Mother pats me on the cheek. “Just like their brother.”
“Oh, yes, he’s the sweetest,” Story says, but I see the dark flicker run through her eyes. It’s brief, but I know how to read it. I’ve been anything but sweet to this girl. I forced her to deep throat my cock. I defiled her in public. I held her down while Rath fucked her with a knife. I carved my initial in her chest. “I’m a lucky girl.”
I’ve tried making it up to her. I turned off the cameras. I’ve kept my hands to myself when we’re in public. I doted on her during her period, not even making a fuss out of all the processed carbs she ate. I even agreed she should do the wrestling match. I know better than anyone the urge to make your own way and get out from under the thumb of expected constraints. But even though we’ve made some progress, I don’t know how to prove to her that I’m in. That I’m really, truly, fully, all-in.
Except maybe to bring her here.
I wind my arm around her waist, pulling her close. “I know what you’re thinking, mother, but I’ve been brushing up on my waltzing skills, and I’m about eighty percent sure I won’t fall flat on my face out there.”
I can’t remember my mother ever being speechless before. She is, as a rule, unable to keep her mouth shut at any given moment. But right now, she’s staring at me and nothing is coming out. It’s not that she doesn’t try. Her lips keep parting, chest swelling with an inhale, but then it just floats out of her nostrils like a phantom.
Story is stiff against my side, and the only reason I look away from my mother’s alarmed expression is to give her a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know how to lead.”
“The Carters!” my mother suddenly bursts, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. I’m immediately suspicious of the relief in her eyes, which is smart of me. She’s gathered herself back up into the proper hostess, beaming as she adds, “I didn’t think Holden would be able to attend, considering how sick he’s been. But there they are, see?” She waves, gesturing to me to follow her gaze.
Stupidly, I do.
All the color drains from my face.
Genevieve is across the room, dressed in scarlet and black, and she’s staring straight at me. Smiling, she raises her hand to give me a little wave.
My arm falls away from Story as I grab my mother’s wrist, hissing, “What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Tristian!” she scolds, shaking free. “Watch your language! The Carters are our oldest friends, and they’re going through a dreadful time right now.”
My jaw locks as I fight to contain the rage thrashing within my chest. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
My mother gives me a weary look. “Gen is their daughter, and the invitation was to the family. You can put two and two together.”
Oh, I sure as hell can.
This is a set-up.
Story looks almost as blindsided as I feel, whipping around to glance at the object of my eternal bitterness. I could achieve immortality, stand on the edge of the world a million years from now, watching the heat death of the universe, and it’d still be in the back of my thoughts.
That bitch.
“I didn’t know.” I bite the words out, said more to Story than my own conniving mother, but that’s who answers.
“Well, you might have,” my mother says, giving me a pointed look, “if you were more involved in the family’s affairs and less distracted with your other…” She presses her lips into a flat smile, cutting her eyes at Story. “… activities.”
I mirror her barbed smile. “You’re being so fucking rude, I don’t even know where to start.” Her smile falls, but before she can chide me, I demand, “Don’t organize an ambush and expect me to watch my fucking language.” I turn to Story, grazing my fingertips over the cuff on her wrist. “Sweetheart,” I say, in a voice as calm as possible. “Will you go to the kitchen and make sure they send up something extra sugary for the twins?” I stare across the room. “I need to talk to my mother for a moment.”
“We can leave,” she says quietly. “I know—”
I cut my eyes at her. “Now, Story.”
She recoils, and I know why. There are few things that can bring out this icy sharpness in me, and one of them is standing across the room. I can’t explain to her why Gen has this hold over me. From Story’s vantage, it probably looks wrong, because hating someone—true, chaotic, red-hot hatred—means you still feel something for them. It means they can cut you, because you’d let them. It means they live rent-free inside your head, taking up space and driving you crazy.