Page 35 of Greed: The Savage (Seven Deadly Sins #7)

U pon her arrival at Forbidden Pleasures, Addien found herself whisked not to offices belonging to any one of the proprietors, His Grace, the Duke of Argyll, the Marquess of Rutherford, or Lord Severin Cadogan’s offices.

Such would have been the case at the Devil’s Den.

Any unsanctioned guest who sought entrance was hauled to the Earl of Dynevor’s foreboding offices.

The Duke of Argyll ran a queer sort of establishment.

Instead, she’d found herself squired around suites grand enough to make the King blink twice by a bang-up sort.

Her escort went about sharing the history behind the men—and women—of the marble busts and gilded frames.

In fact, the fellow had well-bred diction and polite manners, but for the impressive cutlass-length blade hanging from the belt frog at his hip.

Without a doubt, Forbidden Pleasures possessed the warm feel of gentility which did not make its power less, just less obvious.

“If there is nothing you require, miss,” the handsome guard, with flecks of silver at the edges of his temples, said, showing Addien into a parlor. “His Grace will be along shortly.”

As the servant—she still couldn’t convincingly call the fellow a guard—let himself out and left her alone, Addien did a sweep of her waiting place.

Where even the private suites in the Devil’s Den were fashioned in midnight black, vivid crimson, and gold so glittering bright it hurt the eyes, Argyll’s taste leant towards airy, pale champagne and cream hues.

The blend of celadons and duck-egg blue for adornments leant a more sophisticated elegance to the palace of sin Argyll and his fellow proprietors built.

The mantel was crowned with a painted porcelain vase, brimming with spring blooms. Even the paintings flanking the white hearth were ornate, each canvas filled with wildflowers in green fields and hilltops so high they seemed touched by fairy tales.

Addien felt herself pulled toward those scenes—places not choked with cobblestones, crumbling tenements, or sagging shops turned into hovels, but with pastel limestone townhouses fit for princes and princesses blessed by some benevolent fairy’s wand.

Not that she’d ever breathe that profane whisper aloud in front of Dynevor.

Not that she’d be seeing Dynevor—or anyone else at the Devil’s Den—again.

Malric’s face rose unbidden, tormenting her with regrets for what could never be—and the maddening ache of what she now knew she wanted. Grief struck as sharply as a blade.

Needing to move, to breathe, to forget…Addien wandered aimlessly to the fireplace. She cocked her head, then felt compelled to step closer. Riveted, she stared at the scene—so green, beneath skies so bright and clear that no fog could ever mar the endless sky of cobalt blue.

Unblinking, Addien came forward on the balls of her feet.

She wanted to climb into the pretend world.

She wanted to shed her shoes and walk barefoot upon nature’s carpet, a shade of green she had never before seen, without even a name, a color born of sea-green and emerald woven together into an unidentifiable masterpiece that words could never hope to capture.

This was the place she’d dreamed of one cruel winter’s eve. A night she’d never dared speak of.

Until Malric.

Had he somehow heard her yearning, even through the thunder of revenge against his father?

Her throat buckled.

Surely not.

Forlorn, Addien hovered a fingertip a breath from the canvas, tracing a path along that lush grassland she still longed to take.

And you could have had that…

She stilled, her pointing finger at the crest of a hill—the top of the world, it may be.

This was the true land of the nobility. These were their fairy tale castles.

Mother Earth’s wonderland was a world only unto them, that they kept private and preserved so that their inferiors, the children of the streets, never saw, never knew of, that existence too pure and good for street rats to run through.

This was Malric’s world.

“…You are bold. Courageous. Beautiful beyond compare…You are a queen…Let me be your king…”

He’d offered her his name, protection, a future certain as the sunrise—everything and nothing all at once.

Addien let her arm drop forlornly to her side.

Or perhaps it wasn’t that at all. Perhaps she’d discovered something she’d never thought possible…that she could want more.

She was greedy.

She’d wanted more from Malric.

She wanted him .

Addien briefly closed her eyes.

He’d offered her the keys to his kingdom, the security to be had in his name.

But she’d wanted more.

She’d wanted more than a kingdom. She’d even craved something far greater than safety and security.

She wanted his heart.

She had wanted all of him.

Addien took in a shuddery breath.

I still do .

That was why she had to leave. Why she’d removed herself so completely and gone somewhere he could never find her. Not because she’d grown too close to anyone—she hadn’t . She’d formed bonds with the women at the Devil’s Den but never trusted them with her sorrow, her dreams, her fears.

She’d turned those pieces of herself over only to Malric.

And in the end? What he offered was the same, cold, unfeeling, empty unions men of his ilk made with their alabaster innocents.

Addien’s gaze trickled back to the painting. In the canvas, she saw Malric’s lands…and the woman he chose to walk those hills with.

For certain, he’d find another. It wouldn’t be a lady because, as he’d said, he had no use for a Diamond. He wanted revenge against his father, and what Malric wanted…he got.

“…You were made for me, Addien…Just as I was made for you… I want to marry you. And you’re going to, and do you know why that is…? You want me…the same way I want you.”

Addien shivered, still enflamed by that hungry, driven, possessiveness with which he’d spoken of claiming her.

But he won’t have me.

There should be triumph in her denial of the man who’d hurt her. His shock and anger this morning were visceral, raw. A man such as Malric, driven by primal pride, wouldn’t just be angry. He’d burn at the rejection, every fiber of him chafing against it.

Addien’s lips curled in a smile as broken as she was inside.

He’d find another woman. It’d be a woman similar to Addien, one who loved his command and control of her body and didn’t give a shite about propriety or politeness.

A woman, his father, the duke, could never approve of.

There were plenty of them out there.

Certainly, more of them than the minuscule number of diamonds and debutantes with their gold-plated twats.

There’d always remain a key difference between Addien and Malric’s eventual wife; unlike Addien, the chosen lady carried his impeccable lineage.

And she’d know it too. She’d know it and wouldn’t be able to bear it. Addien had run to a place Malric could never reach her. Not that she believed he would even attempt to. That was not out of anything other than his obstinate will to win out over Addien.

But she would not be free of him. Here, in this palace of polished vice, there’d be no escaping talk of the nobility. Aside from debauchery, gossip was the second staple in a nobleman’s diet.

When a marquess, at that, an heir to a dukedom, married, the whole world took notice.

A knot twisted in her insides.

Her gaze, all her attention and energy, tunneled in on the painted landscape before her.

It pulled Addien back into the dream she’d once spun just to survive an unforgiving cold.

She was only just realizing there were deaths of all sorts.

The sharpest winter bite would have been kinder than this hollow ache consuming her now.

Addien longed to climb inside that frame, to vanish into a world where she alone existed, among flowers, on a bed of grass she’d never felt beneath her bare feet, and never would, except in dreams.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

That voice came suddenly—smooth, languid, a dark baritone that slid over her skin instead of startling her, though it should have.

Before she’d turned, she hadn’t a doubt of the gentleman’s identity.

Addien lifted her chin. “Your Grace.”

He executed a bow dark with irony, sensual in its restraint. “In the flesh.”

From across the room, she studied the tall gentleman lounging with his back against the door, casual yet watchful.

His form—broad-shouldered, lean, athletic—held the kind of balance artists chased.

His symmetry called to mind what Alice once remarked at the Devil’s Den, when casually speaking about a canvas she’d been painting.

For all his seeming ease, there wasn’t anything casual about the human Apollo before her.

He was Cain and Abel both—temptation wrapped in virtue, ruin in the guise of grace.

Dangerous but a darling.

“Please, you must call me Argyll.” The Duke of Argyll was nothing more than the serpent of sin dressed in a handsome face. A man too beautiful to be real and with a smile that lured a person to trust, but who was devoid of sincerity.

Unlike Malric, who wore no masks and needed no pretenses—whose integrity was as plain as his strength—the man before her was nothing of the sort.

She had to leave.

Only…where was there to go?

Nowhere. Lord Dynevor offered her employment elsewhere.

In her haste to run from Malric and shut out him and the anguish he’d inflicted, she’d cost herself security that would have come from Dynevor’s connections.

The minute she’d gone to the Duke of Argyll, she’d eliminated all future prospects—except one.

As though he sensed she’d set her own trap, the duke smiled.

“Why don’t you, Miss Killoran, allow me to decide that for myself?” His voice was velvet, smooth and dark, like the Earl of Dynevor’s finest brandy.

Addien’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say anything.”

His smile deepened. “Ah, but you didn’t need to. You’re telling yourself, ‘I made a mistake in coming here.’ And I’m assuring you—you haven’t.” His gaze hooded, his voice sinking lower, he added, “In fact, I intend to prove it, Miss Killoran.”