I’m panting, blood on my knuckles reminding me of the blood on the sword, and I slump down the wall, my brain unable to keep me both present and upright.
Falk squats down in front of me with a quick glance at the ceiling by the stairs to indicate where there’s a camera. He says nothing, he just waits for me to explain, the thuds and yells from the two Westerhouse brothers chaotic and overwhelming. But I can’t speak, the feeling of Trevor’s fingers inside of me like sandpaper, cutting and wrong.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t believe Smith, but he was right. You’ve got some fight in you, don’t you?”
I blink, not trusting my voice. Only I know what I need. “Can I see Trips?” I whisper.
“Not until I know you’re safe.”
“I’m safe with him.”
He doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. I glance at the camera, and then back at him. He leans close, and I duck my chin so my lips can’t be seen. “We’ve been faking. Trevor just caught us. Trips is safe for me. He always has been.”
Tension tightens the guard’s shoulders, and he leans back, his face grim. “That’s not good.”
No. It isn’t.
He looks at the room with Trevor in it, the door no longer shaking with his attempts to get out.
Trips, meanwhile, is still working on his door, and a cracking noise says he’ll be with me soon whether or not Falk brings me to him.
He leans forward. “Representative Westerhouse will go to his father. There’s nothing either of us can do to stop him.”
“I know.”
He closes his eyes. “You should have stayed gone.”
“The guys all have families here that they’re close to. I couldn’t do that to them.”
His face grows stern. “If those boys love you as much as you love them, they shouldn’t have listened to you. This isn’t safe for you.” He stands nearby, watching me get to my feet, somehow understanding that the last thing I want right now is to be touched by a stranger, and leads me to Trips a second before the wood splinters, a shard cutting my arm.
A stripe of blood wells, and I focus on that as Falk gets me into the room with Trips. His chest becomes my pillow as I lean against him, wishing he could pull me close.
Because this just got a whole lot worse. And a hug, as small as it is, would help.
But he can’t. His arms are locked behind him, his heart thundering against my cheek. So instead, he drops his chin on top of my head, and murmurs apologies and promises that we both know he can’t keep, as we wait for our fate to be decided.
Chapter 60
Trips
Leaving Clara in the bunk with Smith and his gun has me desperate to get loose again. Because while I don’t think this is a killing offense, I can’t be sure. The only thing that keeps me sane is knowing that my father would want me there if he killed Clara. He’d want to watch me fall apart at the loss.
Sadistic fucker.
Falk and another guard drag me toward the house, a third and fourth guard joining them after I toss not-Falk into the lake. Trevor, meanwhile, strolls beside us, his bloodied grin visible in the white of the landscaping lights the asshole progenitor spent a fortune installing, the sickeningly sweet perfume of roses making my stomach turn.
In my father’s office, I’m forced into a chair, my arms and legs banded with plastic, tight enough to cut when I test them. And then the devil himself strolls in, his pajamas loose around him,his eyes ringed in black. He looks sick, old, and tired, and for a second, I’m glad I’ve disrupted his night. The consequences will be severe, but I’m not making this easy for him. He should suffer, even if it’s just a night of lost sleep.
Trevor gloats as he tells my father what he discovered, that Clara and I have been faking following his edict. He gets his own consequence, a call to be held back before he’s given a fist to his gut, apparently for trying to take what isn’t his.
Which has me questioning why my father even cares. Trevor’s spawn would be his grandchild just the same as mine would, so what difference would it make to the old man?
It makes a hell of a lot of difference to Clara and to me, but to him?
They march Clara in next, her hands tied in front of her, a privilege given to her by her gender. Because to my father, no woman could be a danger, not really. Smith has his gun out, tapping it against his leg as he looks at her, his fingers twitching with stalled desire. The man she was sure she’d killed wants her dead. For once, I’m glad for whatever my father holds over that bastard’s head.
Guards drag Trevor to the side, and Clara’s curious gaze follows, trying to read what’s happening.
