“I know the street more than you may think. Caleb made sure I was taught, in your absence,” she answers. She catches Nicolette's sharp glance, but makes no sign of it. She watches the amusement flicker in Seth's eyes. He recognizes her game; he plays it so very well. She knows that, ultimately, he will not underestimate her—but then, he never did. She bolsters her courage, says, “I will do whatever you want.”
Nicolette's surprise shows for only a moment before she regains control of herself. She re-crosses her legs.
“You will have to stand firm in our Uncle's shadow,” Seth says, eyes drifting back to the scenery as if her steady attention may be too much to handle just now. “And your mom is going to be furious, but it's your choice, Em.”
“I don't care what my mom wants,” she spits, her anger taking even her by surprise.
“Neither do I,” he says, smirking. It's a small and tired thing, but it breaks through even the thickest bottom layers of his feeling-less facade. It fades when he says, “But we aren't free of them yet.”
“They want you two to marry soon,” Emma blurts against the silence that tries to descend. She watches them both stiffen, then it is Nicolette who looks to her. Her cheeks redden, and she presses her lips together. “I've heard Mother talking about it,” she adds apologetically. Seth makes a small sigh.
“They're up to something, but that's better left alone right now,” he answers, which brings Nicolette's eyes to him as well.
He can almost feel the spike of panic rise across from him, and all of their collective worries come roaring to the surface. How does the hierarchy intend to use their children? Who else wants Seth dead? What ends could the kings want by rushing their progeny into official union? He pushes his enviable calm into the dim light of the limo. He must be strong for his closest allies, his real family.
“This isn't a rebellion,” he says, pinning Emma suddenly with heavy regard so that she cannot speak or move. “This is about the family, about our way of life and how it was meant to play out. My dad never wanted us to fight each other. He just wanted to make a life for us with what this city gave him.” He pauses, looks back outside, face so melancholy. “Bethania and Mikie never could see from exactly the same point of view as he did.”
And Caleb, is what he doesn't say.
Emma wants more than anything just to throw herself against her cousin, to hold him and make that stitch in his brow go away. She wants to talk about old times and watch him laugh, hear him tell stories about his youthful mischief. She would even wish for one of his conquest stories, of how he wooed some unwitting female into devious ends. But he just stares, and Nicolette is so close, ever-mindful. She changes things—makes it impossible to be close to him.
“The confusion we've caused gave us time to have this conversation,” he continues. “When they find us, you'll have to be the one to affirm the decision. I have some measure of power, but once you're eighteen, Mikie can't deny you a reasonable movement within the company. Your mom will be powerless, but she will be thoroughly pissed.”
His hand inches almost imperceptibly to curl into Nicolette's. She squeezes back. Emma acts as if she doesn't notice.
“Are you sure you’re prepared for Bethania's wrath?” Nicolette asks gently. Her sultry gaze makes Emma look away.
“I have never been afraid of my mother,” Emma answers, voice hardening just a bit, straightening against the leather seat. “You say you trust me, Seth? Well, I trust you, too, so keep that in mind.”
Seth and Nic still, quiet, watching her in surprise. She blushes under the heat of their joint attention. Weaker-willed people would cringe under that weight. The air thickens, heats up until Emma feels like she will pass out. Then Seth cracks another reserved smile, and his shoulders ease a fraction.
The earnest brown undertones in that gaze come with an approval so subtle that Emma will never be sure if it is real. She will choose to believe that it is, because she, too, can conjure an indestructible optimism. She has learned from both the best and the worst members of her family. She knows how to place her loyalty, and she knows how to self-preserve.
“I will never forget it,” he answers solemnly.
Soon, Emma will be given her chance to prove that she can see from the point that Seth believes in so strongly, the same point that he believes she understands. She is the next generation of royalty. She is a princess, and she is a Morgan. Tonight, he got the syndicate's attention, but he has faith that she will step up to own her status. The empire is hers, as well, and they are the last of the true heirs.
The car slows as they near Nicolette's high-rise. Seth rails against his doubts. He must believe he is making the right moves. If his dad ever taught him anything, it was to go with his gut. He never expected to find something unsettling in Uncle Mikie's actions, but Remi made it quite clear at the funeral that there are some grander intentions for him, their firecracker pawn, the pretty puppet. He will play their game, though. As long as it serves his own goals.
Nicolette's fingers slip from his as she climbs out first, always and forever social grace. The loss of her presence dredges up flashes of Remi's vicious handshake that day, Mikie's arm around him in fake grief. Something didn't feel right then, and it still doesn't.
He gives Emma an assuring nod, which she returns before scooting over to follow. Inside, he feels sick. He has had a slow and nauseating realization. Perhaps what motivated his brother to threaten murder was not simply selfish idiocy. What if Caleb was reacting to some detail of a bigger plan? How many of his vile words were actually false?
“Seth?”
He realizes he is staring at the car seat. Nicolette and Emma are watching him, both sets of eyes stitched worriedly. He gives his best smile, which he knows both will catch as being a little too empty. It is all he can muster, and they will not question him now. It tastes bitter as he pushes himself into the frozen night.
Chapter 12
Freedom Building, New York City. April 2nd.
The apartment is warm, elegant, high-ceilinged, and moderately decorated. Everything is done in cream and chocolate, soothing and natural colors on soft materials. Seth and Emma stand beside each other just inside the door for a long moment, both of them taking in the grand space for the first time.
Thus far, Seth has refused himself the luxury of visiting Nicolette here. Their relationship has steadily improved, though the strain of the outside makes the quiet moments difficult. She was never meant for a tiny apartment in an alleyway.
He leaves Emma standing at the door, moving farther into the cleanly comfortable open space, studying the legged furniture and the hardwood floors, highly polished. The context of the setting seems so obscene, waiting for the King to find them and unleash his wrath upon them. He suddenly finds himself hot. Nicolette has disappeared into the depths of the place. It must be the whole floor, Seth thinks. Acclimation is second nature to him. “I'll tell him, Em,” he says with his back to her as he begins unbuttoning his heavy overcoat.
He feels her attention fall on him. He can tell she is afraid. It's visible to someone like him, someone like Mikie. Still, according to their traditions— customs that Caleb had died by and so Mikie would live by as long as Seth was there—once eighteen, you're an adult. Only a few short months and that day will come for Emma. It's sensible to begin preparations for the move right away. He turns to his cousin. “But you have to affirm it. There's nothing to be afraid of. You have done nothing wrong.”
She looks like she's just seen something traumatic, but she nods anyway.
“Would you like a drink, Emma?” Nicolette asks.
He catches, sidelong, Nicolette worriedly eyeing him. He dropped his guard for too long in the car. He is torn between the need to confide in the person he trusts the most and wanting to protect her from all the dangerous knowledge creeping in the shadows.
“Yes,” Emma answers quickly.
“Would you like to take your coat off first?” Nicolette asks, sweeping by Seth wi
th two red wine glasses in her hand.
“Yes,” says Emma sheepishly, hurrying to remove her winter garments.
Seth watches the scene play, wishing he could extract himself from the scenario just to see Nic's softer side in action. Emma exchanges her coat for a glass, taking a moment to swirl it beneath her nose before taking a long sip. Seth would swear she was five years older, if he did not know her so well. A stand-alone clock ticks away their precious safe moments.
Nicolette brings the other glass to him, studying the subtleties of his face as she does. He tries to hide the thoughts, but he can't say for sure whether it was done efficiently enough to fool her. Consideration on that must wait. He swirls his glass as well, watching the color coat the side then run. She never liked reds before, before she tasted enough of her own bitterness to acquire the fortitude to enjoy it.
His eyes flit to Emma as she tries to banish the sour face from her first sip. She has only glimpsed the true dregs of the Morgan way. Every man of the family has always had the same fierce protectiveness for her, the one and only daughter and the youngest. It was Bethania's most important charge, for which she was always begrudging. Yet Emma has never wanted for anything at the behest of her king, was never allowed to descend into the truth. Drawing her in now will be devastating for her.
He fights that protectiveness now. He wants to stand between her and Mikie, wants to protect and claim her, but that would only prolong her inevitable fall from grace. She has so very much to learn. The only way to ensure she is taught what he needs, and quickly, is to have her by his side.
With the family's grandeur growing seemingly by the season and the legitimate real estate stakes his father procured returning excellent profits, the danger of every day escalates exponentially. The game becomes more important, and as much as he would have anyone believe, he cannot do it alone.
“Have a seat,” Nicolette says, and he realizes that he has again lost her movements. She stands ushering them to the sleek, dark wood furniture. She also holds a glass of wine. She raises an eyebrow expectantly.
He takes a high-backed seat, not caring to notice how much it resembles a throne. He feels himself shying from contact and closeness for fear that his emotions will leak from him and give him away.
Nicolette takes the other chair, perhaps in answer to his maneuver. She crosses her legs and looks like impossibility realized—every tiny detail of her slim suit perfect, her beauty dimming the luscious atmosphere that seems to bend to her will, the diffused light gathering around her.
Emma takes the chaise, timid and awkward against the erotic piece of furniture. Her hands shake even as she sets her expression and takes another drink, this one braver. Still, she cannot stay the reaction her features make to the merlot.
It's not easy, Seth wants to say. You have to earn it. But they wouldn't understand, and he can't bring himself to explain just now. Her hair smolders golden, making him think of Caleb. Not only is she the sacred daughter, she is the last living reminder of those of his generation who fell victim to protocol and chance. He takes a long drink at the thought that he can only be the same to her.
He has to look away. Nicolette fields his escape attempt, inexorably drawing in the attention he flings almost desperately. He should have known she would. She breaks his defenses with the open concern in her expression. He can almost see her thoughts. Keep it together. Mikie will be here at any moment. She, the rock and the reminder of necessity.
He forces himself to speak so he doesn't freeze and shatter.
“You'll be entitled to your own apartment on the family's behalf, and your salary will increase. The money you make is absolutely clean.” He glances back to Emma. She is hanging on his words, trying so hard to keep a firm and solemn expression. He gives her the best lopsided smile he can manage and, though it hurts like hell, a wink. The tension soothes around her a fraction; he can see it in the long breath she takes. He continues, “Your official title is yet to be determined, as there might be some . . . restructuring to be done soon.”
The knock at the door makes them all jump, even Seth. It comes firm and authoritative, yet not loud or erratic enough to be rude. They deposit their glasses onto the low coffee table and stand as if in some silent, dramatic play. Seth takes a place at Emma's right side, not close enough to touch, but not far enough to give room for any doubt as to his position on the matter. Nicolette answers the door.
She says nothing, merely steps to the side. If Mikie has a care for her at the moment, he doesn't show it. He walks into the place as if he has been here a thousand times, as if it were he who had bestowed the space upon the exotic princess. He strides to a point only about three feet from his niece and nephew, centered between them to let them know he can handle them both at once.
Bethania follows with pomp, giving the due look of distaste at Nicolette as she does. She stays respectfully back from Mikie. He takes the pair in for a long and silent moment that both understand to indicate a raging fury within him. He has no coat or hat, none of the smiles of childhood. No mercy.
Neither flinches. Emma is so tense she looks like she'll break with a touch. Seth is her yang, all deadly ease and quick calculation, hands in pockets. He bears the brunt of the eye contact, bears the weight of all the unspoken understanding that passes between them. Then Mikie looks away, back to her.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asks quietly. His voice is rock hard, much harder than it has ever been to her. She bites on that fact and swallows forcefully.
“I want to work for Seth.”
Seth wonders if she makes Mikie think of Caleb, too, just as Seth will always remind him of Gabe. He wonders at the ghosts his uncle is fighting. Good; let Caleb's last spiteful words haunt him to his grave. He hears Emma take a steady breath beside him. She does learn quickly.
Mikie sighs, eyes traveling slowly back to Seth.
“If you died tomorrow,” says Seth, in a tone so low it is almost foreign. Mikie stiffens, nearly glares before settling to an even more frightening calm. His nephew continues. “If I died tomorrow, if this war took us all, she would never survive. She wouldn't know how, because she hasn't been taught. I'm going to teach her.”
As much as he comforted Emma that there was no struggle at the top, this is an act of willful defiance. This is his first stand to let his uncle know that he is a pawn no longer.
One of Mikie's eyebrows lifts slightly. The time since Seth's return has not been long enough for Mikie to be completely accustomed to the colder side of Seth that developed when he grew up far from home. He has shrewdly used the family's customs to his advantage and done so successfully under the radar.
In a blatant show of familial grace, Mikie replies, “Very well. If you are both prepared to see her hands painted red by our way of life.”
Emma gapes for a moment, yet even though the situation centers around her, she has somehow been excluded from it. She looks from one to the other as silence stretches excruciatingly.
“Wait!” Bethania cries, as if she has been holding her breath since she came into the room.
Emma's eyes snap to her mother, enraged. Her pale cheeks color instantly.
“It is her decision,” Mikie says before Emma can formulate her furious thoughts into coherent sentences.
She chills. The eye contact between Mikie and Seth holds firmly. Mikie has dismissed her mother without even bothering to look at her. She wonders if Seth would ever do that to her, and if she will survive when he does.
“There's no need to make a scene,” says the king. “If you want to be treated as adults, act like you are adults. If you would like our customs honored, honor them.”
Mikie was never quite as suave as Gabe. He was never as philosophical or intuitive or broad-minded. He was always the quieter, rougher brother. Mikie was the back-up for Gabriel's fast mouth, enforcement who does not carelessly speak, so when he does, it resounds. Many times it hurts, too.
“I expect a formal presentation to the board w
ithin the next three days. Goodnight.”
He turns quickly, making a smooth stride to the door. Bethania lingers long enough to glare at Emma. Then she turns on her heel and follows Mikie out of the apartment, leaving the door standing open in deliberate impudence.
Seth stands staring at the door long after Nicolette has closed it. He is aware that Emma is shaking beside him and sniffing back tears. He knows he should move, but he's numb. Mikie never had the quick-fire wit of his older brother, but he is a slow strategist. He did not make a direct counter attack, but Seth knows it will come.
Chapter 13
Bethania’s Brownstone, New York City, April 11th.
He hears glass clink against glass before he ever reaches the door to Bethania's library. The last thing he wants is to deal with is his aunt drunk, but tonight the street sounds feel like silence and he can see the ghosts of his brother's blood on his hands. It has been hardly four months since his brother sought such a destructive end, and Uncle Mikie has all but erased him from the family's memory.
All has been business and strained smiles since the funeral. He needs some answers from somewhere, even if they are false. And he is willing to put aside his distaste for this particular part of his family and confront her like a man.
The room is hardly lit, and the warmth pours through the open doorway with it. Acoustic rhythm and blues dance upon the air from some hidden speakers, not Beth's style, Seth realizes, pausing to lean against the doorway and assess the room.
Hardbound books line the walls, built-in cases of dark wood that match a recessed bar. Crystal decanters line its top. Emma sits in the center of the room on the floor, in front of a leather reading chair. Before her is a coffee table with hand-carved legs and a glass top that supports a large liquor-tinted decanter, a full glass, and his grandmother's eighteen carat hand mirror reflecting the remnants of white powder, and the gleaming razor used to cut it.
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