“How so?”
“We're more… distributed. Less hierarchical. My father's the head, technically, but my mother controls the money, the alliances, the social networks. My father handles the violent side—the enforcement, the intimidation. But he doesn't make decisions without her.”
“A partnership, then.”
“No. A codependency.” Her voice is flat, clinical. “He needs her intelligence. She needs his brutality. Together, they're formidable. Apart, they'd crumble.”
“And where do you fit?”
“I don't.” She says it simply, without self-pity. “I'm useful, but not valued. I manage the books because I'm good at it and because no one else wants to. But I'm not part of the inner circle. I never have been.”
“And your sister? Bridget?”
Her expression shifts—just barely, but I catch it. Pain, there and gone.
“Mam doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s useless hiding it. Bridget’s sick right now.”
She twists her hair as if she’s uncomfortable. It takes me by surprise. Sometimes, she seems so poised and detached. Then others…
“I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
I smile. “I know.”
I study her for a long moment. The way she holds herself—rigid, controlled. The way her mind works—data and patterns and brutal honesty. She's not like anyone I've ever met.
“You really don't care what people think of you, do you?” I ask.
She shifts and sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair out of her face, back into the plait that’s come loose. “I care. I just can't change how my brain works, so I stopped trying.” She shrugs. “People think I'm rude, or cold, or strange. Maybe I am. But I'm also right most of the time, and I'd rather be right than be liked.”
God, I fuckin’ love that. She tilts her head to the side.
“You're not what I expected,” she says suddenly.
“Aye? How so?”
“You're not…” She pauses, searching. “You're not performing. Most people perform. They say what they think you want to hear, or what makes them look good. You don't do that.”
“Neither do you.”
“No. I don't.” She almost smiles. Almost. “Sort of a pair, then? Maybe that's why this… might work.”
“This being…?”
“The marriage. The arrangement. Whatever this is.” She stands, brushing hay off her leggings. “I should go. I have work.”
“Erin.”
She stops, then turns back.
“For what it's worth,” I say, “I'll try not to make this hell for you.”
She considers this, her head tilting again. “That's surprisingly kind.”
I smirk. “Don't get used to it.”
“I won't.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Cavin?”
