We both know what he’s implying. Who really wears the mask. Who Remy is to me and, consequently, to her.
“No,” I admit. “She doesn’t, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“What about your new Barons? Told them yet?”
“Yes,” I admit. “They earned it.”
“And she didn’t?” There’s no hiding the accusation. “She’s your fucking wife, man. She went through that barbaric ceremony, despite the fact that you’re twice her age and it’s nothing more than a fucking business arrangement, and you still don’t think she earned it?”
I don’t remind him that she should have been his bride, that the Barons should have rightfully been his to inherit, but he left thatburden to me. I wave him off. It’s not like he understands what it’s like to be in a position like mine. “It’s complicated.”
“No, it’s not.” He laughs once, short and bitter. “You’re just a coward.”
The insult should sting, but it doesn’t because he’s right. Maybe I am a coward. I don’t know anymore. Things are changing fast in Forsyth, and maybe I haven’t been adapting with it. But that’s my business, not my son’s. So I go with honesty. “Arianette…” I search for the right words and settle on, “... she’s vulnerable. Fragile. The kind of fragility I think that you would understand.”
“You mean she’s a nutcase.” He snorts. “I know how much you love those.”
“Jesus, Remy.” My fingers move to pinch the bridge of my nose. “She’s been through a lot of trauma, one she and her mind would rather not relive.YourKing demanded this opportunity and I’ve done my best to make her available. On your territory, which is pretty fucking gracious of me,” I point out. “The very least you can do is be considerate.”
I meet his stare and don’t flinch.
“Fine,” he mutters, picking up a drill bit. “I’ll keep your secret, but only because I have no desire to have a new mommy in my life.”
“Thank you,” I say with as much sincerity as possible.
The tension between us settles, so of course one of us has to pick at it. That person is me.
“Speaking of mothers… when was the last time you heard from yours?”
Remy begins arranging the pieces of wood along with several brackets and other hardware. “I send her letters, but it’s been a while since I’ve heard back.”
My son still thinks his mother is in a sanitarium in Europe, not just a few miles away at St. Mary’s, the same conservatory I had him sent to when he had one of his episodes. Call me a bastard for keeping the truth from him. A bad father. Call me whatever the hell you want, but I’m not allowing my son near that woman ever again.
“The medical staff tells me she’s doing well,” I tell him, “although a bit disconnected at times.”
“I’m sure it’s hard to stay connected when you’ve been shipped off away from everyone you know.” His jaw tics. This is dangerous territory for us.
“It’s for her safety, Remington, you know that.”
“Sure,” he says, pulling the trigger on the drill. “Keep telling yourself that.” The whir of the drill fills the room, loud and shrill, until he stops abruptly and mutters, “Safety.” His eyebrow shoots up. “Was your new wife thinking about safety when she burned down Strong Manor?”
The fire chief’s report says otherwise, but I guess my son knows the inner workings of Forsyth better than I thought. Or maybe he just understands the women of Forsyth.
“Possibly, maybe she and Lavinia can talk about fire bombing the patriarchy over tea,” I snap back.
I expect anger or a smartass retort, but he just nods and says, “Fair.”
Remy begins the process of building the shelf. It’s time for me to go, before this devolves the way it always does. “Arianette will be here this afternoon with DK and Hunter. Let me know if there are any problems.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll handle the Baroness with kid gloves.”
A thought hits me on the way out the door, and I throw out a warning. “And don’t you fucking dare let her leave here with a tattoo.”
He grins, probably the first real one I’ve seen today, and fuck. I probably just gave him the idea.
I’ve just reentered the lobby when the elevator dings. Glancing over, a huge stack of boxes emerge, face blocked, but I can tell by ripped tights and the combat boots exactly who it is.
The exit is mere feet away, and I have a meeting down at the hotel. I have every right to walk out that door and not look back. Despite that, I still find myself stepping forward and asking, “Need a hand?”
