“Agreed,” I state. “Starting with no more hotels. Where are we taking her?” Rhys chews thoughtfully, his alertness flooding back to the surface. Maybe he should go without sleep more often. There’s not a sarcastic comment or cocky expression in sight.
“If it were up to her, she’d run straight back to the academy. Her degree is her entire purpose for leaving her aunt’s. And no,” he uses his fork to point a mushroom at me, “she’s not going back to her aunt’s house either. I don’t do cats.”
I huff a laugh. Of course there’s no version of this plan that accounts for Harper wanting to have some time without us, to collect herself without us breathing down her neck. I don’t blameRhys, I don’t want to separate from her either, but at least I’d give her the option. In his own thoughts, he continues talking and eating, often at the same time.
“I say we drive her out of the city entirely. Somewhere quiet, somewhere she won’t be bothered. She can rest, recover, and if she insists, continue her coursework online.” He kicks the table leg as if he doesn’t really like that last idea, causing the leftover liquid in the coffee mug to ripple. I tap my thumb on my thigh.
“It’ll have to be somewhere big enough for the three of us to move around comfortably and have distance from each other when needed. Preferably with decent internet connection, a proper kitchen, good security.” I stare him dead on as he takes Harper’s coffee and finishes it.
“You sound like you have somewhere in mind,” Rhys mutters. I nod, waiting for his blue gaze to lift to mine.
“I do.”
Slowly but surely, his fork is placed down, and he stops chewing. I can see the cogs turning in his mind, the thought slowly slipping through as his eyes light with understanding.
“Wait, you don’t mean…no. No way, nope, not a chance in hell.” Rhys’ face contorts, his disgust palpable over the scent of greasy, untouched food before me. Rolling my eyes, I push my plate aside and lean forward on the table.
“Even without ever being there, I can bet it’s secluded, that there are surveillance cameras, and probably staff all year round. I bet it’s big enough, and that your father must be away on business often. Best part is, whilst we’re there, we can decide what to do next about your mom.” It’s the first time I’ve broached the subject since last night, letting the knowledge sit with me until I know what to do with it. Rhys’ eyes turn to narrowed slits. He knows I’m right.
“You want her protected,” I remind him. “Your house is the best option.”
“And if we’re dragging her straight into the viper’s nest?” Rhys raises a brow. “My mom doesn’t have the connections or money to pull off what happened to Harper.” This gives me pause. I figured there was some twisted revenge scheme going on here between a cast-off mother against father and son. It’s the only connection I could make, but apparently, Rhys has ideas of his own.
“It’s possible that your father is behind this, or it’s possible you don’t know your mom as well as you think you do.” Sitting back, I chew on the inside of my cheek. It’s pointless making assumptions now. We’ve only just started pulling at this new thread, and there’s no telling how it might unravel. “Look, until we get into that house and get some answers, we’re not going to know. Unless you think Phillip Waversea is going to open his doors and welcome the cops in to have a snoop around?”
Rhys’ jaw clenches so tight, I swear I hear it grind. He looks toward the station, staring at the doors Harper disappeared through. When he finally drags his gaze back to me, defeat creases the corners of his eyes.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m not happy about it.”
“You don’t have to be happy,” I reply calmly. “You just have to keep her safe.” Scrubbing a hand over his face, his food forgotten, Rhys also sags back into his seat.
“As always, I’ll do my damn best.”
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve never considered myself clingy, but even as that thought forms, a shudder runs through the arms I’ve got wrapped tight around Harper’s middle. My face presses deeper into the hollow of her neck, a move she’ll inevitably mistake for dread. It’s a sensible assumption. We’re heading directly into the pits of hell, aka my childhood home, after I confessed all I know about my mother on the jet ride over. Admittedly, it’s not much. I didn’t care to keep tabs on the woman who left me behind. But it isn’t dread. It’s anger.
How have I missed something that should have been obvious? Why can I still not make the connections? What was Harper doing in a house connected to my mother, and how in the living fuck am I supposed to keep her safe around my father now? I blame Clayton for this stupid idea more than I blame Dickerson for putting us in this predicament. He was weak, easily persuaded and blackmailed. I’m content with the fact that he won’t last five seconds in jail, yet as we approach the wrought iron gates crested with my family, I’m wondering who’s really being shackled in chains. Spoiler alert, it’s me.
Instinctively, Harper tightens her hold on my forearms as we pull to a stop, waiting for the gates to slide open. Clayton stretches his legs across the limousine cab, rolling his neck as if he’s preparing for battle. I, on the other hand, shrink inwards. I hate this place, hate what it does to me. I’m not Rhys Waversea, the Campus King, out here. I’m Rhys Nobody, the dirt of the bottom of his father’s dress shoe.
The driver pulls forward, sinking us into the seemingly open landscape if you ignore the ten-foot stone wall, topped with jagged, metal spikes that encapsulates it. Clayton wasn’t wrong about this place being fortified. I spent years staring through the windows, counting those spikes, memorizing the pattern, praying for a way out that didn’t come until I was already dead inside. And here I am, willingly re-entering the cage, re-awakening old ghosts.
Harper leans back into me as we roll up the steady incline, rounding the fountain dividing the driveway. It’s a replica of the one in the academy courtyard, arcs of water catching the sunlight like a spray of diamonds. The main house comes into view, all pristine white stone and towering columns, the kind of architectural boasting that screams of stolen money and undeserving power.
Both Harper and Clayton lean towards the windows, the soft intake of breath filtering through the cab. I don’t blame them. To outsiders, the tall arched doorway against the marble entrance steps is a sight to behold. Unfortunately for me, grandeur doesn’t soften the pain which has been inflicted within, and I’m certain the only way to erase those memories will be to burn it to the ground.
The limo rolls to a stop, the driver coming around to open the door. Harper hesitates before stepping out, and I realise she’s waiting for me, checking I’m ready with the light press of her shoulder against mine. She’s smiling softly, but there’s nohappiness there. How quickly the tables have turned from me attending to her, the roles reversing within the space of a day. I nod, following her out but averting my eyes to the smooth tarmac of the driveway. Ahead of us, the door is opened from within, a maid greeting us halfway.
“Master Waversea, we weren’t expecting you or your…company.” She hesitates as Clayton steps into Harper’s side, linking his fingers with her whilst my arm is secured around her waist. What a sight it must be, but I understand his reluctance to let her too far out of arm’s reach just yet.
“I didn’t realise I needed an invitation to return to my own house, Fiona,” I shoot back tensely. She straightens and drops her head into submission. It’s not her fault I’m particularly stressed right now, but it’s also not a bad idea to keep up appearances. I’m the spoilt heir, might as well act the part. “Prepare two of the guest bedrooms, and keep me informed of my father’s schedule.”
“Just two bedrooms?” Fiona asks as I start to lead Harper inside. I freeze in place, narrowing my gaze in her direction.
“Did I stutter?” I raise a brow. Fiona shakes her head and apologises. I take my cue to step over the threshold, holding Harper tightly as my heart compresses in my ribs. She leans into my grasp, frowning in a way I wish her beautiful face didn’t know how to do.
“Why guest bedrooms? Don’t you have your own?” Harper blinks innocently, reminding me that I’m the one wearing the mic clip since Clayton is adamant he’s going to learn sign language. Despite the white noise starting to fill my head, the cold grasp of anxiety leaking in, I manage a bitter laugh under my breath.
