He’d spent the entire year away from home, and in his absence, Aunt Valarie took over the mantle of Head in his stead. My shy, self-conscious aunt forged herself into what was needed. She overcame her stutter and ruthlessly entered the world of Houses, made connections, uncovered leads, twisted others to her needs. She rallied our family into a single unit, honing us all into weapons. Our family had one purpose, and one purpose only. To save our mother.
And through it all, she took out her fury on me.
So much of Nelle’s life mirrored my own. I imagined the day her father discovered she’d been locked in the tithe prison was the same day my father returned. He entered the courtyard and found me bound to the whipping post.
I’d turned my head over my shoulder, the skin shredded to ribbons, and watched through a haze of mind-obliterating pain as he surged in a blur of shock and fury. He caught hold of Aunt Valarie’s wrist mid-swing, stopping her before the whip could land again.
Utter rage exploded through him like a storm, and he unleashed it on his twin. I thought he was going to kill her. We all did. Only my siblings and I possessed unnatural healing.
And despite everything, we still loved her. Still hoped the person she once was might return.
Kenton and Caidan dragged him off her before his fury turned fatal.
Later, while my father tended to my wounds, he apologized in his brusque manner. Promised it wouldn’t happen again, that he wouldn’t leave us again. Yet on my tongue was the sharp tang of unease. He wasn’t sure he could promise me that.
With my father’s return, life slowly returned to our home, as well as laughter. We still had one goal we worked toward, but we could breathe again and be kids again.
I went to open the office door and stilled when my gaze fell on my hand. I let go of the brass doorknob, stepping back and turning my palm upward. My fingers were dirty, and soot was ground into the creases. I frowned. “I should wash—”
“No. Let Byron see you like this. Let him wonder and fret.” She gripped my upper arm, squeezing hard enough that pain jarred through my nerves, and leveled a look of pure fire. “Do not fail us in this, Graysen.”
I could almost hear the‘fail us again’unspoken but hovering in the air between us.
There was an accusation in her tone that had remained ever since we lost my mother. As if she were waiting for me to buckle and fail.
I have.
Almost.
My aunt let go, pushing open the door. She glided in, and I cracked my neck, letting ice creep through my veins, and emptied my mind of everything but breaking Byron Wychthorn.
If anything, out of the mess I’d made, this was one thing I didn’t feel one ounce of guilt for doing.
4
Graysen
Red-faced and breathing hard, Byron shook with barely controlled rage while my father remained stoic where he stood behind his desk facing off against the Head of Great House Wychthorn.
Byron’s bloodshot eyes tracked me as I strode deeper into the room. And while he took me in, I was doing the same with him. Our leader, who was always impeccably groomed, appeared wrecked. New wrinkles etched his features, with dark smudges under his eyes, and his salt-and pepper hair stuck up in uneven tufts. I noted his rumpled tuxedo and the shirt stained with cognac. He clearly hadn’t changed since Nelle’s presumed death yesterday morning.
He looked exhausted and unhinged.
Perfect.
Byron assessed me and my father—our dirty faces, the soot and ash, the splatter of dried blood. “What happened here?” he demanded as I approached. When he’d arrived at our estate, thestench of fire would still have lingered in the air as our warband moved quickly to clear the battle site. Bulldozers rumbling in to fill the deep rifts carved into the field. He’d perhaps caught sight of our staff hurrying through our home for more medical supplies, or to assist with tending the wounded.
“A training exercise that went wrong,” my father replied, dragging Byron’s attention away from me. He answered in a flat-bored tone as if he didn’t care that Byron’s daughter had to fight for freedom, that her wyrm had slaughtered members of our extended family, soldiers and friends. But he did. My father wasn’t cold and unfeeling. I often wondered if he felt too much—if it was too much for him to bear, having my mother stolen,tortured—and he’d had to shore up a wall to keep himself from shattering under the weight. But there were cracks rendered in the wall, and plenty of moments of warmth when he picked up the mantle in her absence.
Byron’s left eye twitched.
He knew my father was lying. Knew what had happened tonight revolved around his daughter. He wanted to know if she was all right. Was desperate to ask—What is she?
Byron’s fierce gaze slashed to mine as I halted and bowed before him as tradition dictated. When I straightened, he snarled. “I want to speak with my daughter.”
“No,” I replied in a bored tone that matched my father’s perfectly.
“She’s not twenty. You can’t claim her!”
