Page 8 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Seven

Lucifer

“She’s late.”

“I’m sure she has a good reason.” Imani casts me a knowing smile from overtop the glass of cabernet she’s nursing, her dark features cutting straight through me.

She’s a stunning middle-aged Black woman, whose marketing acumen nearly matches her refined look, but though Imani may have known me longer than any other human, my now-immortal fiancée included, it wouldn’t take a genius, or someone with even half her image expertise, to see right through me.

I haven’t been myself ever since Charlotte and I exchanged words the other evening.

And as the head of my PR team, Imani knows it.

She sits across the table from me, her slender frame perfectly poised. Being a former model isn’t exactly why I hired her, but the graceful image she projects suits Apollyon Incorporated handsomely. Though my luxury conglomerate and its many holdings are the furthest thing from my mind as of late.

“Are you going to tell me what’s happening between you and Charlotte, or do I have to ask again?”

I scowl. If any other employee ever dared to be so familiar, they’d find themselves disemboweled and floating in the East River shortly before morning, but Imani has made herself invaluable to me. In a way only one other employee ever has before.

My lip curls as my thoughts turn to Astaroth. My former demonic head of security. Before he betrayed me. Perhaps I’ll pop downstairs this evening and pay him a little visit.

Blow off some fucking steam.

“So?” Imani prompts me again as she signals to the waiter to bring me another whisky. “Clearly you haven’t had enough alcohol for this.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in this whole bloody city.” I lash out my hand, nearly knocking over the crystal water glass in front of me as I snatch my refilled drink from the terrified waiter.

Imani mutters a soft apology, and he scuttles off. “That bad, is it?”

I grunt as I take another long sip, which only causes her to smile. But I refuse to be a source of human entertainment. Even Imani’s.

I spear her with a vicious look that would make a lesser human piss themselves.

Charlotte’s father certainly did.

His is a death I will relish for all eternity.

Imani shakes her head then, fiddling idly with her napkin.

As my most senior employee, she’s wise enough to know when to push me, and insightful enough to understand when it’s in her best interest to tread lightly.

“Look, Lucifer. You know me, and I’m about to tell you something that you don’t want to hear, but I need you to hear it anyway. ”

My eyes narrow. “I’m listening.”

Imani sighs. “This is love, you fool. This is exactly what you signed up for.”

I snarl, the sound so sudden and animal in the otherwise empty restaurant that the waiter heading toward our table reroutes immediately.

“What in the bloody fuck are you on about?” My voice lowers to a serpentine hiss as I feel the heat of my hellfire burn in my gaze.

Unfortunately, discussion of my personal life is no longer off limits.

Not now that I’m in bed with a former employee.

And Imani’s intern turned assistant, no less.

Imani simply leans across the table, as if she means to place her hand on my arm, before she hesitates and thinks better of it. “It means that when you love someone, you also give that person the power to hurt you.”

I frown, sniffing derisively. “I don’t remotely know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Imani lifts a brow. “You and Charlotte had your first real fight, obviously.” Her gaze sweeps over me, taking in my disheveled appearance.

To the undiscerning eye, I look as impeccable as ever, my Attolini suit pressed and tailored specifically for me.

But upon closer inspection, one of my cuff links is missing from where I failed to put it on this morning, too distracted as I watched Charlotte tear out of our bedroom like she couldn’t wait to be rid of me, and as the clock hand ticks by, my fiancée growing ever more late by the minute, my tie has slowly begun to loosen from where I’ve been tugging at it uncomfortably.

And that says nothing for how many times I’ve raked my hand through my own hair.

What the fuck has she done to me?

“You look like shit,” Imani says savagely. “Gorgeous, expensive, luxury shit, but for you? Still shit.”

“You don’t pull any punches, do you, Imani?” I take another long sip of my whisky, the refilled glass already near empty.

It’ll take far more than a glass or two to drown whatever this ... feeling is Charlotte’s created in me. There’s only one other’s approval who ever mattered more.

And I haven’t laid eyes on Him since He severed my wings.

“You know I don’t,” Imani answers. “It’s why you hired me.”

“Among other things.” A mischievous smile plays on my lips.

Mine and Imani’s relationship is strictly professional.

Deals with me typically are.

But Imani and I have a unique history.

She sighs, backing off at the mention of our agreement as she swirls her Bordeaux. “Look, all I’m saying is that maybe you should apologize.”

“Apologize?” I sneer.

The assumption that I am the problem here is enough that I feel the glass in my hand crack slightly.

“Lucifer,” Imani says, her eyes darting in warning from the buckling tumbler to the otherwise empty restaurant.

The Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center. I would never take Charlotte anywhere I considered beneath me.

We’re in public, Imani’s expression seems to say.

Meaning that humanity, and, by proxy, the press is watching. Always.

I scowl, my throat writhing, even as I loosen my grip. Considering all the offerings the public’s pride and vanity bestows on me, I can’t say I miss the days of my relative anonymity before mine and Charlotte’s debut, but I do miss the quiet.

The illusion of privacy.

No matter how much it cost me.

“I’m the devil,” I say, snapping my fingers at the waiter, who hops to and quickly retrieves another glass. “I do not apologize.”

Imani’s eyes narrow. “You will if you want to keep that poor human girl you plucked from obscurity.”

“She’s not human.” I swirl my new glass. “Not any longer.”

Imani’s eyes widen.

“Lucifer,” she breathes slowly, “what did you do?”

But any chance for her to probe further is bolloxed as a pair of familiar, gold-flecked eyes shift toward me. My gaze locks on to my fiancée’s the moment she enters the room.

I feel her presence keenly. As if she is another limb.

One not even my Father can sever from me.

It’s been several days since she and I last exchanged more than a handful of words, our combined appearance schedules following the funeral keeping us both busy, but tonight she looks as beautiful and fragile as ever.

No, not fragile. Not for long.

Not now that I’ve released the powers she’s stolen from me.

I’ll make an immortal of her yet.

At her approach, I stand, my gaze never leaving hers, and despite whatever bad blood lies between us, whatever Imani says next is lost to me.

I have eyes only for Charlotte.

I pull out her chair, ever the gentleman. “You’re late.”

Those innocent doe-like eyes flick toward me. Like she expected something different. “I ... got caught up with something.”

My gaze tracks the less-than-subtle movement of her hand as she slips it behind her to smooth out her skirt. A pathetic attempt to hide it from me.

But already I’ve seen and sensed the damage. The flash of a freshly healed wound on her palm that, had she still been human, would have scarred deeply.

My jaw tightens.

What exactly is my fiancée keeping from me?

I return to my seat. “Don’t let it happen again.”

At the reprimand, she goes rigid in her chair.

And that’s the exact moment I hear it. Her voice inside my head. Her thoughts suddenly open to me.

Or what?

My eyes widen, and I cough, sputtering on my sip of whisky.

Imani’s brow furrows in confusion. “Lucifer, are you ... okay?”

And no wonder. In all the years she’s known me, I’ve never once been this uncollected, this unhinged.

“Fine,” I mutter, swiftly shifting my attention back to where my fiancée sits before me.

Unaware that her bratty thoughts are now an open book.

And I am her most eager reader.

Charlotte glances between us, her expression a little hurt as she says, “I thought it was going to be just the two of us tonight, considering I think we have some ...” She casts a sidelong glance at Imani, hesitating, like she’s uncertain how much she’s allowed to say.

“Urgent family matters to discuss. Something I think you might have forgotten to mention to me.”

My Father’s apocalypse, she means.

No doubt she overheard my Mother the other evening.

My Father’s apocalypse waits for no one, even me.

But I refuse for our lives to be interrupted by something as bloody trivial as His divine will.

To Imani’s credit, she doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m happy to do this later, if you’d rather—”

“No. Stay,” I order. “We’ll dine after.”

“Lucifer,” Imani says, questioning me.

But the look I give silences her. Even Imani knows when not to push me.

A trait my fiancée has yet to learn. Though she will.

Now that I’ve realized how thoroughly she can hurt me.

“Right,” Imani says, clearing her throat. “I’ll make it quick then.”

She reaches to the small stool one of the staff placed beside the table for her, where one of her Hermes purses and her portfolio wait.

She retrieves the portfolio, a standard leather company issue, which naturally showcases Apollyon’s logo—a coiled serpent, prepared to strike—then flips it open, the hard angle of her jaw practically giving me the cut direct.

“Media coverage is looking surprisingly good after the Met Gala debacle. Our numbers recovered quickly. The riot at the funeral did us a favor. Bought sympathy. And the impressions on your socials are still holding steady, though Charlotte’s account growth outpaces yours by a mile, Lucifer.”