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Her hand smooths over my shoulder, trying to ease the tension from a body built almost entirely out of it.
“Frank is up to something. I know it. The lies are just the beginning. But killing him now would make everything blow up in your face. We’ll lose the Trials.”
“Why should I care about winning now? Why should I carry on my family’s legacy when it was tarnished before it was handed to me?”
I’m still turning towards the staircase when Grandpa Wallace appears in the office doorway behind us, watching like a judge who wants to see whether I’ll fall to impulse or rise obediently to duty.
“You should care about winning, Edwin.”
His gaze shifts to Zaiya, then back to me.
All this time, losing wasn’t a consideration. Not with my name. My blood. Not with the way the Order has always bowed to the Crotaveres.
But if we do…
Zaiya steps closer, forcing me to focus on her.
“You have no excuse to give up,” she says. “You were born for this role. You can’t let Patrick win. You know what he’ll do to the Order with that power.”
She’s been paying attention. Learning. Her eyes stay locked on mine. Her voice is steady with conviction. She knows what she wants and how to get it.
“This isn’t for your dad,” she continues, “or even your mom. This is for you, Edwin. To give you a reason to get out of bed and do something with your life that matters.”
The way she says it makes it sound true.
My hand slides into her hair, fingers tangling at the base of her skull, pulling her close. Her lips part as she inhales. I lean down until my mouth is near hers.
“You are my reason to get out of bed. You’re the only one driving me forward. Without you, I’d walk off the bluff and follow my parents into the mausoleum. Fuck everyone else. But you…”
My voice drops.
“You are my world.”
Her eyes widen, glassy with emotion. She doesn’t pull away. She looks up at me like she understands, finally, the power she holds and the danger of wielding it.
“Then do it for me,” she says.
She has no idea how much weight that carries. The cost of losing sits on my tongue, but I can’t put that on her. Not now.
Her voice softens. “I need you to be my rock, not part of the storm I’m trying to escape.”
I know I’ve added to her pain lately, bringing her into my world and intertwining her with my personal struggles. But I swear I’ll make the torment worth it. I’ll make her problems disappear, even if I have to kill every person who ever wronged her.
Zaiya’s way of calming me has become a command. My angel pointing to the path and knowing her demon will follow.
I grab her hand and lead her down the hallway to the billiards room. The double doors slide shut behind us, the latch clicking into place.
One impulse substituted for another.
I’ll take Patrick Connelly apart piece by piece.
And when the time is right, Frank Bolton will learn what it means to share my blood.
But for now, I need her.
She stumbles back against the edge of the pool table when I kiss her neck, licking at the spot that gives her chills. My hands find her waist, her hips, grabbing at her body with this intense need to feel her.
Everything collides at once. Grief. Rage. The humiliating ache of being known too well by a girl who should have run from me by now.
