I'd been staring at that safe in the corner for decades before I finally had the means to open it.
The book was leather-bound, hand-stitched. Gorgeous. Inside and out.
Toddler Legion looked like a wild angel. An angel about to be thrown from grace, even at that tender age. Blond hair sticking up wild, a toy truck clutched in his fist. His eyes already knew things children shouldn't. His face was dirty, but somehow Eleanor had caught him in perfect light, the dust around him transformed into a halo.
Little Legion was beautiful, no doubt. Even as a grown man, he still possesses all of this beauty. But the photograph, envisioned by Eleanor Ashby's masterful eye, turned little Legion Kane into something… ethereal.
Something… supernaturally splendid.
Something…alluring.
And I know that's the wrong word—it's so fucking wrong—but it's true. This perfect child drowning in golden light evokes an almost uncontrollable desire to…possess.
Even then, looking at a photograph that was nearly two decades old, I wanted to scoop him up out of that picture and hug him tight.
Every picture gave off that same feeling. That same gut-wrenching desire to… have him. Hold him. Keep him.
That's why I didn't stop. That's why I kept turning pages. I needed to see them all. Every single one.
The pull was something like an addiction.
Closing that book and walking away, I felt like a junkie craving a fix even though there was a lot in there that made me sick.
The ones of us together.
All those stolen moments I thought were private—kissing behind hay bales, my fingers in his hair, his hands feeling up places they shouldn't have. Mother had seen it all. Documented it all.
And the later pages. Studio portraits. Professional lighting. Legion, half-dressed or barely covered at all, posed like a model but looking like a sacrifice. The light catching on shoulder blades that were already inked up, the beginning of the story of the demons inside him.
I still don’t know why he did it.
I have no idea what she wanted from him.
It was the final photo that broke me.
Eleanor and Legion together in an Ashby truck. Windows down, summer heat. A selfie, of all things. She looked radiant at forty-eight.
He looked...comfortablebeside her.
Like they were friends.
Standing here on this porch, with Colt's Range Rover disappearing into dust, I finally understand. The rot in my family goes deeper than Cash's anger or Wyatt's drinking. It's not just snobbery or social climbing.
My mother's obsession with Legion wasn't so different from what Colt did to Destiny. Different ages, different methods, but the same corruption wearing the mask of benevolence.
The Ashbys don't preserve legacy—we devour innocence and call it art.
We seduce vulnerability and call it charity.
I look down at my weeping wrist, the words "PROPERTY OF DEMON" declaring me owned when I've never felt more lost.
The Book of Legion sits in that safe still.
Waiting.
Evidence of a sickness I never named until now.
I walk through the clubhouse like I'm sleepwalking, touching walls to stay upright. My fingertips brush against concrete blocks painted black a hundred years ago, the paint gone tacky from cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey. Men's voices drop to whispers as I pass.
