Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
No clutter. No warmth. No photographs, no mementos, no evidence that a human being actually works here rather than a very organized machine.
This room reveals him, I realize. The rest of the estate is impressive but impersonal—the kind of grandeur that comes with old money, maintained by staff, existing independent of whoever happens to live there. But this space? This is his. Every inch of it designed for control, for order, for the absolute elimination of chaos.
And behind the desk, not rising as I enter, is the man himself.
Devyn is in a charcoal suit today, perfectly tailored, the kind that probably costs more than six months of my rent. He's holding a pen, tapping it against the desk in a quick, restless rhythm. Tap tap tap. Even seated, even still, there's an energy to him. An impatience that seems to hum just beneath the surface.
The door closes behind me.
He doesn't offer me a seat. Doesn't greet me. Just looks at me with those golden eyes, and I feel it in my chest. A tightening. An awareness that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something I don't want to name.
Not now, Bailey. Not ever. Focus.
"Tell me who sent you."
No preamble. No pleasantries. Just the accusation, sharp and direct.
"No one sent me." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. Small miracle, given that my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Then explain how you ended up in my chapel.”
I shouldn’t tell him the truth. I should make something up. Something plausible enough for him to consider letting me go. That’s the smartest and safest thing to do—
“I fell asleep in a bookshop,” I blurt out, “and woke up watching your bride run away."
—but my mouth gets me in trouble before my brain can take control.
Bailey, you idiot.
“A bookshop.”
One second there's that restless energy, that constant motion, and the next—
Stillness.
"Hewhay's," I find myself elaborating even though I feel I’m just digging a deeper hole for myself by doing so. "I don't know if you've heard of it—"
“Go on.”
Those two words...nearly knock me off my feet because it speaks volumes. Him asking me to continue instead of telling me I’ve lost my mind?
“Have you been there?” I blurt out. “Is that why—”
He looks at me, asking with remarkable politeness—
“Why do you think you have any right to ask questions?”
Fair point.
And so...I do as he asks and pick up where I left off.
I tell him about the bookshop that appeared out of nowhere. The tea that tasted like comfort and made me feel safe when I shouldn't have. The book—the impossible book with my name in it, my face in the illustrations, my life described in ink that looked centuries old.
He starts drumming his fingers on his desk when I tell him about the four routes, the four kings. About choosing Quinn and Skye and Wolfe.
“But you did not pick my route?”
Wow.
Either he knows something about Hewhay’s...or he’s just really good at playing along, with the way he asks me about his “route” so easily. And while my brain is now sufficiently in control, urging me this time to play it safe and lie—
“You seemed too intense for someone like me.”
I end up stammering the truth out.
Again.
“Is that so?”
“You w-were described as someone with a legendary temper, and I—”
“So I scared you away.”
“No, it’s not—” I feel like I should apologize. I’m really tempted to apologize. I have a feeling I’ve offended him for not choosing his route. “It’s just—”
“Never mind. Proceed with your story.”
“Uh...right.” I’m dying to apologize, but I have a feeling saying ‘I’m sorry’ is just going to make him hate me even more.
“Well?”
The rest of my words tumble out in a rush at the impatient note in his voice. I tell him about falling asleep in the velvet armchair. About waking up in his chapel. About the woman in black who grabbed me, begged me not to tell, and disappeared through a door that shouldn't exist.
When I finish, silence fills the room.
Devyn hasn't moved. Hasn't blinked, as far as I can tell. He's just watching me with those golden eyes, and I'm acutely aware of how ridiculous this all sounds. A magical bookshop. A book with my name in it. A portal to another world.
If I were him, I wouldn't believe me either.
My stomach chooses this moment to growl.
Loudly.
Mortifyingly, undeniably loudly, like some kind of dying whale sound that echoes off the immaculate walls of his immaculate study.
Ugh.
My face goes hot. I can feel the blush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, and there's nowhere to hide, no way to pretend that didn't just happen.
"I—sorry. I didn't—I haven't eaten since—"
I don't actually know when I last ate. Yesterday? The day before? Time has gotten slippery.
"—and I don't know why my stomach decided now was the moment to announce itself, it has terrible timing, I'm so sorry—"