“Bloody hell.” Pushing to my feet, I wipe the exhaustion from my eyes and shrug back into my jacket. “You two were a lot more interesting when you disliked each other.”
“You didn’t come here for interesting; you came here to get me to spy on your girlfriend and make sure she doesn’t go anywhere or do anything bad.”
“Fiancée,” I grit out, though I’m not sure why I bother making the distinction when I can tell neither of them fully believes the stance, anyway. “I just thought she could use a friend, all right? If she won’t open up to me, perhaps she would another woman.”
“Oh.” Elena’s face falls, and she purses her lips. “Well, that changes things.”
Later, after I’ve got the details of the arrangements with Elena and Lenny set up, I head to The Flaming Chariot. Alistair’s already there, drinking tea in my office chair like he belongs there.
“You look cozy, brother.”
He sucks on the end of a cigar, nodding as the door swings shut. “Lock up, will you? This is hardly a matter for prying ears.”
I take the empty seat across from my desk, toying with the bracelet on my wrist as I wait for elaboration.
Alistair clears his throat. “The Aplana Island Art Society is hosting a gala at their gallery soon. I thought perhaps you and the future Mrs. might like to join?”
“You’re phrasing it as a question, but it doesn’t actually feel like I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Jonas.” He inhales, blowing out puffs of smoke in the next second. “I do think you should attend, however. Show yourselves off as a couple to more than just her family and the few wankers who do write-ups on you. Plus, it will help to have a united front in front of my colleagues.”
The idea of dragging her out and about sounds as appealing right now as a lobotomy, but I can’t tell Alistair that I’m having issues. In all the years I’ve worked for him, finishing a job has never been a problem, and I have no intentions of ending that streak now just because the girl involved is so unbelievably unnerving.
“Perhaps you’re just frustrated,” my brother comments, sticking his cigar in the ashtray near my desktop.
Furrowing my brows, I shake my head, realizing I must have said that last bit out loud. “If you mean sexually—”
“Of course, that’s what I mean. For Christ’s sake, Jonas, if you don’t want to shag the Primrose princess, at least stop by a fucking whorehouse and get your dick wet. This is important, you know?”
“Getting my dick wet is high up on your list?”
“I’m just saying that you can’t think straight if all the blood is constantly rushing south.”
Running a hand through his hair, he shifts his gaze to the desk in front of him, the muscles in his jaw tightening. When we were young, Alistair and I didn’t get along; he’s three years older than me, and his mum depicted our dad in a bad light because of the way their relationship ended, leaving her alone with a toddler.
It was only when I became an adult that we began spending any amount of time together, after he approached me to “handle” some issues he was running into with adversaries at his alma mater. It was petty crime at first—little things like busting the fraternity president’s kneecaps because he was trying to sabotage Alistair’s political aspirations, or embezzlement of department funds into investments that would eventually secure his mayoral campaign.
Like most crimes, the small orders began to spiral out of control. The busted kneecaps became broken femurs and missing fingers, and then I joined the ranks of my father when I killed because someone else asked me to.
A partner at Primrose Realty, though not on the official payroll. I suppose the bloke took himself off in an attempt to distance himself from the atrocities committed by the company, but the underground world doesn’t forget.
Nor does it forgive.
Hence why my father wound up on the receiving end, and I got caught. Our connections came to light, damaging the Wolfe family reputation that had only been thrust into the spotlight because of my brother and me in the first place.
Perhaps that’s why I feel such a strong urge to correct my mistakes.
For the shame brought to our family.
Exhaling, I push to my feet, and Alistair’s eyebrows arch. “Leaving already?”
“Apparently, I have a gala to plan for.”
And while I know I should go straight home and let Lenny know about the event, I don’t. Can’t bring myself to for some inexplicable reason—something terrible, caught between betrayal and desire when it comes to the little puppet I’ve let into my life.
Can’t stop thinking about her kneeling before me like a mortal praying to her god, or how she used that weakness against me later to escape.
To be quite honest, that part is not what bothered me, though.
It was the resistance.
The terror.
In that moment, she felt more like a stranger than the night we met, and I’ve been trying to reconcile that sensation—something vile and hollow—with the warmth I’ve otherwise experienced. It’s been utterly maddening, and I’d be lying if I said the juxtaposition hadn’t driven me over the edge of sanity once or twice since.
The problem with her is that I’ve known all along she would be trouble.
I just fear I’ve miscalculated what kind she’d be.
27
My hand slips as I lean over the canvas, and I catch the heel of my palm on the material, watching the large brush I’m holding drive right through it.
Sitting back on my heels, I blow out a long breath, trying to stabilize my emotions. If I let them snowball out of control, the urge to indulge becomes damn near impossible to manage.
Lifting my chin, I glance at the kitchen island across the room where Jonas stands, swiping on a tablet as he reconfigures the parameters on his security system.
He wears a disconcerted frown, his forehead wrinkled in the middle as he glares at the device. Not once does he glance up, or even look as if he’s tempted to.
Guilt boils in my chest along with every unspoken apology I owe him. My heart wants to say the words, to beg his forgiveness, but my brain is too damn stubborn.
Being wrong is embarrassing. It’s difficult. That’s why so many people double down on their mistakes instead of owning up to them; digging a hole in loose soil is much simpler than climbing out and filling it.
Growing up, Daddy never once admitted when he was in the wrong even though he so often was.
I didn’t see it back then.
Maybe I didn’t want to.
Mama and Daddy were the closest thing I had to friends, and seeing their true colors would’ve meant a very lonely existence for me.
Plus, when I went along with their mistakes, they liked me more. Gave me extra attention, because I would parrot whatever they wanted to hear. Whatever fit their narrative.
Eventually, you regurgitate the misinformation so much, and your credibility suffers. You go from child to pet, from respected to subhuman.
That’s why when Preston told Daddy about what I’d supposedly done, he didn’t believe me.
Called me a liar when I refuted the claims, and then made his own up about me that the media ran with. Because who doesn’t love a good train wreck?