I almost snort when she says Papa waseasyon me. He’d lock me out of the house all night in January, shut me into the little room under the stairs for several hours at a time, force me to eat my meat raw, and try all sorts of exposure therapies, most of which involved either physical pain or endless barrages of cruel words. All for the purpose of making me into something I might never be.
Philippa sets down her glass hard and leans close to me, lowering her voice so our guests can’t hear. “Do you know what the others are muttering behind your back, little brother? That you’re broken. Faulty. A backward step in the evolution of our species. Useless except as a stud, a sperm donor, and maybe not even then. What if you pass this flaw of yours to your children? What then?”
I stare at my plate, lips pressed tight. I want to talk back to her, but I’ve learned that’s unwise when she’s in this mood.
“When they say these things, I defend you,” she continues. “I tell them you’ll get it eventually. That you’re still a worthwhile member of the Collective. But I can’t arrange a mate for you until you have some kind of breakthrough. Do I need to call Jean-Luc to do a session with you again?”
“No!” The word jerks out of me, torn by terror. My experience with Jean-Luc was the most traumatizing event of my life. Rather than fixing me, I think it broke something in my soul, created a wound I’ve barely managed to stitch shut with my music. I can’t go through that again, or I’ll go mad.
“Jean-Luc thinks you lack the correct stimulus,” Philippa says. “If he can find the right trigger—”
“No, Philippa…please.” My nails dig into my palms beneath the edge of the tablecloth. “I swear I’m working on it.”
“If this musical of yours is distracting you from what really matters—”
“It’s not. I promise.”
“I’ll give you two more months. If you still can’t show me results, I’m calling Jean-Luc again. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll need to take a serious look at your priorities and whether your musical obsessions may be blocking your true instincts.”
My mouth is so dry, I think I’ll choke if I try to take another bite. “May I go?”
She sighs as if I’m an exasperation, a burden, an endless weight on her mind. “Fine.”
I want to run out of the room, but if I’m too visibly eager to leave, she’ll call me back, so I rise deliberately, place my napkin on the table, and say a polite “good night” to the guests and Conri.
Bursting out of the beautiful house into the night air feels like an escape from hell. I run to my truck, leap in, and drive it through the open gate, windows down, sucking in lungfuls of the chilly autumn air.
Failure. Disappointment. Useless. Broken.
It’s only a matter of time before Philippa takes away everything that matters to me. And if she does—if I can’t break free from her—I may as well die.
I turn up the radio, letting the beat pummel my sister’s words to the back of my brain where they don’t hurt so much.
For tonight, I won’t think about my family, my sister, or the Collective. I’ll focus on Christine. I’ll soothe her anxiety and show her how much fun performing can be.
If I can’t find the strength to save myself, maybe I can set her free.
12Christine
I don’t know Raoul well, but when he picks me up, I immediately sense that something is wrong. It’s odd that I can tell. Almost like I’m attuned to him.
He’s smiling as usual, polite and kind as always, and yet there’s a forlorn sadness in those pale green eyes of his. Maybe pain sings to pain, grief recognizes grief, and that’s how I know he’s hurting.
When he halts at a stoplight, I reach over impulsively and squeeze his hand. “Thanks for this. Whatever this is.”
He glances over, a naked sweetness and vulnerability shining in his gaze for a second before he conceals it with a broad grin. “Tonight is your first time performing for an audience. Small venue, cozy vibes, friendly crowd, okay? Zero pressure. Just you and me, having some fun with a song or two.”
My heart thrills with panic. “And why are we doing this?”
“So you’ve got a little experience under your belt before tomorrow night.”
I swallow the lump of terror trying to crawl up my throat. It’s sweetthat he’s doing this, and honestly, it’s a good idea. But that doesn’t make it any less scary.
“You know ‘The Fighter’?” he asks. “Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, it’s one of my guilty pleasure songs. The lyrics aren’t really that deep, but—”
