He’s so close. That kiss was the best we’ve had in days, and god, the way he smells. There’s this lock of blonde hair that’s escaped from his careful styling, and this tiny, insignificant, otherwise normal thing suddenly makes him look so mussed and flustered that I find my own fingers twitching.
For a long moment, it’s hard to remember what this whole sex moratorium is even about.
“Tris, where do you want this bowl of disappointment?” Dimitri asks, walking into the room. “I tried to toss it, but Posey won’t let me.”
I look over Tristian’s shoulder and see him staring blankly into the bowl we’d brought. If my mom thinks I look tired, then god only knows what she must think of my Lord. He looks pale and haggard, all his usual brashness absent from the drooping line of his shoulders. His voice is just as hoarse and anemic as he appears. When he glances up, Dimitri’s dark eyes flicker between us, narrowing.
“I’ll take it,” I say, side stepping Tristian and grabbing the cauliflower. I find a spot on the table, which is when Killian and Daniel step into the room. And there we all are, standing stiffly, our eyes avoiding one another.
Forget the turkey. The tension is what needs to be cut with a knife.
“Looks delicious,” Daniel says, walking directly to the head of the table. Arm clutched to his chest in the sling, he passes my mother, still holding the turkey platter between her hands, and leans down to kiss her on the cheek. “Wonderful job, dear.”
“Thank you, Daniel.”
She places the dish in front of him and moves to the opposite side of the table. When I shift to sit next to her, a strong hand settles on my shoulder. A chill creeps up my spine when Daniel says, “Story, we haven’t had a chance to catch up since you arrived. Why don’t you sit down here with me.” His words are polite and casual, just like the easy smile on his face.
Resisting the urge to flinch—a futile gesture that will just embarrass me further—I glance across the table at Killian. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks painful. I know the rules. For now, we play Daniel’s game. He’s the King. I sit as instructed and the men follow suit, taking their seats. Beneath the table, I wring my hands, just barely fighting back a disgusted grimace. He’s holding the carving knife, and I can’t help but stare at the sharp point of it, thinking about Viv and the letters carved into her chest. KTR. The same letters that are carved on mine.
The difference is that her throat was slit.
My stomach rolls as he clumsily, one-handed, carves into the turkey. I try to tune it all out. The prickle of awareness of the Lords’ eyes on me. The heat from Daniel standing so close. The sight of the blade cutting into the flesh. Maybe Tristian has the right idea with this veganism stuff. My face must be positively green.
Daniel takes his seat, so close that I tuck my limbs in, certain that if I touch him, I really might vomit. There’s a stretch of time where we all fill our plates, hands reaching across the table. This has never been a table for saying grace. Back when I was a teenager, I used to amuse myself with the possibility that doing such a thing would cause Killian and his father to collapse in a fit of unholy seizure. Now, I’m just grateful we won’t have to do something as absurd as holding hands to pray.
My mom, completely oblivious to the tension, breaks the silence. “Shoot!” she says plucking her napkin from her lap. “I forgot the cranberry sauce.”
I frantically sweep the napkin from my own lap, offering, “I’ll get it!”
A large hand clamps down on my thigh. “You’re our guest, Story. Let your mother give you a nice dinner.”
Standing, Mom instantly agrees. “No need for a fuss. I’ll just be two shakes.”
She’s out of the dining room before she can even notice the stiff set of my spine. Daniel’s fingers dig in deep, so vicious and painful that it’s a physical battle to remain composed, but I do. I refuse to wince. One glance at Killian tells me he’d have this entire table upended if he knew his father’s hand was on me. Hurting me. Bruising me. Marking me.
The second my mom returns, a ceramic dish in hand, I clatter back in my chair, lurching from my seat. Daniel only gets the barest flash of a moment to let me go, but he does it seamlessly.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Story?” my mother asks.
“I-I’m fine. I just need to be excused.” I give a tight smile. “Go ahead without me. I’ll be back in a minute.”
My strides are level until I reach the other room, where I draw in a big gulp of air. I keep walking down the hall, putting as much distance between me and Daniel as I can. Reaching for the bathroom doorknob, I push it open, realizing too late that I’m in the wrong room. This isn’t the bathroom, it’s Daniel’s office. My eyes go instantly to the desk and the chair behind it.