Devrim's Discipline - Brianna Hale Page 0,49
she maintains her cool.
Hanging up a call, she says to me, “The finance reporters are keen to know how things are with the economy under new management. It’s a change that we don’t have to massage the figures or outright lie anymore.”
“You would lie?”
“Had to,” she says briskly, turning pages of her notebook. “If the government knew we were telling the papers we were operating at thirty percent capacity, because the workers were striking, they’d shut us down. King Anson has told the press he expects a rigorous journalistic standard, and he won’t interfere with what they print, and so the reporters put pressure on us to be open and honest about everything.” She looks up at me sharply. “Expect them to ride your ass about everything. It’s not the job for a wilting lily.”
I return her gaze, without flinching. I want to tell her that I never was one, but that would be a lie. I did everything Mama said and never questioned her hard enough. It was a hard lesson to learn, but I won’t be making the mistake of following someone blindly, ever again.
“Don’t worry. I won’t be a wilting lily.”
Miss Longe smiles at me. “That’s the spirit.”
The next day is Saturday, and Mama and I spend the morning packing. There isn’t much we want to take with us. I’m surprised Mama wants to take anything at all. I expected her to just walk out the front door and into her new life, leaving everything behind.
She takes Papa’s books down from a shelf in our tiny sitting room, lovingly dusts each one, and wraps them in newspaper. Her expression is wistful as she works.
I watch her silently from the doorway, my heart twisting painfully in my chest. Papa loved these books. I have so few memories of my father, but I remember sitting on the floor at his feet and playing with cloth dolls as he read aloud.
“Mama, I—” I’m about to ask her if she’s missing Papa, when there’s a knock at the front door.
I go and answer it, expecting a letter for Mama about some real estate matter. Instead, I open the door and find myself staring up into Devrim’s severe expression.
I think I actually squeak.
When I don’t say anything, he rumbles, “Good day to you, too, Lady Wraye. May I come in?”
“Oh—ah—” I peer behind me, looking at the worn, dark hall and the pokey little kitchen beyond. I’ve been hiding the fact that we’ve been here so long that it takes a moment for me to remember that I don’t need to anymore.
I stand back and hold out my arm. He passes by me, his back regally straight and his slightly tousled silver hair, gleaming under the naked bulb. I catch a whiff of his cologne, and when he glances back at me, wondering why I’m frozen to the spot, I remember all those times he had me beneath him, his hard body against my own and his name on my panting lips.
Seeing the expression on my face, his gaze sharpens, and he steps toward me.
“Mama! Mama, we have a visitor.” I plunge past him down the hall and turn into the sitting room.
Mama looks up from her packing, and her mouth falls open when she sees who enters the room behind me. She dusts her hands clean and steps forward, sinking into a curtsy.
“Thank you for what you did for us, Your Grace. I believe you must has spoken to the King, on our behalf.”
He looks at her like she’s an insect that has dared to dirty the bottom of his perfectly shined shoe. “Thank your daughter. She was the one who came to my home and explained how things were.”
Seeing the flinty, unrelenting disdain in his eyes, I’m scared and horny.
Mama turns red. “It’s only what we deserve. We are Rugovas, and our family is older than many in Paravel, and…”
Devrim turns away from her before she’s finished speaking and crosses the room to my side. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Not really. This is it, pretty much. We could go into the kitchen?”
He follows me back across the hall and into the pokey little room. I busy myself making tea, which I’ll have to serve to him in a mug, because that’s all we have. There are no silver teapots and cups and saucers here.
I feel him come up behind me as I stand at the kitchen counter. His warm breath fans the back of my neck, making my fingers