“What?” Mattie asks, not getting it, not yet, never having been subjected to the bloodbath that is our family’s legacy. At least not firsthand.
My father doesn’t shift his focus from Clara, but he answers Mattie. “You see, dear daughter, I’ve been shielding you from the truth about this family, and the truth about this girl who will soon join us. She might act sweet, but she’s not. She’s a criminal. A thief. A woman who gets off on violence done to others. A monster I’m going to control. Just like I control your brothers. Just like I control you.”
He turns to my sister, his blue eyes ice. “Youdo notsneak out. Not once. Not ever. And youespeciallydo not sneak out with condoms in your purse.”
Trevor chuckles. “He should know enough to bag it before he taps it.”
My stomach rolls. I glance at Mattie, but she’s staring at the ground.
My father continues his monologue. “You were supposed to be my sweet, innocent daughter, ignorant of all this. But choices have consequences. And yours will remove the wool from your eyes, allowing you to see the truth of the people around you.” He twists to Clara. “So, I’ll ask again. Do you shoot?”
She dips her chin. “I’ve been taught, but I’m not a great marksman.”
It’s hard to become a great marksman when you only had two months of shooting lessons with an ancient shotgun in the desert. But we sure as shit tried to make her one.
“Even a novice can’t miss at this distance,” my father replies.
He nods to Falk, who has no choice but to hand his sidearm over, knowing it’s his fingerprints all over the inside of the thing, even if Clara’s fingerprints will now decorate the outside.
I break free without Falk’s strength, desperate to protect her from this, but Trevor slams me down with a chuckle. Fratricide becomes a real possibility, but my father flashes me a single warning glance.
The message is clear: there were cameras. There are still further consequences. I don’t need to hear from RJ to read that in his gaze. God-fucking-dammit-on-a-shitified-cracker. I hate the man. The blood from his still-beatingheart dripping on my cracked knuckles wouldn’t assuage the weight of fury in me.
But I stay seated.
There’s too much to lose. For now.
Clara takes the weapon, but does nothing, having never held a handgun before. Falk whispers to her, and with his directions, she steps in front of Smith, his vile words and bloody spit clearing the small distance between them.
Clara stares at the mess he’s made on the front of her blouse, yet another streak of blood on the silk. Then, with a shift of her weight and two hands on the grip, she shoots him, twice in the chest and once in the head, like a pro, like I taught her.
The gun gets whisked away, off to be stored for blackmail, my father’s face unreadable.
But as Clara steps back, her right hand clenches in her slacks, and despite the iron she’s decked herself out in, I see through it with that slight gesture. She’s not okay.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Trevor gripes, while Mattie sits silent and shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks.
My father strides away from the mess he just orchestrated. “You’re all dismissed. Falk, lock those two up—separately.”
As everyone scatters, the still-warm body of an enemy ignored by everyone except the guards responsible for cleaning up—and Mattie. Clara gets taken by another guard, while Falk and I trail her through the roses.
All I want to do is reach across the space between us and take her hand.
To hold her.
To be with her the way she was with me the first time I took a life.
But as the lock snicks shut on my usual room, I know I won’t get that chance.
And the frustrated roar I let loose once I have no other escape matches the ache in my chest.
We’re not even halfway to the wedding. How the hell are we going to last long enough for Clara’s plan to succeed?
And if, by some act of an indolent God, we last long enough to make it, who the hell are we going to be by the time we finish this bloody, brutal game?
Chapter 4
Clara
