Devil's Pawn, page 1
Devil’s Pawn
The Devil’s Pawn Duet Book 1
Natasha Knight
Copyright © 2022 by Natasha Knight
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Click here to sign up for my newsletter to receive new release news and updates!
* * *
Like my FB Author Page to keep updated on news and giveaways!
* * *
Join my Facebook Group, The Knight Spot, by clicking here!
About This Book
Isabelle
* * *
Jericho St. James hates my family.
* * *
Powerful, wealthy beyond belief, he’s the most dangerous man I know.
* * *
And I belong to him.
* * *
He’s taken me from my home.
He’ll make me his wife.
And he’s made it very clear I’ll be sleeping in his bed.
* * *
But my beast has a secret.
* * *
His one weakness. One that makes hating him impossible.
* * *
He has a daughter.
* * *
And he’ll do anything to keep her safe.
* * *
Jericho
* * *
The Bishops stole what money cannot replace.
* * *
A life for a life. Now I’ll take one of theirs.
* * *
Isabelle is my pawn.
* * *
I will make her my wife.
I will bed her.
She will be mine in every way.
* * *
And once I take what I need from her, I will erase the Bishop family as if they never existed at all.
Contents
1. Isabelle
2. Jericho
3. Isabelle
4. Jericho
5. Isabelle
6. Jericho
7. Isabelle
8. Jericho
9. Isabelle
10. Isabelle
11. Jericho
12. Isabelle
13. Jericho
14. Isabelle
15. Jericho
16. Isabelle
17. Jericho
18. Isabelle
19. Jericho
20. Jericho
21. Isabelle
22. Isabelle
23. Jericho
24. Isabelle
25. Jericho
26. Isabelle
27. Jericho
28. Isabelle
29. Jericho
30. Isabelle
31. Jericho
32. Isabelle
33. Jericho
34. Isabelle
35. Jericho
36. Isabelle
37. Isabelle
38. Jericho
39. Isabelle
40. Isabelle
41. Jericho
42. Isabelle
43. Jericho
44. Jericho
45. Isabelle
Thank you
Also by Natasha Knight
About the Author
1
Isabelle
A masquerade ball. What can be more beautiful? More perfect? Especially one put on by The Society.
Bouquets of flowers spill over tables set with the best china. Waiters serve champagne in crystal flutes and an eight-piece orchestra plays a waltz beneath the dazzling glow of a dozen chandeliers.
It’s every girl’s fantasy.
Every girl but me.
I stand in the shadows and watch the dancers. Men and women move together as if they’ve practiced this all their lives. I wonder if they are guests or professional dancers hired by The Society to add to the ambiance. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter because I’m pretty sure I didn’t look like they do when I danced with the stream of men my brother, Carlton, arranged for me.
I shudder at the thought of my last dance partner. A man old enough to be my grandfather.
A breeze blows into the grand Baroque ballroom as someone opens a window a few feet from me. The rain has slowed to a drizzle and the room is muggy even with the air conditioning running on high.
After a quick glance to confirm Carlton isn’t watching, I drink the last of my champagne and set the empty flute on a nearby table. I slip quietly toward the exit and out the double French doors that stand open, in spite of the damp night.
In the courtyard, small tents have been erected to protect guests from the rain. They’re decorated with warmly glowing lanterns and too many flowers to count. Men and women collect beneath the tents drinking, smoking their cigarettes and laughing too loudly.
Everyone turns to look at me as I pass. It’s the dress. It’s ridiculous with its feather skirt that barely reaches mid-thigh and the cinched waist of the corset top which is seriously limiting my oxygen supply. Carlton’s choice. It showed all my best attributes apparently. At least the mask, which I liken to chainmail, leaves only my eyes on display.
The mask is pretty with it’s delicate gold chains and coins brushing my shoulders with each step. And it offers some protection from curious eyes. The too-revealing dress I could do without.
Deciding to risk the drizzle that will likely make the feathers of my dress wilt, I hurry to the small chapel on the other side of the courtyard. No one will be there. I know that for sure. Society members may profess to be religious but from what I’ve seen, they’re going through the motions. Showing up in their Sunday best, each outdoing the other, at least where fashion is concerned.
The wooden door is heavy. It creaks open just far enough to let me slip inside. I close it behind me and breathe a sigh of relief at the familiar sight, familiar scent. I miss incense when I’m away too long and Carlton isn’t the church-going type.
I like this particular chapel especially. I have since I was little and my mom brought me with her when she cleaned the compound. I still remember sitting in the front pew, my legs too short for my feet to touch the floor. I remember how at home I felt when she sat me here to wait for her while she did her work.
I walk to that pew now, taking in the usual shadows of the place. The only light comes from candles lit along alcoves in the walls and those on the altar. When I get to the center of the aisle, I bow my head, make the sign of the cross, then take a seat. I slip off my shoes. The heels are too high and the fit too narrow. I touch the familiar carving in the pew. Two initials. CY.
It’s the same seat I always take when I can get here. Right in the front row as if God could see me better for it. It’s not that I ask for anything. I know better than that. It’s not even that I pray. I just close my eyes and feel the silence here. The absolute absence of sound.
It’s better than any masquerade ball. Better than dances with a hundred men as Carlton brokers a union that will benefit the family. I don’t think it’s crossed his mind what I want. Don’t think he’s considered the fact that while it may benefit his—our—family, it has already taken me off the course I’d set for myself years ago.
But I can’t dwell. Not now. I need a reprieve and this chapel, these stolen moments, are it.
And so, I open my eyes and lift my gaze to the altar. One of the candles that is usually lit has blown out. I wonder if I did that when I walked in. I get up to relight it.
A creak along the back of the chapel startles me. I gasp, spin around. It’s darkest there, just before the baptismal font. Almost pitch black. I peer into the shadows but see no movement, hear no other sound.
“Is someone there?” I ask, feeling silly when no one answers.
It’s old wood creaking. That’s all.
I turn back around, trying to ward off the chill that’s clung to me all night. But I remind myself it’s always cooler in the chapel and resume my walk to the altar. There, I find the book of matches and strike one. The flame glows bright and I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the wick of the tall candle.
Soon it’s lit and I’m blowing out the match when the sound of laughter from just beyond the door disrupts the peace of this place. Before I know it, the chapel door slams against the wall.
I jump.
Two men stumble in, laughing as they do, and one rushes to shove the door closed behind him. With them they bring the stench of alcohol and weed. The moment I see their faces, I’m sure they’re both high. I can see it in their red eyes, in the flush of their skin, hear it in their strange, giddy laughter.
I’d guess them to be twenty, twenty-one maybe. Just a year or two older than me. And I recognize one of them. I danced with him not one hour ago. Although I can’t recall his name. Only that I didn’t like him. Didn’t like the way his fingers caressed the exposed skin of my back as he spun me around the dance floor.
“There she is,” he says, as if recognizing me, too. His mask is pushed to the top of his head and he licks his lips, allowing his gaze to linger at the swell of my breasts above the bodice of the dress. “That’s the girl,” he tells his companion with a nudge of his elbow.
The other ones eyes are locked on me, mouth hard, set in an ugly line.
“The Bishop girl,” he says. Both come closer, one stopping behind me. “Half-Bishop,” he clarifies.
“The right half,” the other one says, and they both laugh although I don’t get the
“I don’t think so,” I tell him, stepping out of his reach but in doing so cornering myself against the altar.
“Why not? I wouldn’t make a deal with your brother sight unseen. You never know, am I right?”
“I think Manson is the one making the deal, bro,” his friend says and makes a face.
He reaches again and this time when he gets his fingers in my hair I shove at him with both hands, managing to push him backward. He’s off balance because he’s both high and drunk. I realize how much more dangerous that makes him when his eyes narrow to angry slits as his friend laughs.
“Excuse me, I need to get back,” I say, turning to slip away, managing to take a step before he catches my arm.
I stop, look at his hand then up at him. I paste a smile on my face and step closer. My heart thuds against my chest. I’m not sure if I’m more angry or afraid but I know two things.
First, I need to get away from these two or it’s not going to bode well for me. And second, I cannot show my fear no matter what. Some men get a high from that alone.
“My brother is on his way. He won’t like you putting your hands on me,” I say.
“I wouldn’t call this putting my hands on you,” he says, then turns to his friend. “Would you?”
His friend shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Now this I’d call putting my hands on you,” the one who has hold of me says, turning me slightly and slapping my ass so hard that I stumble forward. It makes both men erupt in laughter as his grip around my arm tightens.
But that’s when I hear that same sound I heard before. Coming from the same shadowy corner. Except this time, it’s not creaking wood.
Something moves when I look to the spot.
Dust motes dance in candlelight, but the two who barged into the chapel don’t notice the shift in the air until we hear the footfalls. They turn and we all watch as the darkness takes form and begins to move toward us.
My heart pounds against my chest and for a moment, I’m not sure if it’s man or beast for the shadow it casts. But then I recognize the long black cloak of the Sovereign Sons. It billows around the man making that darkness following him even bigger, more frightening.
He’s too tall. Too broad-shouldered. Everything about him too dark, from the black-on-black beneath the traditional cloak, to the horned mask hiding his face, to the fury directed at the men who’ve cornered me.
He doesn’t bother with words. He simply steps toward us, the two looking like boys as he looms closer, towering over them in build and height and sheer presence. He glances only momentarily at me before his eyes hone in on the one grasping my arm. It seems to take no effort at all for him to pry the man’s hand off me. My tormentor’s face contorts in pain as the masked stranger twists his arm behind his back. His friend backs away one step, two before running for the door.
“What the fuck, man?” cries the one who can’t run. “Let go!”
The stranger twists a little more.
“She’s not yours to break,” he whispers, voice low and hard.
I process the words, shudder at the strange sense of foreshadowing.
I realize I’ve backed up against the altar. I’m staring, mouth gaping, heart racing. And I see what the mask he’s wearing portrays. Some sort of horned beast. A devil.
But it’s when he pins me with his gaze that something drops to my stomach, possibly my heart, because I stop thinking. Stop breathing.
I stare back into the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Danger.
It’s the only thought I have. The single word my mind can muster.
One of his eyes is midnight blue, the other a steely gray. And his gaze is full of something so malevolent, I feel it like fire burning my flesh.
It’s an eternity before he releases me from his gaze and simultaneously shoves the drunk man toward the door. A moment later I’m alone with the masked stranger.
He’d been here all along. Sitting in the shadows silently watching me.
All night I’d felt it. Eyes on me. All night I’d felt that chill. I shudder now because it was him. This masked man. I recognize the sensation, the unease. That sense of being exposed. Alone in a room full of people.
My mouth goes dry. I press my back to the altar, hands clutching the edge of it.
His gaze roams over me leaving goose bumps in its wake. I shudder. He must see it. Must realize I’m terrified. And only when he takes a step back are my lungs able to work again. Am I able to draw breath again.
“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says. “It’s not safe for a woman alone when there’s alcohol and idiots about.”
I stare up at him, stupefied.
“Your shoes,” he says.
“What?” I ask, my voice a whisper.
He gestures down and I look at my bare feet, then up at him. I point to where I’d left them. He gets my shoes and carries them back to me. He stands just a little too close, too much in my space like it’s his, like it belongs to him and I’m the invader.
I still can’t seem to move.
“I won’t eat you,” he says in that low, rumbling voice.
My chest shudders with a deep breath. I tell myself to relax. It’s nothing. He just saved me. What I felt, that chill, it’s just my imagination.
“Not yet anyway,” he says, and I know he’s grinning beneath his mask.
I swallow. I’m shaking.
He bends to set my shoes on the floor. I take in the sheer size of him. He’s easily twice as big as me. He straightens and holds out his hand, palm up. Along his wrist I see the creeping of a tattoo. A serpent’s tail.
I’m staring. It takes all I have to drag my gaze up to his.
“Put your shoes on,” he says.
My throat is too dry to speak, to form words or make sound, so I slip my hand into his and gasp at the sudden shock.
He closes his fingers around mine and I feel the sheer power in the palm of his hand as he holds me steady. He studies me for a long, long moment before I blink, lowering my gaze and slipping on my shoes.
“Good,” he says, and I just keep standing there, my hand trapped inside his.
The gong announcing dinner rings. I look up at him.
He lets his gaze drop to my lips, then lower, to the swell of my breasts. Sweat slides down the back of my neck. He releases my hand and cups the gold chains hanging from my mask as if weighing them, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Isabelle Bishop,” he says, looking at me again.
He knows my name. How does he know my name?
The gong sounds a second time. And, after long moments of silence, a third.
He steps backward.
“Go back to the party, Isabelle Bishop, and remember to keep out of dark rooms. You never know who’s lying in wait.”
2
