned to say nothing to her, to let her suffer in silence as I flirted with her pretty stepdaughter in front of her.
Alena considers me with suspicion. “I…I don’t really like the gardens.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.”
“Why not?” I shouldn’t be so anxious to hear her answer.
“They’re too…perfect.”
My chest kicks with agreement. “Where would you take me, then?”
She lifts her chin. “I’m not sure a man like you would enjoy the things I do.”
I take a step towards her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She takes a defiant step towards me, her eyes glittering with rage. “I like the part of the estate past these bushes. It turns into wild rolling moors, rough, craggy and open to the sky.”
Suddenly I’ve closed the distance between us. “I think that sounds wonderful.”
“They say the moors are haunted.” I’m inches taller than her so she has to lift her chin to meet my eye. Even so, I feel like she’s looking down on me. “That only pure souls can enter without fear of going mad. Is your soul pure, Mr Wolf?”
“As pure as yours, I suspect.”
“The brambles will rip your perfect coat.” She sneers.
I lean in. “I think I can handle a few insignificant pricks.” I can smell the sun on her and the scent of her simple clean soap. It hits my lower gut, flinging me back to a time when her smell used to comfort me.
She doesn’t give up any ground. If anything, she leans in too. “Your shiny leather shoes will get dirty.”
“I don’t mind getting dirty.” My gaze drops to her lips. They part as she sucks in breath. My stomach coils with a strange heat. I remember how they used to feel against mine—so soft, so—
I shove that thought away and look up to meet her gaze.
“Really?” she breathes. “You look like you’ve not had to get dirty in a long time.” She has this soft look in her eyes despite her barbed words.
“You have no idea, Alena.” If only she knew what I went through to get here.
25
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Alena
Dimitri is so close that I can smell his cologne. Underneath I can smell him. Warmth and safety and love, if these things had a smell. I should step back. I can’t help but lean closer, drawn in by hope. His eyes keep drawing to my mouth. Every time they do, I remember his lips on mine. I remember his hungry, intimate kisses, the way his soft tongue invaded me, claiming me, worshiping me. I know he remembers too. Something in his eyes softens and his answers lag, as if he is too distracted with remembering what we used to be.