“You know we can’t turn down an assignment,” Ford finishes, trying to scrap together some logic to Dex’s dig.
My stomach clenches at the words. A sharp, visceral fear runs through me. They never speak to him like that. No one does. The air in the room seems too thin, the firelight flickering strangely against my father’s face.
I know better than to expect insight into any of their Brotherhood business, but what could have possibly happened to make my brothers speak to him likethis?
He studies them, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence is suffocating.
Then, a small, amused smile slips across his lips. “Paranoid,” he repeats as if tasting the word. “You think so?”
Neither of them answers.
I can’t breathe. I want to grab their arms, to pull them back from whatever invisible ledge they’ve just stepped onto. Because I know my father. I know what happens when someone challenges him.
Then, with a soft sigh, he shakes his head, “Predictable.”
The word lands like a death knell. My stomach turns to ice.
Predictable men do not survive long in this family.
He stands, slowly adjusting his cufflinks like he’s brushing off dust from something beneath him. He looks as though he’s preparing to dismiss us. But then, just before he does, he pauses, bringing his gaze to me.
And then suddenly, as though possessed by a creature coiled inside him, waiting to say something devastating, he bursts into laughter.
He clutches his stomach like it’s too much to contain, his laugh echoing through the room, cold and jarring. And then, withoutwarning, he snaps his mouth shut for a pause before he opens it again to deliver the final blow.
"Oh," he says, almost as an afterthought, "Your mother is dead."
The world tunnels to a single, suffocating point.
The fire crackles. The clock ticks. A faint ringing starts in my ears.
My skin pebbles, my shoulders brace. I suck in a gasp as my vision blurs and I struggle to find my breath.
He says it the way one might announce a change in the weather. His cruel lack of explanation or elaboration is like a punch to the gut. Just a fact, dropped into the room like a stone, echoing around awkwardly as all of us stand with gaping mouths.
Ford exhales sharply beside me, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles go white. Dex’s jaw tightens, and his shoulders square in silent fury.
I cannot move. I cannot breathe.
A piece of me, fragile and irreplaceable, shatters.
I feel myself sway forward in my chair as though I might crumple to the ground, but it’s with all of my strength that I remain straight-backed in front of this horrible, horrible man.
And my father, without a single glance at the destruction he has wrought, merely picks up his drink and takes a sip.
“There’s a party starting downstairs,” he says, as though the last few moments have meant nothing. As if he has not just cracked the bones of our family with a single, effortless blow. “Our guests expect a warm welcome. You’re all dismissed.”
I stare at him, my throat burning. My mother is dead, my brothers are in danger, and I am to smile and play hostess.
He gives me a final, pointed look and says mockingly, “Best behavior, Martine.”
Then my brothers are grabbing my hands, trying to get me up and out of the chair.
I barely hear myself when I grit out a horrible, low-breathed, “No.”
My father suddenly is across the room and in front of me before I can blink.
The slap comes fast and sharp, a stinging explosion of pain across my cheek. My head jerks sideways, the world momentarily blanking out. A rush of heat floods my skin, the taste of blood blooming on my tongue.
