Four Adriana
“D O YOU KNOW what this is, Miss Saint Lucent?”
A very red-faced Mr. Gray, one nearly bald and entirely without humor editor in chief of the Wicked Daily, slapped the envelope down hard enough to jolt me from the first draft of my latest scandal report, a particularly scathing article I’d written on my favorite nemesis.
Technically, my only nemesis, but still. He’d positively hate it, which suffused me with such a warm, radiant joy on this blustery afternoon.
It was a welcome relief after a difficult week of reporting. No more rumors of ice dragons attacking circulated, so I had to set that story aside for now. I’d still dig into it in my spare time, though, if only to quell my own curiosity.
Ryleigh was probably right; the informant could have been glamoured by a rival paper, hoping to discredit me. It wouldn’t be the first time another paper went to such lengths to boost their credibility while taking down the competition. Our paper had been doing quite well as of late, thanks in part to my ongoing antagonization of Prince Gluttony.
I glanced up, tucking a strand of pale blue hair behind my ear, wondering if Mr. Gray had hit his head, or if the question was meant to be rhetorical.
Unfortunately, my editor wasn’t known for engaging in intellectual debate and his brows remained stubbornly raised while he waited for my response.
I decided if one asked a stupid question, one surely expected a stupid answer in return. I set my quill down, giving him my full attention.
“It’s an envelope, sir.”
Impossibly, Mr. Gray’s face darkened to an unnatural shade of burgundy, his nostrils flaring at my—admittedly—impertinent response.
If he wasn’t careful, he’d have an embolism right there on the reporting room floor. Though given the nature of our business, one of the staff writers would put a scintillating spin on the tale, driving sales of the Wicked Daily to new heights across the realm.
Nothing sold quite as well as stories involving murder or sex or scandal, or better yet, tales containing all three. And if a Prince of Sin was involved? All the better.
It didn’t matter if the stories were entirely true; perception was all that counted.
Sounds of quills scratching on fresh parchment ceased, the five other staff reporters pausing at their desks, wooden chairs creaking like swaying trees in a forest as they leaned closer, always primed for potential gossip.
Julian Wren was the worst; he looked ready to sink his teeth into the growing tension and gorge himself on it. I half expected drool to dribble down his pointed chin. I subtly gave him a crude hand gesture, causing Ryleigh to stifle a laugh and the other reporters to snort.
Our office was a small three-room rental on the lower level of a two-story row house.
We had access to a basement that I was convinced was the chosen habitat of ghouls and refused to set foot down there lest I attract the undead and invite them home.
I had enough mouths to feed without adding any invisible interlopers.
The top floor was rented by a rival paper, making for interesting and hostile meetings in the shared stairwell. Our main room had six desks, all scarred, ancient, mismatched things collected when others tossed them out for trash.
The small back room held Mr. Gray’s office, and the final space was a tiny water closet that always perfumed the air with a foul odor. The stench was suspiciously worse after Mr. Gray brought his newspaper in and shut the door for an obscenely long hour after a dairy-rich lunch.
No one had the intestinal fortitude to tell him his intestines clearly revolted against cheese. But I was getting closer to letting him in on that poorly kept office secret.
Though, given the steam practically coming from each of his orifices, today wouldn’t be that day.
“It’s much more than an envelope, Miss Saint Lucent,” Mr. Gray gritted out. “Until further notice, you’re off the gossip rags.”
My ears began ringing. Surely I wasn’t being fired. From a scandal sheet.
Brazen as I normally behaved, I couldn’t lose this job. My sister and stepmother depended on my meager earnings to keep the roof over our heads.
Our landlord would toss us out without a second thought if I missed a payment. Out of necessity, not malice. Times were still difficult for a great many, not just my family. Sinners in our circle overindulged in various vices, which led to spending more than we saved. No one regretted their choices; it simply made day-to-day living a struggle for the majority.
“On what grounds am I being let go?”
“Why else? Your rivalry with the prince.”
“It’s a few unflattering gossip columns; they’re hardly serious enough to create a rivalry, sir.”
“Perhaps not to you, but His Highness is threatening to burn us to the ground.”
Mr. Gray wrenched open the letter and pointed a meaty finger at the House Gluttony crest. I glared at the serpentine dragon winding itself around the stem of the chalice overflowing with grapes, its jeweled eyes slitted from overindulging.
“His Highness alleges your egregiously false reports are tarnishing not only his reputation, but his House of Sin, and demands immediate action be taken, or else he’ll hold the paper liable. We can’t afford to keep our doors open if the prince makes good on his threats. I warned you to stop antagonizing him.”
It was surprising that Axton at least knew the word egregious. Too bad the damned prince was ruining my life once again, it seemed.
Maybe I was the true glutton for punishment, a fact that irked me to no end.
I wanted nothing to do with the spoiled, self-absorbed prince aside from watching—or better yet, sparking— his downfall in the Seven Circles.
A feat that was proving to be harder than I’d expected.
Apparently, everyone in the realm adored his rakish antics and lavish parties, finding him completely charming and aloof.
Prince Gluttony was touted as “the perfect, unattainable bachelor.” One who didn’t care how often he wasted riches others dreamed of having, all in the name of feeding his sin.
He was the epitome of decadence and frivolity, of overindulging.
And I despised all he stood for.
One of his parties could feed my entire neighborhood for a month. And yet his guests hardly noticed the delicacies being served.
Not everyone in the Seven Circles came from wealth, but most of the working-class citizens in my neighborhood believed in impossible fairy tales. Stories of hope.
Rags to riches and the unrelenting idea that true love could overcome class, station, rank, and other societal barriers. As if those were simply small hurdles to jump over and not massive walls erected to keep the rich together in their own private world.
Once upon a time, I’d gotten swept up in that fantasy too.
A mistake I wasn’t foolish enough to repeat.
My sister called me a cynic, but I saw it as being logical and not prone to delusion.
Prince Gluttony had divested me of any daydreams I might have secretly had nearly ten years prior, when I was just nineteen and only partly cynical.
Not that he knew or cared. His prospects were unending, his immortal life charmed.
Ryleigh had informed me and two other reporters just this morning there were eight new petitions circulating that called for the prince to host a competition to find a bride, for saints’ sakes. Even Prince Lust, the premier prince of pleasure, hadn’t drawn such notice among the matchmaking mothers in the Seven Circles. Prince Gluttony was all anyone seemed to discuss.
As if he were the prize of the century.
The whole damned realm was under his spell; even noble families from other circles wished to make an advantageous match for their heirs with him, regardless of whether their sins aligned.
Gabriel Axton didn’t even have the decency to recall the role he’d played in my fall from grace all those years ago. But I would never forget.
“Since when is reporting on truth punished?” I challenged my editor.
Mr. Gray leveled me with an icy stare as he quoted, most impressively, “‘That the prince would attempt to play coy and fail spectacularly is unsurprising. Gluttony is the least clever of his brothers.’ Sound familiar?”
Of all the things I’d written, that was the most offensive? What of the newest article claiming he was more slothful than the Prince of Sloth? That was the highest insult I could sling, claiming Axton’s sin was more like his brother’s than his own.
The old door clattered open behind us, letting in a burst of frigid air that unsettled the papers on my desk, but I didn’t remove my attention from my boss.
I waited for Mr. Gray to crack a smile or break into laughter at the absurdity, to tell me it was all in jest and to carry on with my latest draft. My articles might not be award-winning pieces, but they were entertaining and often helped sell our paper to keep us afloat.
When he didn’t smile, I drew myself up so I was almost eye level with him.
“Where is the lie? He did fail at playing coy and, in my opinion, Gluttony is the least clever of the seven princes.”
Ryleigh coughed into her fist, but I was too annoyed to glance her way.
“Gluttony doesn’t have Wrath’s mind for war or strategy, or Envy’s cunning for games, or Pride’s exceptional focus. All he does is indulge his sin by raking and ravishing. Those are hardly qualities to boast about.”
“No one’s perfect, darling,” a deep voice interrupted from behind me. “But your opinion is personal, not factual.”
It was the sort of low timbre that teased and seduced, eliciting all sorts of dark fantasies.
I would know; it often fueled my fantasies of murder and dismemberment.
I stiffened for only a beat before my temper flared, my gaze clashing with Ryleigh’s across the aisle. A cough? I thought at her, knowing she’d read the incredulous look in my expression.
Ryleigh had the good grace to glance away, finding her own article suddenly very interesting as she fiddled with her inkpot and avoided my accusing stare.
I shot another withering look around the room. None of my wretched coworkers had warned me the bane of my existence had entered our small office. Not that they would. We were all in slight competition with one another to earn the most coin for the paper, which made for a rather hostile work environment. Ryleigh and I never competed, though.
My coworkers all bowed their heads in deference, my editor included.
I drew in a deep breath, resigned to what I had to do for the sake of propriety.
I slowly pivoted to face the saints-forsaken prince in question, hating that victorious grin curving his lips as my attention swept over him in cool assessment.
All six feet whatever inches of him lazily leaned against the doorframe, toned arms crossed in his fine suit, hazel gaze running over me in triumph, his wretched golden-brown hair mussed in a way that suggested he’d just come from someone’s bed.
The perfect image of royal debauchery and indulgence.
A legendary lover, if only in his own mind.
If he thought he’d won, he was sorely mistaken.
Our little war was only just beginning.
Out of protocol for his rank, I offered him a slight curtsy, standing again before he’d acknowledged it.
Wry amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“We report on rumors and gossip, Your Highness. With all due respect, it’s all hearsay and opinion.”
“Yet your opinion is almost entirely fiction these days, Miss Saint Lucent.”
“Are you claiming that other gossip columnists don’t embellish their stories?”
“We’re not discussing other columnists. Just you.”
“Precisely the point, Your Highness. I’m the only one being sought out and punished for doing my job.”
“So you admit your job has devolved into writing fiction, not fact.”
“My job is to take the truth and make it entertaining. And yes, I’d argue that my opinion is perfectly valid for doing just that.”
“Except when it’s printed for the world to see and is not based in fact yet claimed as such. That, Miss Saint Lucent, is delving into the realm of libel.”
The self-satisfied ass looked entirely too pleased with his argument. My coworkers and editor, however, appeared ready to launch themselves out of the line of fire.
Except, of course, for drooling Julian. The salivating leech furiously scribbled notes in his journal. I made a mental note to snatch it from his desk and burn it before the office closed.
I focused on the matter at hand, silently counting until the urge to throttle Prince Gluttony passed.
“If I may speak plainly—”
He snorted. “As if you’ve ever held your tongue. Don’t start now, darling.”
I drew in a deep breath, ignoring his antagonistic term of endearment.
“As I was saying, you’ve yet to prove me wrong in any of my assumptions. I do not believe you succeeded in playing coy. Please educate me on how that’s fiction.”
I crossed my arms, waiting.
A muscle in the prince’s jaw ticked but he remained quiet.
Victory had never felt more satisfying. I ought to have quit while I was ahead, but I couldn’t stop myself from twisting the knife a bit deeper.
“It sounds as if the true issue is that I’ve struck a nerve, Your Highness. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. The male ego is one of the most fragile things in the universe. One teeny, tiny hit and it shatters like glass. Maybe it’s not my fiction, but the truth you abhor. I doubt anyone tells you how they actually feel. In any aspect relating to your public or… private life.”
The devil-may-care smile didn’t falter, but the glint in his eyes darkened to something dangerous. He’d certainly understood the subtle jab at his lovemaking.
Gabriel Axton, Prince Gluttony, was well and truly annoyed now.
At least that was one emotion we grudgingly shared.
And to think it was often said that enemies couldn’t find commonality.
My lips twitched upward, his gaze narrowing on the movement. Axton was at least wise enough to note the action meant his battle was far from won.
As much as I would have loved to keep needling him for my own personal satisfaction, it was time to keep my mouth shut. There were too many important factors at stake, none of which included my pride, so I vowed to bite my tongue. For now.
Surely we could be in the same room for five minutes and not kill each other.
The prince seemed to feel differently. He straightened from where he’d been leaning, his body tensed like a predator ready to strike. Gone was any pretense of indifference.
He was all fire now, no ice.
“The truth is I couldn’t care less about your boring opinion pieces, Miss Saint Lucent. Libel is another matter altogether. I won’t tolerate outright lies being printed, especially when they negatively impact my House of Sin.”
“I—”
“Your opinion on what you believe I’ve done is just that, an opinion, ” he continued, not waiting for my response. “Unless you interview me or are physically present and I’m explaining every last action aloud, you ultimately don’t know the first thing about the truth. Claiming you do is where you’re wrong. Writing ‘ I believe he is the least clever of the princes’ wouldn’t have been libelous. That would have alerted readers that you were speaking on opinion. Instead, you framed it as fact. And that is what I take issue with.”
I wanted to argue but couldn’t. He was damnably correct.
For once.
He gave me a cool once-over, his attention passing over my drab woolen dress, falling to my scuffed black boots, then flicking back up, his expression now unreadable.
The prince had never sought me out outside of any royal parties I’d attended for work before and clearly wasn’t used to seeing me dress like the commoner I was.
I’d heard rumors over the years, whispers of my being from the Shifting Isles, or distantly related to witches—which was especially damaging to my reputation and career since witches and demons were sworn enemies and the nobles would trust me even less to openly share gossip—so I’d gone out of my way to present myself as a member of the nobility, often fooling others into believing I’d grown up as privileged as they had.
It was necessary to gain entry to their world and secrets.
Times like this, however, revealed who I really was. And Axton seemed less than impressed—one more blasted sentiment we shared about each other.
I locked my jaw, remembering what was at stake: my family’s security. That was worth more to me than engaging in another disagreement.
“Perhaps you ought to think about joining House Envy,” he said, far too casually.
He was baiting me.
I knew it.
The office of nosy reporters who drew in a sharp breath knew it. And yet…
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
As if my question granted him permission to cross the room, the prince was suddenly before me, his lips almost touching the shell of my ear as he leaned in and dropped his voice.
“You’re clearly jealous, Miss Saint Lucent. If you’d like to visit my bed, say the word. I’d hate to leave you in such a distressed state when I can indulge your obvious desire.”
A fresh wave of annoyance crashed through me. Each time he opened his mouth, the prince only proved my assumptions of him being a self-absorbed ass correct.
He stepped back, turning his attention to Mr. Gray before I could do something foolish like step on his boot. Or drop him to his knees.
“Keep Miss Saint Lucent on staff—I imagine she’d do well with any subject aside from gossip. Perhaps an advice column since she has so many opinions to share.” He paused for a moment, immediately putting me on edge. “Romance might be her strong suit.”
I quickly wiped any horror from my expression, my pulse ticking faster as my editor flashed a look of interest my way, his bushy brows raised in thought.
An advice column on romance was the worst thing I could imagine writing each week.
I felt the unmistakable heat of attention on me and glanced Axton’s way. The cursed prince had been watching me carefully, his smile growing more wicked by the second.
All at once I understood.
Axton knew I’d hate that; he’d chosen his return fire carefully. He didn’t march in here today with the hope of taking my job; he’d come with a much more cunning plan to destroy me. Proving he was far more strategic than I’d believed. Saints curse him.
I’d burn at the stake before I ever gave him credit for the clever move.
I had wondered why he’d come all the way to printers’ row to deliver the message himself, when as far as I knew he’d never so much as stepped foot below the night district.
Now I understood with stark clarity. It was to see his plot unfold in real time. Probably so he could stroke himself later to the memory of his one great act of cleverness.
I immediately banished the image that came on the heels of that thought.
“In fact, Mr. Gray,” he went on, eyes sparkling with silent laughter the madder I became, “I rather like the idea of citizens of my circle writing in to Miss Match. Or Lady Lovestruck. I’ll leave the details to you. And Miss Saint Lucent, of course. She is the one with the wildly creative imagination, after all.”
“Your Highness, I promise my imagination is hardly worthy of note.”
“Don’t be coy, Miss Saint Lucent. Just last week Jackson Rose was telling me all about your time together; you made quite the impression on him at the Gunners’ ball.”
My face heated. I was going to borrow a shovel and bury Jackson in a deep, dark hole.
“Well, it looks like we’re done here.” He flashed another victorious grin my way. “Have a wonderful evening, Miss Saint Lucent. I so look forward to reading your romantic advice. It might come in handy. What with all my ravishing and raking and all.”
Prince Gluttony winked at me, then swept from our office as quickly as he’d come, leaving me quietly fuming.
I stared after him, mind racing. Of all the nefarious plots he could devise, the devil had chosen my personal hell with devious precision.
I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed or run screaming into the abyss.
Unless I could think of a better alternative right away, I was well and truly trapped.
“That’s settled, then,” Mr. Gray said, striding toward his office at the end of the room. “We’ll collect some questions from staff shortly and print the first Miss Match article in two days.”
I rushed after my editor.
“With all due respect, I know nothing of giving relationship advice, sir.”
Mr. Gray paused outside his door, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Then I suggest you sort that out before we go to print. You did have hopes of being a novelist, did you not?” he asked. “That skill might be useful. Pretend they’re characters.”
Once, I’d imagined myself creating thrilling mysteries to escape to, sharing them with the world. Now my time was devoted entirely to keeping my family fed and sheltered, not indulging in fanciful dreams that might never come true.
When I remained silent, my editor shook his head, disappointment plain on his face.
“I expect the first draft on my desk tomorrow afternoon, Miss Saint Lucent. If you miss the deadline, don’t bother coming to work.”