“That might be so if you were talking to her lawyer, but you’re now addressing a member of her family. Her future husband, to be more specific.”
7
Nathaniel
Necessity.
I’ve never liked that word. It’s because of necessity that my brother decided to leave the country, and that got him killed.
It’s because of necessity that people vote for the likes of my father to represent them in spite of the fact that he only cares about himself.
In a way, necessity is the root of all evil. Decisions based on it are a bit impulsive and almost always have dire consequences down the line. Ones that could be dangerous, lethal even.
Of all people, I’m well aware of the dangerous repercussions of hasty actions. I never decide anything unless I have a 360-degree view of the entire situation as well as all of its possible results. This is the first time I’ve taken a step into territory that hasn’t been carefully plotted. It’s like walking through a minefield with a blindfold on.
But just like earlier, I don’t think about the possible repercussions. I shove them to the back of my mind and focus on the now. On the present and its own sets of cause and effect. What I’m doing is out of necessity. The urgency to keep Kingsley’s legacy alive. The burden to protect what he left behind.
However, as I wrap my arm around Gwyneth’s shoulder, burden is the last thing I feel. There’s the usual fire, the scorching hot fucking flames that resemble the color of her hair. There’s the softness of her body, the parting of her rosebud lips, and that fucking vanilla scent that’s starting to grow on me despite myself.
But a burden is not in the picture.
Not even a little.
Not even fucking close.
If anything, there’s a tinge of relief. It’s tiny, almost lost in the midst of the persistent chaos, but it’s there. The knowledge that this is the only way to actually honor King’s last words. That there isn’t any other way to efficiently handle the situation besides this method.
She trembles in my hold. It’s different than when she was struggling to express her grief. This time is more potent, as if her body is unable to convey whatever is lurking inside except through the tremors that take hold of it.
This entire situation must be too much. Sometimes, I fail to see that other people aren’t made for pressure-filled situations. That, unlike me, their feelings are in the forefront, not forgotten somewhere no one can find—or reach.
If Susan hadn’t shown her vicious face, I would’ve attempted to prepare Gwyneth for the decision I made while I was talking to Aspen. I probably wouldn’t have announced it the way I did, like some sort of a bomb whose fallout she’s currently unable to process.
Susan, the stepmother from hell, as King sometimes calls her, stares me down, even though she’s way shorter than me. Her lips twitch and twist and I don’t think she’s even aware of it.
“What are you talking about?” she asks in that condescending manner that’s always pissed King off. He used to say her voice alone put him in the mood to commit a crime, and I’m starting to see why. She has a general grating existence that you can’t wait to get rid of and disinfect it from the air.
“Exactly what I just said. Gwyneth and I are getting married.”
Two pairs of eyes stare at me blankly, coldly even. I don’t focus on Gwyneth’s, not fully at least. If I do, I’ll lose sight of the reason why I dropped the news now—to get rid of Susan, once and for all.
“You can’t possibly mean that. Aren’t you twice her age or something? She’s only twenty.”
As if I don’t know her age. I do, very well. Perfectly so. I’ve been there since she was born.
But instead of giving Susan the opening she’s looking for, I squeeze Gwyneth’s shoulder. “That makes her an adult, capable of making her own decisions. One of which being that she’ll marry me, we’ll have joint property, and she’ll grant me power of attorney. So you might want to call your lawyer and tell him that any legal—or illegal—fight you have with her will go through me.”
The twitching in Susan’s lips increases as she glares at me, but she doesn’t maintain eye contact for too long. My nephew tells me I have a look that makes people uncomfortable in their own skin even without my having to glare.
And like any weakling who can’t stand up to those stronger than her, she latches onto those she believes are weaker and steps toward Gwyneth, jamming a finger at her shoulder. “Is this what you’ve been plotting all along, you devil’s spawn?”