I grin cruelly. “Neither do you.”
We leave with fast adrenaline pulsing through both of us. But as we reach the street, the deadly click of weapons echoes through the silence, making both of us straighten up quickly and sharpen our senses.
“Move!” I shove Archie to the side of the house, up against the wall, as bullets rip the air where he'd stood moments before. Professionals in black descend from the side of the townhouse, and I take stock of how precise their aim is.
“Fuck,” Archie snarls, returning fire from the gun he keeps in a holster against his chest, as we attempt to run from the side of the house and duck behind a car, we both nearly miss being shot.
Who the fuck would send guns for hire?
“Plan?” He demands breathlessly.
“Don’t die.”
Bullets shred metal and asphalt. We sprint for the alley, gunfire whistling past. Archie stumbles over uneven pavement, and without hesitation, I seize him, wrenching him forward as bullets shatter brick inches from his skull.
He stares at me in disbelief, momentarily breaking his arrogance for a moment of genuine fear.
“Move,” I bark.
We plunge into shadows, hearts pounding. Silence settles thick and oppressive.
He laughs a low sound tinged with grudging respect. “Didn’t peg you for sentimental, Herron.”
“I don’t enjoy breaking in new partners,” I growl. “Don’t push your luck.”
His smirk returns, but there's something new behind it. Something dangerously close to trust.
“Hurry up,” I say darkly. “There's somewhere else I need to be.”
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Present Day
I don’t remember changing for dinner; all I know is that by some miracle, I’m ready, and I stand in our grand entry room, clutching a glass of champagne, uncertain how I got here.
The scent of white lilies and roses is suffocating. It clings to the air, making it thick and oppressive, mingling awfully with the candle wax and woodsmoke curling from the hearth. The weight of past expectations consumes my body, yet I stand unmoving in the center of the grand hall.
The chandeliers flicker above their dim candlelight, stretching long shadows across the black-clad figures around me. This is no funeral, but every guest is dressed as if in mourning. I’m not surprised I was the last to find out about my mother's death. I wonder how long she’d been cold before they started trying to pick her societal bones.
Of course, my brothers knew, making Ford's odd behavior last night all the more obvious.
I know my Father is capable of more evil than even my well-read mind can comprehend, but would hekillher? What could have driven him to do such evil? She’d always behaved as the perfect host, the perfect wife. So perfect she even struggled as a mother in her quest for perfection for him.
Hidden behind the glazed eyes from her pills, knowing my mother was difficult. She flitted in and out of rooms, high as a kite, socializing and servicing to a tee. Our connection was fleeting; her attention glued to my father's approval, with no room to worry about something as complex as a relationship with her daughter.
I was simply a requirement of the marriage. The third child. The forgotten baby of a family that cares more about social standing than familial connection.
And my mother, for all her faults, performed perfectly for my father. Behind glazed looks and full smiles was a woman who knew how to run a house. A woman who knew how to bendmy father to her will, even under the depths of her pill-induced influence. If she were so perfect, why is she gone?
Is anyone safe in our world?
The guests sip champagne, their conversations hushed, and their gazes are sharp and assessing. I refuse to shrink under the eyes that never quite leave me. It’s nauseating, but I will not crumble.
I force myself to breathe. To be still. I am a Huntington-Russell after all, I know how to play the part.
Smoothing a sweaty palm down my thigh, I stay focused on keeping my back straight as though my posture is the salve to my problems. Turning my face slightly out of the light, I knock back the remaining champagne, inhale sharply, and set the empty glass on a suited waiter’s tray. Within moments, another waiter appears, offering a fresh glass, and I eagerly accept it.
I look up when the air shifts, and electricity seems to fill the room, covering my skin in goose bumps. It’s the same feeling I had when I arrived home, standing just outside the car.
