Unwavering, he watches me. “We are all restricted, Liv. You think you are the most oppressed, the most controlled—and you assume everyone else gets everything they want. But we all make sacrifices for this life. We all suffer in our way.”
Mask discarded, tossed aside, I stare into the stony nature of my brother, the coldness in his eyes.
There’s something stirring deep within him, something buried and ugly.
I wonder if he was always like this, or he was moulded to change, to harden over the years, and I wasn’t close enough to see it.
Oliver grapples with that old, buried, ancient thing in him, then clenches his jaw for a beat. “Our literal purpose in life,” he goes on, firm, “is duty to our family and our coven. Mine is to continue our rank, yours is to replenish the prints.”
I cut in, harsh, “Breed.”
He pauses.
Not for shame, not for guilt, but to find a rope of patience.
“That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” I press. “My purpose is to be a womb. Not a person.”
Oliver runs his tongue over the bite of his teeth.
“Is that how you see Serena? Mother? Or just me, because I’m the deadblood?”
“Would it lessen your sorrow if you were tobreed,” he spits the word without shame, “with a man who loved you more, or a man you loved?” The shake of his head is slight. “We all do what we are meant to for our families, for the gods, for the world. And we all make sacrifices. We all bury feelings that do not serve us to suffer. Luxury and power come at a cost, Liv.”
This.
This is the reason he came to my chambers today. He didn’t come to give me the present, or see how I am, he came for this.
“Father is in no state to speak with you at the moment,” he tells me, tone as dark as the strands of tousled hair falling into his eyes. “And if you are to be stubborn in your childish, naïve behaviour, then it was for the best he chose not to come.”
“Did he send you?”
Oliver blinks, slow, a condescending glint to his gaze. It saysobviouslywhen his words do not.
I huff a disbelieving sound. “What, then? What do you want? Just say what you came to say, then get out.”
There’s no hesitation before he dives into it, as cold as the stare latched onto me. “It is best you continue your obliviousness. Dray has made it clear he prefers to be the one to tell you, in his way, and when he decides. You are not yet supposed to know. We expect you will maintain the guise of ignorance.”
The tip of my tongue rolls around my cheeks.
The scone is crumbled in my grip, flaking all over my lap, but our stares stay locked.
A smacking sound comes from me as I suck my teeth free of crumbs—then I toss the scone onto the coffee table.
It rolls once, then sticks, butter-spread down.
But my mind is on the command.
The command that comes from my father, whether or not Oliver is the mouthpiece.
Why Dray wants to be the one to tell me, when he decides, I don’t know.
It’s not often done that way, if ever.
I voice my thoughts, “It’s not like Dray has been discreet about it.”
Oliver hums, curt. “Blocking Grandmother’s cane on the flight was risky.”
So he agrees.
