by Nora Flite
There's some more back-and-forth between Silas and the others, but I tune it out. I'm really not capable of following this conversation on my best day, and Dominic's closeness is making breathing a struggle.
“Why don't we get some food?” Silas suddenly says, rising to his feet.
I blink, watching him. “You don't need to get it yourself,” I say. “The staff will bring you whatever you want.”
He squints at me with his eyebrows crunching as low as they can. “I prefer to choose things for myself.” The others follow his cue, rising up, moving to the table with their plates in their hands. The long stretch of finger sandwiches and other things is about half a yard away. I'm about to join them when Franklin's chair shifts on the grass loudly. He, like me, is still sitting at the table.
We're the only ones.
“You know,” he says, grinning so I can see his silver caps in the back of his mouth. “I heard you once bit a man who got too close to you. Is that true?”
“Yes,” I say hurriedly. I hope he'll get the hint and back off.
The gleam in his eyes disgusts me. “I happen to love biters.”
He's flirting with me and it makes me ill. I'm easily half his age. Beyond that, there's a predatory energy to his behavior. What do I do? I wonder, debating jumping up and rushing towards the group. I want this deal to work out. If I say what's really on my mind, it could bomb everything.
Franklin's hand lands squarely on my knee. I stiffen, biting back the urge to vomit. “I told Silas that he didn't need to hard-sell me. But you know, if you're as amicable as he thinks all of his staff is, I do have some ideas on how you can make my visit very, very pleasurable.”
“I'm not staff,” I growl, reaching down and grabbing his hand. To my surprise he places his other palm right on top, sandwiching my hand between both of his. His eyes are a poisonous green hue. “I don't care what you are,” he whispers. “I just know I want you.”
I'm on the verge of putting my shoe against his chair, tipping it over so that I knock his ass onto the ground. Before I can, a shadow falls over us. “Franklin,” Dominic says, his voice is smooth as silk. “You shouldn't linger here, let me show you some of the best food that our kitchen makes. There's more on that table than any man's stomach can handle, so I'll give you the insider info so you don't waste your time with the wrong ones.” His hand claps down on Franklin's shoulder. For anyone else it would be a friendly gesture. When Dominic looks at me from over the man's head, I see the barely constrained fury in his black eyes.
Dominic is saving me. But if this were any other person, any other situation, there would be no politeness. Dominic is putting on an amazing facade, all while he's imagining choking Franklin.
Franklin grimaces and lets me go. “I do have an appetite. Show me what your kitchen can do, but don't worry about me missing out. I'll taste everything eventually. I have a hunch we're going to become more than business associates.”
A dagger of distress sticks in my ribs. He plans to come back again? This wasn't a one-time situation? Of course not. It's obvious now, and though I can't blame myself for not predicting this, I'm still upset at my own idiocy.
In my attempt to connect the Bradleys to more powerful people, I haven't bettered my situation at all. Franklin has shown deliberate interest in me—when I think about his hand on my knee, my skin crawls.
One step forward, two steps back.
Both men stand, and as they leave, Dominic puts his arm around Franklin's shoulder from behind. I see his fingers curl, like he's noticed he's hugging a bag full of rotten garbage and wants to recoil. I relate. Grabbing a napkin off the table, I scrub my hands with it so hard that my skin glows pink.
I can't continue to sit here. Not next to Franklin. Jumping to my feet, I catch Mellie's eye. She gives me a subtle nod, indicating that it's okay if I leave. There's sympathy churning through her half-frown. I suspect she saw what happened.
Sprinting over the yard, I head straight for the mansion. When I get to the front doors, I feel the telltale burn of someone watching me. I'm too curious not to chance a quick look back at the tables in the distance.
Everyone is still gathering food, bent together as they chat under the miserably gray sky. Their faces are turned away. Except for Dominic's.
He's openly watching me.
The clouds split above, filtering a rare beam of sunlight through. It lands on his face and makes him shine. It only last a second. Then the shadows return, giving me the awful impression that no matter how many times that man saves me, it won't ever be enough to clean his soul.
Heaven will never welcome him.
- Chapter 4 -
Laiken
I get up early the next morning. When I pass Kara's door, I give it a light tap. Just to see if she's inside. And to see if she'll talk to me, even a little bit. I know we're not supposed to appear close, according to her, but this is getting ridiculous.
For the third day in a row, my knock goes unanswered.
With a sad glance at her room, I head to the kitchen. It's hard to live in this house these days. It's worse than before, when neither my sister nor Dominic were here. Knowing what happiness is makes losing it harder.
There's the usual breakfast spread left on the middle island in the kitchen. I fill a glass with orange juice, then chug it. One of the maids gives me a disapproving stare. Ignoring her, I gather up two muffins and stroll through the french doors. I don't have access to Kara or Dominic, but I do have one friend left.
It's much colder today. I'm grateful for the thick green sweater I slipped on while dressing this morning. After a few minutes of jogging, I reach the preserve. Wyatt sees me through the fence and waves, letting me inside.
“Breakfast delivery,” I say, offering him a blueberry muffin.
He tugs off one of his thick gloves, picking up the pastry with his bare hand. “Thanks. I actually didn't get a chance to eat yet today, so this is well timed.”
“That's me,” I chuckle humorlessly. “The girl with the good timing.” Twisting the muffin in my palms, I watch crumbs flick off onto the ground. I pick off a piece, but when I put it on my tongue, I can barely taste anything.
Wyatt leans on the fence; the metal squeaks. “That weight on your shoulders is about to put your nose in the dirt. What's wrong, Laiken?”
“Nothing. No, wait.” Lifting my head, I give him an apologetic smile. “Maybe everything, actually?”
He looks me over with fresh eyes, seeing beneath my fake cheeriness. “I don't hear much about what goes on in that house. Do my best not to. But I'm going to guess you're upset because of Dominic.”
Tucking my head between my shoulders, I draw in on myself. “I know what he did,” I say somberly.
Wyatt watches me with interest. “Do you?”
“My sister told me.” I perk up, blinking. “Kara's going to stay on the estate, like me. Did you know about that?”
He shakes his head. “Silas rarely involves me in these things. We have an . . . understanding, so to speak. Anyway, you heard about what Dominic did to Bernard. Then you understand why I told you to keep as far from him as possible.”
“Yes,” I begin, and we both sense my hesitance.
“He's got a hold on you, doesn't he?” he mumbles.
“Wyatt . . . I have a hard time believing he killed someone, let alone his own cousin.”
“Believe it,” he snaps viciously. His anger catches me by surprise. I drop my muffin, losing it in the dirt and leaves. “That boy is sick, but no one could guess what a monster he'd become.”
You're right. I am a monster. That's what Dominic said to me the night he returned to my world. “Wyatt, if he murdered anyone, why would his parents let him return? Especially Annie, wasn't Bernard her nephew?”
His eyebrows dive deep. “There's some doubt about if Dominic killed his cousin or not. It's enough to keep him from being charged with anything, and enough to let his father justify working with him. I'm guessing Silas talked A
nnie into believing their son was still useful, murderer or not.”
“There's doubt?” I ask, lighting up with hope. “Tell me the details, Wyatt. Please!” If there's a chance he didn't do it, then . . .
“Don't torture yourself like this,” he says solemnly. His head hangs like an overgrown acorn from a branch, seconds away from snapping free. “Laiken. Listen. Even if it's possible he's innocent, it doesn't make it better. Whatever happened up on that mountain, Dominic kept to himself. Not even Bernard's own father knows the truth.”
I step closer to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
His eyes shut, as if he's taking a moment to gather his strength. “You know the pain of being separated from your family,” he whispers thickly, “but you don't know the pain of real, soul-shredding loss. The kind that's forever.” He straightens up, looking down on me with tears budding. “I can't imagine suffering the way Vahn is, not knowing Bernard's final moments on this Earth. It was bad enough losing my own son. At least I knew how it happened.”
A wave of distress rocks me where I stand. I squeeze his shoulder tighter. “I'm so sorry, I didn't know you lost your son.” I'm connecting the dots between Wyatt and his hatred of Dominic. “Can I ask . . . can I ask how he died?”
Wyatt's frown stretches. “I can tell what you're thinking. No, Pat wasn't murdered. An everyday car crash did him in. We were on our way to a fishing trip, last one before he went off to Italy for a student exchange swap he busted his ass to be picked for.” He inhales sharply, straining for the words, and I want to beg him not to try—that it's okay not to tell me. But he pushes on, as if he has to explain. “It was early morning, 4:16. I remember because I was talking about what good time we were making, tapping the radio to show him as he dozed on and off. Didn't see the guy cross lanes into ours, hit us head on. Bastard was coming home from a night of binge drinking.”
“I'm really so sorry,” I say earnestly. His tears are gone, but mine are welling up the longer we talk about this. I can't imagine someone I love dying. It's too final of a goodbye.
He rubs my hand, laying his on top. His calluses are like sandpaper but I welcome them. “I was a mess after it happened,” he says. “They said I was lucky I lived. That's not how I saw it. Couldn't hold a job, couldn't pay my mortgage. I had no family, my wife left right after Pat was born, she didn't even come to the funeral. I was a single dad in mourning, and I won't lie, I was close to giving up entirely. Then Silas called me.”
My mouth hangs open. “How did you know Silas?”
“From our basic training days. Long story short, he saw the obituary, called me to give his condolences. Then he offered me a job here.” Wyatt gestures at the trees. “This place is perfect for a bitter ol' lone wolf like me.”
I can tell he's trying to lighten the mood, but I'm still organizing this new information in my head. “You were in the army with Dominic's dad?”
He pauses, like he isn't sure how to answer. “We never served together. He wasn't able to. His lungs.” He taps his chest lightly. “Silas barely made it through basic training. They sent him to his first active duty, and within a week, he was medically discharged.”
I back up, cupping the side of my head, like all my thoughts are trying to explode out from that single spot. “I don't—but his office is covered in medals! And he sent Dominic to a military boarding school because he wanted him to follow in his footsteps! You're saying there were never any steps to follow?”
“Medals?” he asks, before shaking his head sadly. “I'm guessing those are his father's. Stefan Bradley was a high ranking officer in the Korean war.”
God, none of this makes sense. How could Silas be so set on turning Dominic into some perfect little disciplined soldier, if he himself wasn't even close to being one? Something squishes under my heel as I back up; I stepped on the muffin.
Wyatt comes over to me, gently scooping my hands in his. “I haven't talked to anyone about Pat since, well, since I put him in the ground.”
The pain in my chest blossoms bigger. Linking my fingers with his, I give him my full attention.
His mouth is set in an arrow straight line. “You're not my daughter, Laiken. But you're very important to me. If I lost you, especially when it could be prevented . . .” He trails off, lowering his voice as it breaks. “There are so many days that I tell myself I'm a coward. I think of ways to get you out of here, because your situation is wrong. So, so wrong.”
My love for this hardened, often sour man swells until new tears fall over my cheeks. “Wyatt . . .”
His fingers clench tighter on mine. “I need you to understand how serious it is that you keep away from Dominic. A man who can commit murder, then continue to walk around unchanged by the act, isn't someone you can trust.”
I pull him into a tight hug. Wyatt's work-hardened arms wrap around me in an unbreakable knot. It's a hug almost as good as my father's. Almost.
I want so much to tell him that I'll listen, that I'll keep a distance between Dominic and me. But I can't, because there's a minor mistake in what he said. So small, but so note-worthy at the same time: Wyatt believes Dominic is walking around unchanged, free of guilt clogging his heart.
If he'd known him when he was younger—if he knew him the way I knew him—he’d realize he's wrong.
- Chapter 5 -
Laiken
It's getting late when I finally head back to the house. If I have any complaints about the season, it's how everything gets dark so much earlier. The short, squat lights stuck along the walkway circling the house make the cement shine like a serene lake.
The closest entrance is the kitchen one. I reach for the bronze handle, eager to get access to the warm interior. Through the glass I see people standing by the granite island. Annie, Silas, and Vahn are all gathered together. There are wine glasses in their hands, a maid setting plate after plate of breads and cheese on the island. I have no idea why Vahn is here—but I decide not to burst in on their little party.
Turning away, I jog around the house until I reach the driveway. I expect to see parked cars or maybe a security guard and his dog. But no, fate has something more sinister planned for me.
In spite of the cool weather, Dominic is doing push-ups on the pavement. It's like someone set up a trap at both entrances, just for me. I debate slipping backwards around the house. Could I go hide out in the preserve until one of my ways inside is clear?
You don't have to be afraid of him, I tell myself.
But I'm not afraid. Maybe that's the problem.
His gray pants help him blend into the ground. The way he drops - elbows bent, nearly tasting the cement before forcing himself back up with a grunt, over and over again - is hypnotic. I watch for a fraction longer than I should. It's hard not to. The guy really is incredible looking.
A burst of cold wind buffets me. Shivering, I command myself to walk towards him and the front doors. “Hi,” I say lightly.
Dominic locks his elbows. His legs are ramrod straight behind him, his ass tight and perfect. Even dowdy gray gym pants can't disguise that. It's rare that I get to stand over him. It gives me a funny thrill, this brief, little taste of power.
Then he smiles, and I know my power is pretend.
Even if he's lying at my feet, Dominic is always in control. He's not subservient; he's a crocodile stretched on its belly in the shadows, waiting to take a bite out of me. “Did you need something?” he asks.
I hug myself tightly, shrugging. “Not really. I was just heading inside, and you're—you know, in my way. Didn't want to be rude and ignore you.”
He arches his eyebrows smugly. I'm amazed he's still holding himself in his upright push-up position. My arms would be shaking by now. “Ignore me. Huh. That's why you spent three minutes spying on me from over there?” He nods towards the side of the house.
My whole face burns with shame. “I wasn't spying. I was . . .”
“What?” he asks, leaping smoothly to his feet. He loo
ms over me, his cockiness insufferable and somehow exciting. “If you weren't spying, what would you call staring at me when you think I don't know you're there?”
“I was shocked! I didn't expect you to be out here in the dark and cold doing your damn push-ups.” Pulling my arms around my chest, I dig my nails into the soft fabric. “Is this really how you like spending your free time?”
He scrunches up his forehead. “You think I do this for fun?”
“Why else do it?”
“Habit.” Rolling his shoulders, he bends his neck side to side. He isn't wearing the same self-assured expression anymore. “I did drills like this every single day at school. It's one of the only things left that makes me feel—” he stops himself. “Normal.”
Shit. Why is my heart beating so fast?
It's because you know what he's feeling. You run to the preserve every single time you can because when you're there, you can pretend you're back home.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
His laugh has a razor edge. “What do you have to apologize for?”
“I wasn't trying to make you feel bad.” My eyes dart towards his, meeting them, searching them. “I understand how that is - clinging to the things that are normal. Or as close as we can get.”
His chest rises and falls in a gentle pattern. Suddenly his ribs flare, his body straining with his sour laughter. “Nothing about me will ever be normal.”
My heart breaks for him.
“But,” he whispers, his voice sliding over my skin like rich cream. “You said you didn't want to make me feel bad. Does that mean you want to make me feel good?”
We're essentially alone on the front steps. Security guards are patrolling the perimeter, their flashlights glowing on the grass as they walk, but they're far enough away that they might as well be fireflies. The painted glass door is to our left, looking warm and safe and a thousand miles away.
He backs me against the wooden post beside the steps. His broad body shields me from the wind, not that it matters—I'm not cold at all anymore. Not a single part of him is touching me, but I tremble anyway, my cable-knit sweater seeming too thin.