The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(110)

At the top of the grand staircase, Jameson found a window, one that faced out over the stone garden, the view stretching all the way past the cliffs to the ocean and the hint of a storm brewing on the horizon.

“Do you have a death wish, nephew?” Branford’s tone walked the line between an accusation, an order, and a threat. “Answer me.”

Jameson recalled telling his uncle to yell at him later—which was, apparently, now.

“No.” Jameson tore his gaze away from the window and looked back toward the red-haired, sharp-featured, scowling viscount. “I don’t have a death wish.”

“But it doesn’t bother you,” Branford countered. “The idea of dying.” The viscount’s tone was almost too controlled now, a danger sign Jameson recognized all too well.

“I didn’t say that.” Jameson thought back to the moment before he’d leapt onto the bell. He’d hesitated, one thing—one person—on his mind. Avery. Jameson was fast cars and tantalizing risks, laughing in the face of danger and stepping right up to the edge of magnificent drops.

But he was also hers.

“I definitely wouldn’t say that I’m unbothered by the idea of dying,” Jameson continued. “It’s not true.” Anymore. He didn’t go out of his way to risk his life anymore.

Branford’s brows pulled together, his expression severe. “Then I can only conclude that you are completely without sense? That there was perhaps some sort of traumatic head injury when you were a child? Perhaps several? Because I can think of no other explanation for the reckless, ill-considered, impulsive display I witnessed back there.”

It was an odd feeling, being scolded like a child. Like he was someone’s child. Jameson took half a step forward, hands dangling loose by his side. “I don’t need a father,” he told the viscount.

Branford took his own step forward—no half measures. “You don’t have one.” His uncle didn’t pull that punch. “I bear some responsibility for your lack, for the kind of man that Ian is. This family has let him get away with far too much for far too long.” Branford’s mouth settled into a grim line. “That ends. Now.” The full weight of his focus settled on Jameson’s eyes. “With you.”

Jameson thought about the deal he’d struck with his father and the way Ian had tossed it away, tossed him away. “I don’t want anything from your brother,” he said, and he meant it.

He never needed to see or talk to or hear about Ian Johnstone-Jameson again.

“My brother,” Branford replied, “will want plenty from you.”

His meaning sank in like a rock in quicksand. If Ian expected Jameson to hand over Vantage after what he’d pulled, the youngest son of the Earl of Wycliffe was going to be sorely disappointed. But Branford?

Jameson couldn’t help looking at his uncle, studying him, thinking about the way the man had torn into him about unacceptable risks. There was care there—genuine care. “The offer I made you,” Jameson said abruptly. “Back before the game was done. Vantage—”

“—is yours.” Branford glared at Jameson. “I’ll brook no argument on that. Not from you, not from my brothers. You won it. Honestly. Fairly.”

Jameson cocked a brow. “Weren’t you just British-yelling at me about how I won it?”

“We all felt invincible once.” Branford’s voice grew quieter. “We all had something to prove.”

“I don’t have anything to prove,” Jameson said. “I won.”

“You,” Branford countered, “gave up the game.” Those words hung in the air. “I could hear everything that you said, Jameson, everything that Zella said. When she was barely holding on, when you had to choose between winning and saving her—you didn’t call her bluff.”

Jameson could feel himself, right back in that moment. “I wasn’t sure that she was bluffing.”

“Ian would have taken that risk.” Branford’s tone was measured, no frills, no illusions. “He would have let her fall. Bowen, too, though he would have had a plan for deflecting blame. But you?” The viscount took another step forward, until he and Jameson were practically eye to eye. “You thought you were handing over the game, Jameson, and you chose to put the life of another person over winning. You can call that whatever you like. I call it honor.”

Jameson swallowed, unsure why he suddenly needed to. “I won anyway.”

“And I’ll see to it,” Branford replied, “that no one takes that away from you, takes this away from you.” The next thing Jameson knew, his uncle’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him back toward the window, toward that view. “Vantage is yours now. There’s a trust to see to its upkeep, which I administered for Ian and will continue to administer for you.” The viscount’s voice softened. “Come and go as you will. She’s yours now.”

She as in this place, this slice of history, a family legacy that Jameson had been willing to fight for when he wasn’t even considered family.

“Why would you do that for me?” The question caught in Jameson’s throat. “Why would you do anything for me?”

“Had I known about you when you were born,” came the response, quiet and deep, like a river gone suddenly still, “I would have done something then.”