Day one at the Graves estate. Atlas gave me a key and a tour. The room is nice. Too nice. I don't know how to exist in a place like this.
I sat on the dock today. Thought about Linda. Thought about drowning.
I don't know why I do this to myself. Why I let the past follow me everywhere I go.
Margot comes back tomorrow. Maybe it'll be easier when she's here.
I stop writing. My hand cramps. The pen feels heavy.
Stare at the words. They look wrong. Too hopeful. Too naive.
Cross out the last line. Hard. Black ink scoring through the words until they're unreadable.
It won't be easier. But at least I won't be alone.
Chapter 4
Margot and Richard are supposed to arrive at six.
I'm downstairs by five-thirty. Sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, hands clasped between my knees, watching the front door like it might disappear if I look away.
I tell myself it's because I want to help with anything they might need. Carry bags. Make coffee. Be useful.
The truth is, I just need to see her. Need to know she's real. That she came back. That she didn't leave me here alone with people who hate me.
I'm running my hands down my face when Zero finds me. I don't hear him approach—he moves too quietly for someone his size. Just suddenly he's there, a presence in my peripheral vision.
"Waiting for mommy?"
I look up. My neck cricks from the angle. I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. That same dangerous smile from the wedding. That same look that says he knows something I don't. Zero. I remember him from the wedding—the dangerous one. He looks even more dangerous now in the casual light of day. Withoutthe suit, without the formal setting, there's nothing to soften the edges. Nothing to hide what he is.
Lean and built like a weapon. Six-one, maybe. Black hair that looks like he doesn't give a shit about it, falling across his forehead in a way that should look messy but somehow doesn't. Pale skin that makes his ice-blue eyes even more unsettling. Like chips of glacier. Like winter sky. Like something cold and sharp and merciless. The tattoos on his left arm are intricate, dark—I can't make out what they are from here, but they crawl from his wrist up past his bicep, disappearing under the sleeve of his black t-shirt. Now that I'm closer, I can see they're not random. There's a pattern. Something deliberate. Runes, maybe. Or symbols. Dark against pale skin like ink on paper.
The shirt's tight enough that I can see he's all lean muscle and hard edges. The fabric clings to his chest, his shoulders, his abs. Nothing soft. Nothing gentle. Just violence wrapped in skin. No softness anywhere.
He's wearing black jeans and boots, heavy black combat boots that thud against the marble when he shifts his weight, and there's a scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look like he's been in fights. A thin white line that bisects the dark hair. Recent enough that it's still visible. Old enough that it's healed clean.
He probably has.
"She's my mom," I say evenly. Keep my voice level. Don't let him see he's getting to me.
"Cute." He pushes off the doorframe and walks closer. "You know, most twenty-year-olds don't sit by the door like a puppy waiting for their owner to come home."
"I'm not—" I start to stand, but he's already there, looming over me. I'd have to crane my neck even further back. So I stay sitting. Refuse to give him the satisfaction of making me move.
"Relax, Carter. I'm just messing with you." He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets. The stance is casual, but there's nothing relaxed about the way he's watching me. Like he's waiting for me to do something. "But seriously. You're laying it on a little thick with the devoted son routine."
"It's not a routine." My jaw clenches. I feel my teeth grind.
"Sure it's not." He rocks back on his heels, that smirk widening.
I grit my teeth. Force myself not to respond. Not to give him what he wants.
Zero grins, like he knows exactly how much he's getting under my skin. Because of course he does. That's the point. That's the game.
"Word of advice?" he says. He leans down, bracing one hand on the banister beside my head. Too close. Way too close. I can smell him—black coffee and cigarettes and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. "If you're trying to score points with dear old Dad, the whole 'good boy' act isn't going to work. Richard's not stupid. He knows a suck-up when he sees one."
