Into the Fading Twilight (Starlight Grove, #2) (130)

Maverick frowned. 'He’ll be mad if I drop you off.'

It wasn’t a question. It was a sad reality. Still, I offered, 'Two more months, and we’re at college. Two more months, and it won’t matter.'

Mav’s fingers wove through mine. 'Two more months.'

His words felt like a vow, and I held on to them with everything I had.

My phone sent out another reminder.

'I gotta go.'

'Text me when you get home. I want to know you got there safe.'

He always did.

I simply nodded as I jogged to the fence, hopping over it and onto the bike I’d left there. I took the makeshift trail across Moonridge Meadow Ranch. The horses were in for the night, but I could still make out the silhouettes of the cattle illuminated by the moonlight. It was comforting somehow, knowing I wasn’t alone, even in the darkness.

My hair flew behind me as I pedaled harder, trying to channel the energy of all the reckless mountain biking and rock climbing Mav favored. I raced past two massive barns, the bunkhouse, the foreman’s house, a few guesthouses, and Granddad’s sprawling place that somehow still felt homey.

In a matter of minutes, I saw the glow of the Victorian-style house Dad had built. Everything about it was fancy and ornate—but somehow fake, too. Because it wasn’t actually old with character and endless stories. Nothing about it said family ranch. It was all formal stiltedness.

I jumped off my bike, hurrying to store it in the equally ornate garage. I had two minutes to spare. I quickly typed out a text.

Me: Home.

The reply was instant.

Maverick: Miss you already.

My body warmed as I headed into the house. Not even the coldness of this place could chill me now. I moved as quietly as possible. It was better not to be noticed. Flying under the radar was always better.

It had gotten easier over the past few months, as my parents spent more time in Santa Barbara, where my dad had opened a financial planning office. It was the perfect job for him, helping the rich get richer. Now, he was rarely in Starlight Grove.

But whenever he was, it felt like an infinite number of invisible mines had been placed under the floorboards of the house. One wrong move, and everything would detonate.

I crept through the kitchen, listening for something, anything. There was no crackle of a fire in the fireplace, no hum of some news program on the TV, no clink of glasses. I let out a breath.

But I shouldn’t have.

'Aster.'

His voice cracked like a whip, making my spine snap straight and every muscle in my body turn to stone.

I forced myself to swallow, to breathe. Turning slowly, I took in the man sitting in the near-dark of the library. There was only the glow of a reading lamp, illuminating a newspaper and a lowball of bourbon sitting on the side table by the leather chair.

Sometimes, I felt like I didn’t recognize the man who’d raised me: the dark hair gone silver at the temples, the lines bracketing his mouth, the glasses that did nothing to hide the coldness in his eyes.

Nothing about our appearance was the similar. His hair was so dark it was almost midnight. Mine, a pale blond. His eyes were amber, and mine were so pale blue they were nearly translucent. Even Camilla’s were darker than mine—still light blue but more pigmented. She always said mine were like zombie eyes. But most of our shared appearance came from our mother. We had none of our father’s dark features.

My throat constricted as he rose from his chair. 'Sir,' I greeted, using the address he preferred. No Dad or Daddy. Not even Father.

His gaze scanned my face, then the rest of me, as if looking for evidence. 'Where were you?'

My pulse thrummed in my neck. 'Riding my bike.'

Not a lie. That was the key. Never give an untruth. He could read them.

He scoffed. 'In the dark.'

I shrugged. 'The moon’s nearly full, and it’s finally cool.'

My father’s gaze narrowed. 'Why do I feel like you’re lying, Aster?'

My airway tightened, making it nearly impossible to breathe, let alone speak.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. 'I know where she was.'

There was such glee in my sister’s voice-pure joy at giving our father every piece of ammunition he needed. Maybe it was that she was still making up for the stunt she’d pulled junior year, running off to LA for a month and getting caught up with a rough crowd. She’d done thirty days in rehab before she was allowed home.

And our father had been solely focused on her misery for months after. He and my mother had made up a story about an eating disorder, but even that had cost them. As if they couldn’t stand the thought of any child of theirs being less than perfect.

'She was with Maverick Archer,' Camilla finished, the joy in her words only intensifying.

Panic set in. My forearms cramped to the point of pain as my hands curled into fists.

My father’s head swiveled slowly, away from my sister and toward me. There was nothing on his face. No fury or disappointment. Only emptiness. And that scared me more than rage ever would.

But Camilla? She grinned. Maybe facing so much of our father’s cruelty had made her this way. Perhaps it was because she so badly wanted a break from his focus that she reveled in the times when I caught it.

It could’ve been because I was usually so good at flying under the radar. A 4.1 GPA. Always completed my chores. Never missed a curfew. Bit my tongue so hard it bled when I wanted to speak out.