Chapter 3
Chapter three
Metal and Steal
Quin
A fire crackled in the hearth of the study as Quin scrolled through retail rental locations across the Pentagram.
Gluttony was saturated with eateries and restaurants, and Lust didn’t necessarily have the clientele.
But Envy, Greed, and Pride would probably be out of Glyma’s price range unless she got lucky.
The more Quin thought about it, the more Purgatory seemed like a viable option.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” Waryn asked, making Quin jump in her seat.
“Deities below, you gave me a heart attack,” she griped as she accepted the tumbler of scotch from Waryn’s long-fingered grasp.
“You did seem rather immersed,” he said with a playful smirk, and she held back an eye-roll as she took a sip.
The other Daemon folded his long, lean frame onto the loveseat at her side and studied her screen. “Restaurant?”
“Bakery,” she corrected. “Well, maybe more of a cafe. She had a lot of ideas.”
“They always do.” Picking something shiny off her shoulder, he narrowed his dark eyes. “Why do you have glitter on you?”
“Don’t ask,” Quin said dryly.
“At the strip club again? I told you to keep your affairs a secret,” he chided playfully, and this time, she didn’t stop her eye-roll.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let the cameras see.”
“I do have an image to uphold,” he said pompously, resting an arm over the back of the loveseat behind her shoulders. “Your cousin called me about the flowers.”
With a groan, she rubbed at the space between her eyes where a headache was forming. “Good gods, why is everyone making this such a big deal? They all have to know what this is.”
“I think your mother enjoys the pomp and circumstance, regardless of sincerity. As for the rest, I’m sure they prefer believing in the facade. We are incredible actors, after all.”
At that, Quin snorted. Acting had never been her strong suit. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am,” Waryn sniffed, chuckling when she jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “Ooph, be gentle with me, darling. I’m fragile.”
“You’re full of shit.” Turning back to her computer, she scrolled and took another sip of scotch. “What did my cousin say?”
“Something about yellow being very in right now.”
“Sounds riveting.”
Soft fingertips ghosted over the back of Quin’s neck as he said, “You know, you could at least pretend to tolerate marrying me. It would do wonders in selling it to the papers.”
“I do tolerate you. I may even like you a little bit,” she said without looking away from her screen, but she caught his affronted gasp from the corner of her eye.
“Such poetry!” he said dramatically, before he gripped the back of her neck gently, forcing her to look at him as he dropped the flamboyant act. “I will take care of the details for the party. I’ll tell them that you’re swamped with work or something.”
Genuine fondness squeezed her chest. “Thank you.”
“I don’t have to propose yet,” he said, thumb stroking comfortingly. “Just because your mother is pushing—”
She cut him off with a slight shake of her head. “Might as well get it over with.”
“Be still my heart,” he muttered, softening it with a wink. “You know we don’t have to do this, right?”
“Don’t we?” she asked before she could stop it.
Something like pity cut across Waryn’s face, but it melted away instantly. He really was a better actor than she was. “It isn’t a sacrifice for me.”
Of course not, because he was asexual—and aromantic, Quin thought—and had no desire for a relationship beyond platonic companionship. Because an arranged marriage into a prominent family with good connections was a no-brainer. Because he wasn’t giving up anything he wasn’t willing to lose.
For some strange reason, she thought of Glyma.
The Succubus was practically a stranger, but she represented what Quin would lose—was losing.
Or perhaps what she’d already lost. The moment she realized she was a lesbian, she’d resigned herself to a future of tolerable misery.
The only heir to Claryn Duboi’s family dynasty couldn’t be a carpet-muncher; the family wouldn’t allow it.
The only option was to box it up, secure it with chains and padlocks, and shove it deep, deep down where she could forget it existed. She wouldn’t disappoint her parents. She would do what was expected; she would fulfill her responsibilities.
So what if she would never know what it was like to touch soft, full curves or listen to the feminine sigh of a woman satisfied and love-drunk? It didn’t matter that she was built to love and be loved by another woman. It didn’t matter that she never would be.
This would be enough. It had to be.
“Propose at the party,” Quin said, almost sternly. “Just don’t make it a production.”
Surprisingly, Waryn’s shoulders slumped, as if in disappointment. “Okay.” With a sigh, he stood. “I’m heading to bed.”
“Okay.” She returned her attention back to her computer, jolting when he leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“Don’t stay up too late,” his words whispered over her brow. “You look tired.”
“Such poetry,” she teased as he straightened and headed toward the door.
“A cafe in Purgatory might be the best idea you’ve ever had, by the way,” he said, hesitating on the threshold.
“It wasn’t my idea,” she said honestly.
Fingers drumming on the door jamb, he shrugged. “Then your new client is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s nothing in Purgatory, Waryn.”
“Exactly. No competition,” the Daemon said with a sharp grin. “Oh, don’t forget, we have the charity gala tomorrow night.”
Quin practically growled in irritation. “Another one? What are we raising money for this time?”
“Not sure,” Waryn said, pondering a moment. “Probably illiteracy or hungry orphans or animals or something.”
“Oh gods,” she lamented.
“Chin up, my dear. Your mother already picked out your dress.”
With a huff of steam from her nose, she flipped him off, and he disappeared into the hall, his laughter echoing behind him.
The next night, Quin grudgingly shoved herself into a tasteful but expensive gown that fit like a glove, yet still managed to be the most uncomfortable clothing she’d ever worn.
She left her locced hair down, knowing her mother would scold her if she dared to wear it in her usual messy tangle atop her head.
A shawl had accompanied the dress in the garment bag, but since it was summer, she left it behind.
Waryn looked sharp in a perfectly tailored suit, and when they entered the banquet hall, more than a few heads turned their way to admire him.
He was a handsome man, as men went. He had deep ebony skin and dark burgundy hair that curled around the base of his horns.
And his eyes were arresting; thin, oval pupils the lightest shade of blue they almost appeared silver, surrounded by black sclera.
“Shall I get you a drink?” Waryn said, smiling and waving at an acquaintance Quin recognized by face but not by name.
“Make it strong.” She copied his smile and his wave, though she knew it was less convincing.
“Champagne it is,” he said, and her smile turned brittle. “I’ll be back before your mother finds you.”
“And people say chivalry is dead,” she said dryly, bringing a light chuckle from him.
Mingling with the elite of the Pentagram was familiar but as unpleasant as ever.
It had been easier when she’d been younger, back when she had fooled herself, however briefly, into believing she fit in this world.
She’d never belonged, no, but she could blend in, part of the cast of garish characters in the charade.
Upholding the facade in exchange for comfort and privilege.
But it was a farce, through and through. Plastic smiles and compliments ladened with thorns. Decadence dripping with crude oil. Diamonds bought through the suffering of those believed beneath them all.
The Dubois were not immune. Sure, they built charities and made hefty donations to good causes, just like this one. They’d built hospitals and libraries and ensured the papers published their philanthropic accomplishments. It kept the family in mostly good graces with the public. And the police.
However, if anyone dug deeper, they could connect the Duboi empire to the developers who had flattened The Point of Lust to build vacation chalets and condos where people’s family homes had once stood.
Or the unethical medical testing, insider trading, and lobbying to ensure that the rich got richer while the poor stayed poor.
She’d known that the family dealings weren’t always above board, and for a time, she had tried to turn a blind eye. But then she’d walked through the demolished Point of Lust and watched a Pyclon child no older than ten help his sick mother pilfer through the crumbled remains of a shack.
It was the first time she’d seen the real-life consequences of her family’s greed, of their entitlement, and it had changed everything.
She’d started distancing herself, striking out on her own and building her own business.
She wanted to support herself with honest income, giving back how she could.
It wasn’t enough to cleanse the sins of her family, but maybe it would be enough to erase that Pyclon’s haunting pink gaze from her mind so she could sleep.
“Quin?” a familiar voice said, and she blinked away the memory only to startle at the wide, hot pink eyes gawking at her.
“Glyma?”
The Succubus wore an apron and stood behind one of the serving tables, a triangular cake spatula in one hand, a plate holding a slice of cake in the other. Her hair was secured in a tight bun, and beneath her apron was a pair of black slacks and a white blouse. A catering uniform.
“Wow, you look…” Glyma’s gaze slid down Quin’s frame like lava, though the heat it ignited was doused by her next word. “Uncomfortable.”
Quasi-offended, Quin glanced down at the evergreen dress. “I beg your pardon?”