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“Isn’t that what you call Violet?” My lip twitches in a smirk. Dahlia caught us together once, not like I was being careful. This was a couple of years ago, before we really got together. I dragged my Kitten in here from the streets one quiet morning. Pushed her into the corner next to the heat from the fire and buried my fingers inside of her. She was so shy, so cute, trying to squirm away and hiding against my chest when Dahlia came in. But she tightened around my fingers when I shoved them in harder, and I made her come. I made sure Dahlia heard me say, “Good girl, Kitten,” because what Pru says about me isn’t just a joke. I really am an exhibitionist.

“Yeah.” I turn on my heel to grab the dolly. “That’s what I call Violet.”

I actively avoid Alistair.

The fucker father of mine is everything loathsome in this world. An abuser of women and a power-hungry warlord. Everything dark inside of me came directly from him. Our inner monsters align. I won’t ever pretend that I’m a good guy, but at least I know how to love. And I don’t think he ever had that ability. I’d love to have eliminated him already; he’s number one on my fuck it all list, but he rules this colony and three others, with a lot of supporters, including our mother country. Simply taking him out wouldn’t be enough. I need to guarantee that when he’s gone, I’ll take over. He might be more of a monster than me, but he’s also ten times as charming. People like him, and they haven’t been as receptive to me. I don’t blame them for that; I am a prick.

Anyway, right on cue, I got a note from his assistant to come to dinner tonight. He always does this to try to connect before I leave for a deployment. Not in the father-son bonding way you may be thinking, in the “you’re my successor, and I need to know you’ll follow in my footsteps,” way. You would think that he would choose his firstborn as his successor. But I have the sneaking suspicion that Cal and Caius aren’t his kids.

It always goes the same way: he tells me what he’s working on, what he needs me to do, and I sit in silence, only eating the vegetables on my plate.

Too many creatures, whom I have loved, have been served to me by his hand.

Walking into the dining hall is as bleak as this situation. While I love gothic architecture, it is something that is made beautiful or sinister by what it’s filled with. Cal used to host parties when Alistair would leave, and these halls would become almost celebratory in the dancing candlelight flickering in the sconces. Dinners with Alistair are colder than death; his presence sucks the beauty right out of here.

The doors and window frames form tall, bold archways; the ceiling itself forms a mosaic of archways from one side to the other, corner to corner, that connect in the center like a star. In the center of the room is a long table, suitable to seat twenty, lined with tall-backed chairs that appear as if they belong in a throne room.

My gaze hits the head of that table, and I freeze for a beat.

This isn’t beautiful or sinister.

This is an absolute irresistible fatality.

Violet sits to the right of Alistair’s seat. She’s wearing one of her best dresses, as is protocol for anyone in our court when invited to dinner. It’s a deep plum velvet gown with long sleeves and a high neck. Given different circumstances, I’d smile knowing that she needs to hide my bite mark on her shoulder. She’s wearing the purple lipstick I bought her, and her hair is tied in a high ponytail with a matching purple velvet ribbon, her golden waves still reaching her lower back.

When I approach the table, her eyes widen a fraction before she collects herself. I pull out my chair and take a seat opposite her, elbows on the table with my hands forming a steeple for my chin to rest as I watch her.

“Good evening, Mr. Powers.” Her voice is gentle, offering something soft as if that will stop me from biting her.

“Well, good evening!” Alistair practically yells across the room upon opening the door, striding to us, and taking a seat at the head of the table. He doesn’t age, besides a little gray in his beard, like he’s made a deal with the devil or something. His black as ever hair is neatly trimmed, and gray eyes that remind me too much of my own rapidly assess the situation he’s orchestrated. He’s wearing dark pants, a white tank top, and a leather jacket zipped right to the top.

Alistair doesn’t dress like the aristocrat he’s supposed to be.

“Good evening, Sir. I do apologize.” She glances my way before giving her attention back to him. “Did I make a mistake?” Did I get the wrong day?”

“No, no, no, Miss Daily.” He pulls the chair back and plops down in the seat, leaning back and looking her over. “I asked you both to be here.” She nods, glancing back at me.

Grabbing the chain around my neck, I work my fingers towards my mother’s rings at the end, playing with the pendants in my right hand. My signal to Violet to be careful and on high protocol. Like my good girl, she catches on quickly and gives her attention back to Alistair.

“First off, I want to offer my sincere condolences for the loss of your mother. Rosie and I go way back to the beginning of all of this.” He gestures outward, meaning the manor, the town, this entire colony. He was a part of the re-colonization of America.

Violet’s mom died… I stare at her; her eyes close for a moment while she collects herself. This didn’t just happen… This happened yesterday.

“Oh my God, Violet… I’m so sorry.” She looks at me, her eyes big and round with a glisten threatening to pour over.

“Thank you.”

“I must say I was surprised you came to the office so quickly, but it was a pleasant surprise.” Alistair pulls out a set of folded papers from the inside of his jacket and flattens them out on the table.

I swallow, my heart thumping against my chest like I’m in the ring and the bell is about to start the fight. With a glance, I see the maiden crest at the top of the papers. Fuck no. No way is Violet signing her life over to the government and getting matched up with some guy.

Leaning back against my chair, I watch Violet. Hiding her hands beneath the table, picking at her cuticles, no doubt.

“So, I was thinking.” He smiles, holding out his hands and pointing at the two of us, slowly moving his fingers back and forth, “It’s time Cain settles down. What do you say?”

Fucker. He can’t have a hand in anything that happens to Violet. He’s certainly not doing this out of the goodness of his heart or to help a grieving daughter. I can’t move forward with her until he’s out of the picture.

Not without confiscating every freedom she has.