Plus, she’s got a roster of hot dicks orbiting her like she’s the sun.
Hot dicks you say?
Damn girl! Don’t you have enough?
Yeah, but you could use a few.
Unless I read that wrong.
She didn’t, but I’m going to make her sweat that one out. Leaving her on read, I swallow my grin and glance up at Dad. He’s still rambling. Gideon’s head droops, a few curls falling over his eyes. They do nothing to disguise the fact that he’s nodding off. I kick him in the shin, then focus on my phone.
Sheena
Okay, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad, I was abducted when I was sixteen. It probably stunted my development.
Ciprian
You were right. I’m an equal opportunity taste tester.
Then eat up.
You’re filthy.
Sheena might be on to something, though. Celine is magnetic. Luca is mouthwatering. And Alistair—damn, Alistair is a tall, dark, and handsome drink made entirely of juicy secrets. They could be the key to learning what happened to Roscoe and how things work on the Fringes. I just can’t let them know I’m part of the enclave.
“Ciprian, are you even listening to me?” Dad demands. I raise my chin, making sure my bland expression is firmly in place. “After your drunken display at dinner last night, I’m half a mind to send you back to Las Vegas to start the Roscoe investigation over from scratch.”
I widen my eyes and activate faux contrition mode. “You’re right,” I say. “I fucked—I mean, messed up. Give me a chance to fix it, Dad. I won’t let you down again.”
His chest swells, and he shoots Callum a barbed, superior smirk. My brother should realize what I’m doing and take notes about the best ways to get around our father, but his expression sours and he slumps back in his chair instead. I sigh. I can lead a horse to fucking water, but I can’t make him drink, can I?
“Very well,” Dad says. “You’ll go back to Vegas and stay there until you can successfully bring back information worth having. Roscoe wouldn’t have deserted the enclave. Someone killed him, and I want them dealt with. We’ve let the Fringes get away with way too much, but I’m drawing the line at murder. It’s high time they remember who runs this territory, don’t you think, Joshua?”
“Of course,” Joshua says easily, but his brown eyes are sharp. After a quick study of my face, he winks at me, then changes the subject.
I feel a rush of affection for him. Gideon may be his only child, but he and Sarah raised me as much as Dad and Mom, if not more, and they are a lot harder to manipulate. Joshua knows I want to go to Vegas, and he’s suspicious, but he’s no snitch.
Plus, he’s beyond excited about Gideon and Callum cominghome. He never wanted them to move out, and Sheena’s security issues are a golden opportunity for him to herd the prodigal chicks—I mean enclave heirs—back into the nest.
I toss him a half-smile.I see you, too, Joshua Therion.One hurdle cleared, I go over my game plan. As long as I can avoid getting caught by Sarah, I’ll be home free.
Three days after I planted the first seeds, Dad sends me back to Vegas.
I’m more than ready to put the compound in the rearview mirror. Do any of them realize that my shoulders shoot up to my fucking ears every time I drive through the gate? Would they care if they did?
Sheena and I are on good terms, and I want to be there for her during this mess, but being surrounded by nosy, opinionated supernaturals wears me down. They watched me grow up. There isn’t a skeleton in my closet that hasn’t been paraded around this compound for inspection. Add in two and a half decades of preconceived notions about how I’ll behave, and I have no choice but to play the role I’ve been cast in.
I’m getting tired of it. The lovable fuckup. Dad’s last hope for a nightmare demon legacy. It’s tragic, really. He wanted the perfect heir but had to squish his spare into the mold instead. Joke’s on him, though. I’m happy to play the part when it suits me, but I’m Ciprian Casanell, and I’m no one’s perfect progeny.
Dropping my head against the steering wheel, I breathe in through my nose. This pattern of thoughts is as familiar to me as the back of my hand. It always makes me feel worse, but I don’t know how to put it to bed without crawling in beside it. And why does everything need to be good for me, anyway? I don’t drink scotch for my fucking health.
I turn the radio on and try to get lost in the music. For this job, I need to forget about my enclave responsibilities and blend in. Fringe Ciprian should be sexy and caustic, a good time, but not too good. I need to ride that razor-thin line they always balance on, never showing too much interest in anyone while remaining aware of every move they make.
By the time I step back into my temporary home, I’ve purged the worst of my mood by scream singing punk rock until my throat hurts. There’s no point in having fast healing if you don’t take advantage of it during the important moments, right?
“Right,” I answer myself out loud, loneliness creeping over me.
I’m talking to myself a lot these days. Thank the gods I’m a great conversationalist. Locking the door behind me, I collapse face first on the bed for a nap. After a couple of hours dead to the world, I get a whiff of myself, then stumble to the shower, feeling almost cheerful.
