Let people see Daniel’s real legacy: A son so apathetic about his death that he seemed more annoyed at the obligation than anything.
Sometimes, people would give our linked hands a lingering glance, and I’d occupy myself by putting them into categories. The old society ladies would smile sadly at the sight, because they saw a brother and a sister, unified in their grief. Other people's eyebrows would twitch, because they saw us for what we were.
If Killian noticed or cared, he didn’t show it. At one point even resting his arm against the pew behind my shoulders. Seeing as how he spent the rest of the day with the lawyers and the estate people, it was the last stretch of time I got to really exist beside him.
In other words, I’m anxious to get home. Ready for a touch that isn’t full of unnecessary pity. Ready to climb into someone’s lap and feel their arms around me, anchoring me down to this new reality. Ready to feel life instead of death.
If only Marcus, my escort to and from campus, would stop dawdling.
From the driver’s seat, he gives me a couple of quick glances. “Pizza? Sushi? Oh, how about that new salad place? You like salads, don’t you?”
My nose wrinkles, but I don’t tell him the truth, which is that the reason he sees me eating so many salads is owed to Tristian; a man handsome enough that Marcus himself would probably understand. “I’m alright.”
“Hm.” His fingers tap on the steering wheel as he turns right, toward the strip of eateries north of campus. This path will tack another five minutes on our drive. Marcus acts as though he doesn’t see my glare. “What about coffee, then? Coffee and pastries?”
I side-eye him, wondering if there’s a specific reason he doesn’t want to take me straight back to the house. The look he gives me in return is suspiciously innocent. “Seriously. I’m good. Someone ordered pizza at the study session. I had a piece.” Flippantly, I add, “Don’t tell Tristian.”
He holds up his fingers. “Scout’s honor, Lady.”
I can’t imagine the scouts approve of the Lords and their activities, but it’s hard to be annoyed with Marcus. “You were told to keep me away from the house,” I guess, knowing from the flash of alarm in his eyes that I’ve hit the nail on the head. He’s a good guy, and I know he’s just following orders. Unfortunately for him, I’m not great at following them. “Take me home, Marcus. I’ll deal with the fallout.”
For a moment, he seems to weigh who’s the bigger threat, me or the guys, but he ultimately sighs and mutters a string of curses under his breath. Ten minutes later, he pulls right up to the front door of the brownstone, and then cuts the engine. He starts for his seatbelt, but I stop him, holding up my hand. “I can walk the twenty feet to the house by myself.”
He looks at the front door, and then at me. “I don’t know, Story. If the guys find out I didn’t take you all the way home, there will be hell to pay.”
“No, there won’t,” I say, opening the door. “Because I will kick every single one of their asses if they do.” I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for driving me home and being such a good bodyguard.”
“No problem, Lady,” he smiles, blushing a little. “Wave to me when you get inside.”
I promise him that I will and hitch my backpack over my shoulder on the way up the front steps. I’d had a study session after class, but the guys had some kind of important meeting they couldn’t miss. Hence, the bodyguard. In a way, I’m grateful for the time away. We’ve spent so long shut up in this house that the walls felt closer and closer by the day. Despite that, I enter the house with a sigh of relief.
This is home.
“Guys?” I call, dropping my bag in the foyer. “I’m home.”
I strain my ears, listening for footsteps, but all I hear is the distant hum of muffled voices, floating down the hall toward the parlor. I toe off my shoes before following the sounds, approaching the end of the main hallway.
When I hear Killian’s voice, something inside of me unwinds. “And signing these papers? That makes it official?”
Peering inside, the first person I see is Martin, standing quietly by the edge of the desk. He’s not the one who responds.
“Signing those papers transfers your father’s estate to you. It has nothing to do with you becoming a King. That contract is signed in blood—which has already been spilled. You’re his blood, Killian. You know how this works. That passes his kingdom down to you.”