Philippa catches my arm. Her fingers squeeze my flesh so hard, it’s agony.
“Dinner’s at seven, so you’ll have time to prepare for the meal,” she says. “Dress appropriately for the table, not for a bar. We’ll eat, and then you can go meet your friend.”
Her grip never relents. She speaks in the cold, hard, dominant tone I know so well…the tone I can’t disobey, even if I want to.
“Be grateful I’m letting you go at all,” she adds.
I swallow hard. I know she expects the words, so I force them between gritted teeth. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Raoul. I want you to have a good life and pursue your dreams.” She releases my arm, and I resist the urge to massage the injured muscle. “Speaking of which, how is your little musical going?”
“My ‘little musical’ is going fine,” I say. “I can tell you more at dinner.”
“I look forward to it.” Her nod is a dismissal—permission for me to leave her presence.
My face flames as I head inside and hurry to my suite. On the second floor of the house, I have a bedroom, a bathroom, and a giant walk-in closet all to myself. It’s a privilege and a prison.
I’m not living at home by choice. I was recalled after college because our father’s health was declining. After his death, I stayed because Philippa claimed to need my support as she took on our father’s role and responsibilities. After that, she kept inventing reasons for me to stay until at last, we came to the crux of the matter—she wants to control me.
I’m expected to be grateful for the freedom Philippa allows me, like the privilege of producing my musical at the New Orpheum Theater. But I know she’s letting me have this just so she can holdsomething else of mine in the palm of her hand, ready to be crushed by her ruthless fingers if she decides I don’t deserve it.
I can’t disobey a direct verbal order from her when I’m in her presence, so I try to avoid being around her as much as possible. Her commands hold sway over me as long as I’m on our family’s home property, so technically I should be able to do as I please once I leave the gates—but Philippa rules more than this family. Her influence and her spies are everywhere, a sprawling net over this city. And I’m linked to her by a deeper chain, too—one that’s fused with my bones and twisted around my veins. A blood loyalty that was imprinted on me ruthlessly since before I could speak.
Defying her over a family meal is out of the question. But I come to dinner wearing a blazer over a band T-shirt and black jeans as a slight form of rebellion. Philippa doesn’t comment, partly because she’s immersed in low conversation with her fiancé, Conri. Theirs is a match of bloodlines, not love. Still, they seem happy enough when they’re discussing business ventures or the latest gossip from the families.
Sometimes, our evening meals involve a few dozen people. Tonight, only a handful of guests are seated along the polished length of the dinner table—two second cousins, my long-dead mother’s younger sister, and a couple of other distant relatives by marriage. There’s someone at the far end of the table whom I don’t recognize. Philippa introduces him briefly as Lloyd-Henry Woodson, an out-of-town guest looking for sanctuary with the Collective. I couldn’t care less who he is or why he’s here. I just want to get out of this house.
Our maid, Nadezhda, brings us the food in silence. When I pick up my fork, Philippa says sharply, “The prayer, Raoul.”
I let the fork clatter back onto the plate.
My sister’s eyes flare brighter for a moment. “Say it.”
A command. I struggle to resist, but it’s like an ant trying to hold a boot at bay to keep from being crushed. The words are already leaking from my mouth.
“To the ancestors, we give praise. To the gods, we give thanks. From the Morrigan, we ask a blessing, that the line of Gévaudan may thrive. To this end, we receive our sustenance.”
“So we do,” says Philippa, and the others echo the phrase.
The guests chatter among themselves while I’m unlucky enough to be sitting on Philippa’s left-hand side, too far away from the others to join their conversation. Not that I’m particularly interested, but it would be better than enduring her never-ending critiques.
As I begin to eat, I feel her watching me. Every bite of the steak falls into my stomach like a blob of hot lead until I’m sure I’m going to be sick.
The worst part of being around her is waiting for the commands, never knowing when she’ll decide to give one or what it will be. Whether it will destroy my life.
“You need a haircut, Raoul,” Philippa says, delicately spearing two green beans with her fork. “You’re beginning to look rather beastly.”
Conri snickers.
Philippa takes the bite, chews and swallows, then says, “Have you been practicing?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Don’t try to deceive me. You know I can tell.” She frowns, long fingernails tapping her water glass. “You’re supposing to be doing your exercises every day, like Papa taught you, or you won’t make any progress.”
“I know.”
“It’s for your own good. Papa was too easy on you, and I need to set you straight.”
