Page 8 of Glimmer and Burn (Unity #1)

Chapter Three

D evin woke sober. A state he actively fought during his every waking hour.

The vivid details of his father’s ancestral home spanned before him.

The hand-carved inlay in the wood. The texture of the canvas that held the masterful brushstrokes of some famous painter Devin wouldn’t know the name of, given his education had been rather less Upper Ring than his father’s.

It all legally belonged to him now. And while he actively fought to suppress and hide the fae part of himself, he openly detested his entirely human father.

His father’s will intended the estate fall to Devin’s human and legitimately born half-brother.

However, his brother passed not even a few months after their father, leaving the estate in legal limbo until the next in line to inherit could be found.

Too bad Devin wanted nothing to do with the place.

There was a brief time, when he was young and hopeful, that he might have sought to be part of his father’s world. Devin quickly soured to that dream. Age had shown him that his father and all he stood for were nothing that Devin wanted for himself.

Then, fate’s mocking hand had bequeathed him his seven-year-old heart’s desire: the home of his father. But his heart no longer worked and these walls held more poison than promise.

Sober, awake, and tormented by an unforgiving sun, Devin grew more irritated by the second.

A headache formed near his temple. Moonlight was his solace, thanks to his mother’s Night Fae heritage, yet it highlighted his in-between existence.

Not human enough for the social elite that sired him and spurned by the Night Fae because his mother had followed her heart to far from Court.

But the worst part of waking sober each morning was how his senses returned to their full clarity. A servant had shuffled past and he sensed her. Her urgency, her fear, her prejudice, it flitted toward him like the gentle brush of the tide, like scents he could see.

Devin growled as he rose to a sitting position on the overstuffed sofa.

It was not meant for sleep. It was a decorative piece designed to impress important guests.

Devin was creating uneven lumps in the cushions, since the good alcohol was stored in the study and he was usually too far gone to bother searching the labyrinthine hallways for a bedroom.

The vintage scotch from the previous night sat near his boots, still open.

He scooped it up and started chugging. It burned, and he nearly sputtered twice—it was not the sort of drink one chugged, but he was desperate to go back to the haze that allowed him to pretend he wasn’t half-fae.

He got it down and let it settle. His stomach nearly protested his chosen breakfast, rolling with the threat of chucking the lot of it back up, but he kept it down.

Slowly, very slowly, inebriation began to dull his aura sight. His heightened awareness began to drift into a hazy fog. Another servant passed without the faintest hint of an aura. His fae gift was properly drowned once more.

He headed for the main hall and more servants scurried past. He sensed nothing, as it should be.

Smothering his fae nature had been a necessity since childhood.

The lingering prejudice from an eighty year war was still in force thirty-two years ago, when Devin’s mother had fallen for a worthless aristocrat with no intention of allowing his fae proclivities to taint his ancestral seat. The whole unified races bit was recent.

Devin had never belonged to either side, but masking as fully human was safer than embracing the truth.

Unity had been renamed at the same time as the war, and sought to mend those divides, to unify against the common enemy.

Or, that was the hope and sentiment. In practice, people were still quick to judge and the habit was too ingrained.

Sure, burying a vital and unchangeable part of his person in alcohol for the better part of his life was not ideal.

Or healthy. Or practical. And, yes, his self-loathing and untreated trauma did lead to a vice or two and was the root cause of his constant misery and desire to bury anything real with humor and innuendo.

And, sure, the world was changing. Half-breeds were not so hated.

Hell, even the grimm and demons were carved a section of the city as their own, and the war ended not even two decades.

Devin went to find some food, stopping to rifle through the mail only after he secured an apple.

He stopped at a newssheet that contained a bunch of drivel about what the nobles were up to, nothing that truly mattered, and he would have tossed it with the others except for the name that stopped him: James Wilde.

He had suspected Wilde to be the enchanting woman in red’s father. It surely wasn’t a common surname.

Absently flipping to the page, he skimmed until his heart skipped a beat. A party to celebrate the union of their daughter, the younger Miss Wilde, to Lord Yarrow Graves and to honor Graves as a decorated hero of the Demon War. Graves. A hero.

He tore the paper to shreds and let the pieces scatter.

Hero? What sort of lies was that bastard selling that Graves could get such a high standing family to believe absolute horse shit?

Graves had blood on his hands. He was no hero.

A sniveling coward who ran screaming at the first sign of trouble and got real soldiers killed.

Devin scrubbed at his face as he fought the tide of memories. So many dead. And it was all for nothing.

Breathing returning to a more neutral cadence, his thoughts drifted to his former comrades.

The only survivors of the incident outside of himself and Graves, Rachel and Gideon, had become a sort of friendship built on shared horrors.

Gideon had joined the Watchmen and where he went, Rachel was sure to follow.

Devin hadn’t heard from either in several months, but this sort of news would bring Gideon to his door. It was just a matter of when.

Damn it, he wished he’d stolen the information from Miss Wilde.

Though, none of this clarified what Miss Wilde intended to do with that information.

Graves was to be her brother-in-law. Surely it was bad form to dig into the hidden corruption of the political figure about to marry into your family.

Did she want blackmail? Perhaps she was of the few who knew Graves for what he was, a slimy coward who deserved little more than death.

“Sir?” Haversham, the family butler interrupted Devin’s train of thought, and bowed, “There is someone here to see you, sir.”

Devin frowned. “Why?”

No one had ever called on him before, not here at least. He’d taken a moment while brooding to wash the previous day off him and change his clothes, but he was no less ill prepared for visitors.

“She didn’t say, sir, only insisted that it was urgent and that you would understand. She wouldn’t give me a card.”

She? Maybe Rachel sought him out about Graves?

No lady of standing would call on him at any hour let alone…

what blasted time was it? He hadn’t a clue.

He glanced around and decided he didn’t care enough to bother pretending he knew the ‘rules’ of daytime visits from a woman so he sat down at the empty desk that had once belonged to his father. “Very well, let her in.”

Haversham bowed and left.

Devin found another bottle and, this time, poured it into a glass before taking a sip. He no longer cared what he drank, so long as it was strong and instant in dulling his senses. When he turned, however, he realized he might be in need of those senses.

Miranda Wilde stood at the entrance to the study and he had guessed right the night before. Black was not her color. Now her hair was gold, held in a loose twist with wavy tendrils falling free. She was gorgeous. Stunning, really. But it was her eyes that captivated him.

Her beauty was there for anyone to see, but in her eyes, those green depths of intent and calculation hit him somewhere else entirely.

Even now, showing up at his home unannounced and not a word exchanged between them, she was prepared to fight.

The challenge and stubbornness. An unusual combination in a debutant.

She was dressed plainly today, but no less flattering—and what the dress concealed his imagination was perfectly happy to compensate.

“Miss Wilde, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She wrinkled her nose, holding an ungloved hand over her mouth. “Have you been drinking?”

Devin tilted his head. “This is my house. You’re the one who shows up at an ungodly hour—”

“It’s noon.”

“—just to waltz in and criticize my drinking habits?”

She rolled her eyes, the unabashed annoyance drawing him in quite without his ability to stop it. “Obviously, that is not why I’m here.”

“Then why?” He stood and sauntered closer, breaking the space that was considered proper distance in an effort to see her react.

For all her beauty, this was merely flirtation for him.

She was expressive and riling her was entirely too easy.

He’d never take it further, that wasn’t his game.

Devin preferred to steer his intimate associations away from virgins and genteel ladies.

Too messy. But it was fun to tease. “Is it to gloat over your outbidding me? Cause that is bad form, Miss Wilde.”

“I don’t gloat,” she snapped, though she still hadn’t told him why she was here.

“Then out of your depth, perhaps?”

“I can handle myself.”

“I’ve no doubt,” he said, laughing. Which made her bristle, her body squaring off as if to attack. Then her eyes dipped to his mouth and all games and jokes vanished.