Trembling, I dig through my purse for the black candle that’s been in my hands so much, the name carved into the wax has nearly rubbed off. I grab a match from a nearby drawer and tip the wick into the flame.
“I have no intention of continuing your legacy,” I declare, my heart threatening to break my sternum. “I am starting my own chapter. Please understand that, for my health, I cannot go on living this life of—”
“Enough.”
“—depravity. I am sorry for not saying any of this sooner, but you must know that I’ve taken the time to—”
“I don’t need tohear this.”
“—think about my decision, and this is it. I don’t want to inherit your life, your crimes, your crown. If I do, I don’t know how much longer I’ll live before I die at the hands of another. Or my own.”
“Poppy—”
“Daisuki da yo.” My voice wobbles, and my throat refuses to work. I bow my neck until my hair forms a protective veil around me. “Please don’t hate me for choosing myself. I still wish to be a part of your life. I need you to know how much you mean to me, Papa. Because even after everything you put me through, you’re still my North Star.”
Despair rattles my breath. Tears stream down my cheeks.
There’s nothing left for me to do but stand here and wait for him to disown me.
Most normal people wouldn’t give a shit what he does next. My father robbed me of a childhood and stole my dreams. But he also taught me how to be a warrior and a diplomat. He taught me how to rule on my feet rather than let the world throw me onto my back and make me its slave.
Alexander Morgenstern is many things. First and foremost, he’s the man who raised me.
The candle leaves my grip, and my shoulders shake.
“Poppyseed,” Papa murmurs, his scent of parchment and coffee shrouding me in a nostalgic embrace. “Look at me, baby girl.”
I do, lifting my damp lashes to see devastation and sorrow warring across his features. He thumbs the tears away like he used to when I was too small to hold a knife and paint the world in red.
“Your mother and I are leaving, dearest daughter.”
A beat passes as my upended mind attempts to comprehend his meaning. “What?”
Papa’s mouth forms a grim line as he plucks stray strands of hair sticking to my lips. “These months reminded me of how far we’vestrayed from our original purpose. Atop the misalignment, there is a target on our backs. Your mama and I have discussed at great length what to do and how much to involve you in our plans. We want to protect you, but we've learned our limits. If anything, you have a greater chance of survival in the company of those you've surrounded yourself with here. So, we’ve decided to leave the city and travel for a while. We have a local property to return to during the months we come home, but the manor is yours.”
“I-I don’t understand. You’re…quitting?”
“Retiring,” he corrects gently. “Never will you hear me say these words again, but Leviathan may have done us a favor in burning our family tree. This is your opportunity to follow whatever your dreams are now. If you wish to let this empire die, let it die. If you want to make it your own, then do so. You have no competition for the throne. You answer to no one. You have an entirely clean slate. You know what to do to get started if that’s what you wish. If you need anything at any time, you have me and your mother in your pocket. Do with the keys what you will.”
He pauses for me to say something, but speaking is physically impossible.
“I love you, Poppy. I never say it enough, I know that. I forgot how to be your father over the years, but I’m willing to give it another shot. No matter where you go or what you decide from here, remember that we are always under the same stars.”
The love in his words…it feels like a splash of color onto life’s gray palette. Sobs wrack my chest. The sound of my heart snapping free builds and builds as a roar, only to escape as a broken whimper.
In an instant, I’m clinging to him like a child and soaking the shoulder of his suit with the tears of my bleeding heart. He holds me close, rocking me gently and kissing my temple.
Like he used to when I was too young to take a life.
FAIRYTALE
Brontë
Poppy lifts a thick stack of paper from the desk that has become ours for Bourbon Binds and plops it into my hands before drifting toward the cracked windows and puffing crimson plumes of bourbon-cherry smoke into the early June dusk.
No context, as if I’m supposed to read her mind.
This fucking woman.
