My father summoned me, and I have no choice but to answer if I want to keep breathing. Some of the founding families see their sons as a means to a legacy, a continuation of a powerful dynasty. Edward Donovan only cares about his empire.
Unfortunately, that makes me a soldier in his fucked-up army.
I park my motorcycle in the courtyard and cut the engine. It dies, like I wish my father would.
After removing my helmet and setting it on the seat, I run my fingers through my dark hair and take a deep breath. Fortifying myself.
Speaking with my father is like entering a battlefield; I have to be armed.
The mansion looms, growing more imposing the closer I get. I walk through the front doors, the marble underneath my boots and the grand ceiling overhead familiar. I’ve walked these halls all my life, but this will never be my home.
I make my way through the hallways, passing the portraits of ancestors dating back to before the Revolutionary War. People who have long since passed, but had a hand in creating this country. And the Obsidian Order.
Another army I’m going to be a part of. Like with my father’s, I’m being drafted.
In this place, behind enemy lines, my senses are heightened. I can’t remember a time I wasn’t aware of my surroundings and the people inside them. If that type of vulnerability ever existed in me, it was erased the moment my father hit me. Or when my mother stood there and watched.
I turn the corner and she stands there as if conjured by my thoughts. My mother paints an elegant picture, beautiful and stately, like an expensive piece of art only to be admired from afar. Or a statue, hard and cold, unable to show affection.
Or offer protection.
“Xavier,” she says with a small incline of her head.
I come to a halt, keeping my expression blank. “Mother.”
Her icy blue gaze probs mine before drifting away. I’d suspect it was guilt that keeps her from looking at me for very long if I thought she cared about me in any capacity. But I know better.
“How are you?” she asks, her voice carrying a practiced formality.
“I’m fine.”
I don’t bother to ask how she’s doing. Unlike her, I don’t waste my time with pleasantries that mean nothing. There was a time when I would’ve begged for a kind word from my mother,but her allegiance lies with my father. It always has, and it always will.
However, it’s a devotion born from fear and danger, not love and respect. Not the way Delilah is loyal to Benjamin. I’d do fuckinganythingto have her feel that way about me.
My mother delicately clears her throat. “Your father is expecting you.”
This statement defines our relationship. If you can even call it that. She maintains an air of detachment like a cloak, draping herself in it to remain emotionally hidden and unscathed.
From my father? Certainly.
From me? Possibly.
“I know,” I say.
“Very well.”
I give her a curt nod and start walking. No other words need to be said. The opportunity for real conversation died the day she abandoned me.
I reach the espresso-colored doors of my father’s study and stop. A quick knock grants me permission to enter, and I step into hell.
Also known as my father’s sanctum.
Closing the doors behind me, I fully enter the room. The grandeur of this place rivals a king’s court. The air is thick with aged leather, polished wood, and the faint scent of cigars. My father sits behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by shelves filled with books.
“Xavier.” He sets down the papers in his hands and flicks his gaze to me. “I trust that you have something to report about the McKenzie boy?”
Benjamin and I are both eighteen, but this is how my father views me—as a child to be controlled without rebellion.
