Heat surged up my throat. I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles went white and my vision blurred.
Carrington’s voice cut in, a sharp whisper beside me. “Don’t bite, Baby. Not here.”
I ground my teeth together. “I’m not fucking biting.”
Edmund chuckled. “He’s teaching you how to behave yourself? How interesting. Isn’t this Carrington Harding? The son of Reginald Harding Enterprise.”
I ignored the jab and questions. Everyone knew Carrington. I didn’t need to answer. I forced my voice to be even. “You ruined her. You ruined everything about my mother. And you sit there smiling like it’s all a funny fucking joke.”
He tilted his head. “Because it is. Look at you, Shiloh. You’ve been chasing her ghost for years. You let it rot you from the inside out. And now you’re here, finally face-to-face with me,and what do you have? Anger. Blame. Shame. Nothing new. Nothing you didn’t show at fifteen.”
I swallowed, hardening my spine. “No. I have control. I came here to see for myself that you’re nothing. Just a bitter fucking old man in chains. You want to believe you have control, but you are nothing. You can’t do anything in here but rot, waiting until all those ghosts rip your soul apart.”
His smile remained. “Chains don’t make me less in control. They just prove that I was dangerous enough to warrant being put in them. We all have chains of some form. Mine are visible, and yours aren’t, but make no mistake. You are just as much a prisoner as I am.”
The words hit like a slap in the face. My chest concaved, but I held his stare, refusing to blink.
Carrington shifted beside me, his arms crossed, his voice a low growl. “He’s not biting, old man. You’re wasting your breath with the wrong fucking bait.”
Edmund’s gaze flicked to him for the briefest second, again, lingering longer than felt comfortable, then back to me.
“Ah. So that’s why you brought him. He props you up when your legs shake. Makes you feel bigger than you are. How sad, Shiloh. Even as a grown man, you are still so small.”
“Don’t fucking twist this, or I’ll cut you the fuck down.” I snarled.
“Twist?” Edmund’s laugh was soft and cruel. “Son, I don’t have to twist anything. You’re here because of me. Every breath you’ve taken since she died has been because I let it happen. I have built you. I made you what you are. One day, you will crack and let go of the light you hide behind. I am only sad to know I won’t see my creation when it happens.”
The rage boiled inside me, hot and choking, but Carrington’s hand pressed against my thigh under the table, a brief, grounding touch—a silent command.
Don’t give him the win.
I forced my voice steady. “You didn’t make me. You don’t own me. You never did. You killed so many because you felt powerless and needed to take someone’s light to feel any for yourself, like you took hers. My mother’s. But you won’t fucking take mine.”
Edmund’s eyes glittered, sharp and cutting like diamonds. “We’ll see.”
He leaned back again, his gaze finally sliding back toward Carrington, and that’s when his smirk shifted as if he realized something. His smile rose, slower and more deliberate. He’d just found the thread he’d been waiting for in Carrington’s presence, but I didn’t know what…
Edmund’s smirk lingered on Carrington, but he kept his focus on me, circling like a vulture that knew its prey was already bleeding and exposed for the kill.
“You talk about not being owned,” he said slowly. “But every word out of your mouth is about me. Every fucking thought in your head, every scar you carry, it all comes back here to me.” He tapped his temple with one chained finger. “Always me. Doesn’t it, my Shiloh?”
My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“Why not?” His tone was amused, almost playful. “It’s the truth. You can spit on it all you want, but you carry my name. My name and my very blood run in your veins. You’ll never rid me of your essence. I created you in so many ways.”
I leaned forward, my voice rough. “I’d cut every drop of it out of me if I could, just to watch you wash away back to hell.”
He laughed again, low and grating, like a blade scraping across stone, digging into my skin, and carving me again. “There it is—the fire. You sound like her when you’re angry. Always snapping back, thinking you’re strong enough to fight me. Butyou’re not her.” His gaze sharpened. “Do you wonder if she died fighting? She was beautiful when she finally broke. Tears and pleas for her pathetic, helpless son rather than her own life. You?” He sneered. “You’re just weak.”
The words sliced through me, cold and merciless. My fists slammed down on the table before I could stop them, the sound echoing through the room. Heads turned, and a guard turned a watchful eye onto my simmering rage.
Carrington’s voice cut in again, deep and controlled. “Don’t give him the show he wants. End this, Shiloh.”
My chest heaved. My whole body shook with the need to lunge across the table, to tear that smug look off his face with my bare hands. But Carrington’s steady tone anchored me, just enough to hold me in place.
Edmund’s eyes flicked between us, that smile curling higher. He’d seen the crack. He’d tasted the blood. And now he was ready for the kill.
“Ah. You chase ghosts while sleeping with demons. How quaint.”
