by Vic Tyler
He opens it, and I watch his eyes move as he reads the document. My nerves grow exponentially when he doesn’t say anything, and his expression remains unreadable.
“I know it can never be official, but I figured it’s the thought that counts.” My words stumble out, rushed and clumsy. “I mean, if we can, that’d be amazing, but I know there are legal concerns and liabilities. But I want you to know how thankful I am for everything you’ve done, and you mean a lot to me, West.”
Rising abruptly from his chair, he walks to the fireplace.
I sit on the floor, watching his motionless back, and it’s like time has frozen in a stagnant state of undulating dread and hope.
When he turns around, the latter emotion swells inside me at the smile on his face. His back is to the fire, so the light casts shadows across his face, making it hard to see his expression, and my eyes blink rapidly to adjust.
“Thank you.”
Heat burns my cheeks, and sweat starts dewing on the back of my neck as I giggle nervously. “I guess it’d be weird if I started calling you ‘dad,’ right?”
His expression is cautious but contemplative. “It’d be best not to get into the habit.”
“So for special occasions?” I ask tentatively with a teasing note. “Like my birthday, dad?”
Something flashes quickly across his face, but before I can place what it is, it disappears as he smiles softly.
“Come, my child,” he says softly. He places the adoption papers on the coffee table and strides to the door. “We have your birthday to celebrate.”
My face splits into a smile, and I run after him.
chapter thirty-one
The party fucking blows.
It’s more like a formal dinner than anything else, and it probably has to do with the fact that West is here.
There’s a stiffness in the room, and the food is fancy as fuck with wine and the like.
It’s amusing to watch these deviant bastards when all they’re used to is shitty beer and cheap whiskey.
But Adriana seems to be enjoying herself, and that’s all that matters.
She’s sitting next to West, and she looks ecstatic. There’s a warm glow radiating from her, and I wish I could know what’s making her smile like that.
But besides a couple of quick, inconspicuous glances, I keep my eyes trained to everyone else but her. I try to focus on the conversations around me, but I’m not particularly compelled to.
It’s not very exciting to listen to Isla talk about her latest vivisection or the deviants scheming on how to move the party to the barracks so they can sneak women in and get laid.
After dinner, West calls Turan and me to join him in his office. Presumably for a last word before the meeting tomorrow.
Pretty much as soon as we leave, the volume ratchets up in the banquet hall.
When we enter the office, West walks straight towards the fireplace instead of his desk, and Turan and I wait, watching as he picks up a manila folder on the coffee table and flips through it.
When he tosses it into the fire, watching the flames slowly eat at and curl the corners of the pages, Turan wryly asks, “Couldn’t use the shredder?”
West doesn’t respond.
Documents don’t make for great kindling. Even with the state–of–the–art ventilation system, the smell of burnt ink and processed paper stifles my nose.
I don’t know what West is trying to accomplish by destroying that thing with such a dramatic flair (sociopaths and drama queens), but I’m eager to get on with it and get out.
I already have to deal with four Cardinals tomorrow, so I’d like to minimize my time with any of them as much as possible. I don’t particularly relish the thought of seeing them.
Who the hell would? It’s like the Geneva conference for a bunch of terrorists.
West finally breaks his silence. “Kaden Eurus has declared his Assassination.”
So the wheels set into motion are finally spinning to completion.
Truthfully, I have my doubts that Kaden can take on East.
During the year I was in the eastern faction, I saw Kaden in action.
Deadly, deranged, and fucking psychotic.
His strength is heightened by his sadism, but just wanting to see East broken down isn’t going to be enough to kill him.
Cardinal Eastwood is on an entirely different level.
The two Cardinals are probably around the same age, but East keeps his shape trim. He trains religiously to the point that you could call him paranoid.
Not to mention, he’s every bit as capable as West but incomparably merciless. I’ve seen him end his own deviants without a second thought.
From what I’ve heard, no one’s declared an Assassination against him over the past decade, and when I watched him spar with his Twelve and fought against him myself, I saw why.
I never thought of West as compassionate, but at least he offers his elite soldiers a chance to surrender. East takes a challenge for his life as a pure threat.
If Kaden loses, he’ll die in a way that’s perfectly fit for his crimes.
We discuss a few more specifics about the meeting tomorrow, and our exchange ends abruptly as it usually does when we’re finished talking business.
Turan turns to leave, but when I don’t follow, I can hear his footsteps pause as he looks back.
West’s eyes lock onto mine, and understanding passes through the air between us.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Turan continues onward and the door closes behind him.
“I’m officially declaring my own Assassination.”
It’s been a long time coming, and today, there are no mocks or taunts.
It’s almost surprising, but there’s a solemn depth to West’s expression, especially when his gaze slides up to that weird gold painting hanging on the wall.
I don’t know much about art, but this one stands out the most simply because it’s so out of place.
The mansion’s decor and artwork are pristine, modern, clean, and usually on the illicitly gained side. Things that have long been banned from transport and import, of utmost rarity and endangerment, of unfathomable prices — all laid out in the open, boasting of everything the Cardinal is capable of procuring. Reminding you there’s nothing he wants that he can’t have.
But this shiny ass painting is the most abstract thing in the mansion with all its strange eyes and colors amidst the obnoxious gold leaf as though someone took a bunch of Ferrero Rocher wrappers and glued them onto a canvas.
It’s the only piece of artwork that’s not violent or grim by any means, and it’s been here for as long as I can remember. Not to mention, it’s in his study where he looks at it all goddamn day long.
“Accepted.”
He strides back to his desk, dismissing me wordlessly.
I didn’t need a confirmation. He can’t refuse me anyway.
But I suppose we’ll discuss the exact date and location later. After the Cardinal meeting.
I turn and walk out of the room.
Soon, I’ll achieve everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ll accomplish everything I need to do.
Soon.
Very soon.
There’s a crisp wind tonight that ruffles through the leaves, and I dazedly watch the stars through the shifting frame of shuffling branches and foliage above me.
I’ve always liked lounging back on the thick branches of these old, sturdy oak trees on the lawn. It’s my favorite spot on the grounds themselves.
People rarely think to look up, and I’m shielded by all the greenery anyway. It’s a nice spot to people–watch or to relax for a few minutes.
But I’m not relaxed right now, and even this flask of whiskey in my hand isn’t helping.
I really shouldn’t be drinking when the Cardinal meeting is tomorrow, but my muscles are wound up and thrumming with impatience.
Excited. Nervous. Conflicted.
I’m going to fight West, and I’m going to ta
ke everything from him. My family will finally be avenged and given the peace and justice they deserve.
Maybe they wouldn’t have wanted me to do this, but I need to.
It’s a shred of atonement for West’s sins and for my own. Even as I rack more onto my condemned soul. Even as I stain my hands with more blood.
And Adriana will never forgive me for it.
I toss back the whiskey until my head feels like it’s being knocked around on a ship.
I don’t need her forgiveness.
I’m not worthy of it.
Holding onto the hope that she might give it to me won’t do anything except expose the weight on my heart and bring me to my knees before her.
It’d make me face how lost I feel when I think about what else I could want outside of all this.
What else do I have to live for except killing West and protecting Adriana from him? From Venti? From me?
Fucking Jura. Putting all these annoying ideas in my goddamn head. What the fuck does he even want anyway? What does he think he can accomplish while he’s still shackled to Venti?
Whatever.
A light heart and some compassion won’t help anyone, especially me of all people.
It’ll just make me weak and susceptible. Then, I really won’t be able to help Adriana when that’s what all of this is really for.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here when I open my second flask. And she comes.
Her figure grows clearer as she draws closer. Her long, dark hair billows with the cool breeze, and she holds down her pastel blue dress as it flutters around her long, smooth legs.
Her beautiful olive–toned skin glows under the moonlight, and even from here, I can see the emphatic darkness of her eyes and the lashes framing them.
Mesmerizing.
Adriana stops a few feet away from the wrought–iron fence, and an unpleasant sense of déjà vu rides over me at the eerily similar scene of watching her stare out of the complex.
She steps closer and wraps her fingers around the thin metal bars, her body too full to fit through the narrow gaps like she once did.
When she looks up as though she’s measuring the distance to climb the tall fence, I find myself saying, “You better not be trying to run off again.”
I know she won’t. But the urge to speak with her is overwhelming.
I’m amazed that I went this long without having a proper conversation with her, and now is as good a time as any.
It also doesn’t help that the alcohol is loosening my tongue and lowering my inhibitions.
Still… just in case she does try anything, I swing off the branch. When I land, the ground wobbles under my feet, and I struggle to steady myself and keep my balance, just barely managing to look unaffected.
Adriana locks eyes with me. “Will you come after me if I do?”
The flicker of hope that slips through her bored mask tugs at my heartstrings.
‘Anywhere, Adriana,’ I want to admit. ‘I’ll follow you to the end of the universe.’
Instead, I drink from my flask, watching her.
She doesn’t break eye contact as she approaches me, and my eyebrow twitches up when her fingers brush along my hand, her skin sinfully soft.
I let her take the flask, and my gaze drops to her full, pink lips touching the metal mouth, where mine had been just seconds ago.
My lips tug into a smirk when her face contorts. She tries to keep a brave, neutral face before choking and sputtering.
When I start to laugh, she glares at me, her face turning red from coughing so hard.
“Blegh,” she mutters. “Alcohol tastes so weird.”
“That’s a pretty broad generalization.” I motion for her to return the flask.
She stares me down and quickly tosses back another swig before I can stop her. She shoves the flask into my hands and wipes her mouth, grimacing.
I can’t take my eyes off her lips as she licks them.
That’s a lie.
I can.
I just don’t want to.
And she sees me looking at them, testing me as she licks her lips again — slower — running her tongue over the plush flesh.
I can’t believe those lips were on mine a few years ago. They shouldn’t have been. And the memory of it has only brought me guilt as though I took advantage of her.
But for some reason, it feels like she has the upper hand right now. Like she’s the one taking advantage of the situation. But is she really if I’m the one letting her?
After all, I’m five fucking years older than her. She’s not even eighteen.
Up until a week ago, she was little Adriana in my mind. A child to protect, a girl to look over, someone to take care of.
And now that the very core of that mindset is being challenged, I’m unraveling and seeing her in a way I shouldn’t.
It should feel incestuous. It should feel wrong.
But it confuses me that it doesn’t.
I need to stop looking at her. I need to step away. I should tell her to go back inside, although I don’t know if her partying with a bunch of drunk mercenaries is a better idea than being out here with me.
Infinitely safer, for sure.
“Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?” she says cheekily.
I arch an eyebrow as I drink, savoring the taste around the rim more than the whiskey itself. “It’s not your birthday.”
I should just wish her a goddamn happy birthday and leave, but I can’t help wanting to talk to her. Can’t help smirking and teasing. Can’t help how desperately I need to see her smile. “Midnight–oh–two?”
Her lips flash into that beautiful curve I wanted to see so badly before it disappears just as quickly under her mask. Goddammit. “But it’s my birthday party.”
“Fine.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Happy birthday.”
She huffs, dissatisfied. “That’s it?”
“What?” I scoff. “You want me to sing to you?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah.”
“No.”
Her lip pushes out into a pout, and my eyes dart to it.
My reaction only encourages her to push her lip out farther and inch closer.
Her deep, rosy lips are a touch darker than the pink blush on her cheeks.
I should step back.
Goddammit, I should.
But I don’t.
Under the moonlight, her skin sparkles. Even though it’s probably some kind of glittery lotion, if you told me she came from heaven to torture me, I’d believe you. Salvation’s never been so beautifully tempting.
I want to brush her cheeks with my fingers to see if the glimmer rubs off, to see if she feels as soft as she looks. I want to thread my fingers in her onyx hair, shining even against the black of the night.
I’m drunk. I have to be. There’s no way she should look this attractive to me right now.
“You have to make up for all my birthdays that you’ve missed,” she declares in a soft, dangerous voice.
I’m a wretched bastard because instead of walking away, I can’t help but murmur, “And how do I do that?”
She glances away contemplatively and bites her lip.
Tightening my jaw, I clamp my teeth down, fighting against the thoughts of what it’d feel to nibble on that full plumpness myself.
What sounds would she make? Would she moan? Cry out? Would she hate the pain? Or would she beg for more?
With the most innocent shyness, she lowers her eyes, blushing. “I want a hug.”
Ah.
I really am an irredeemable fucking bastard.
I don’t bother to stifle the shame and disappointment swelling inside me.
This is where I have to draw my boundaries.
Going any further isn’t how I’m going to do good by her. I shouldn’t even be considering it.
It’s wrong. Debased. Disgusting. Despicable.
Wordlessly, I open my arms, and I’m more surprised than I should be whe
n she jumps into them.
I chuckle, feeling pleasantly nostalgic. Her warmth seeps through my self–loathing and regret.
Wrapping my arms loosely around her waist, I close my eyes, breathing in her sweet, floral scent, mixed that full, heady essence that’s purely Adriana. Feeling the cooled heat of her body. Remembering her familiar embrace as home.
She is the sanctuary that cleanses what little is left of my soul.
She is the refuge that shelters my broken spirit.
She is divinity. Purity. Clarity. And everything that is right in this world. Everything that’s good and kind.
Everything I don’t deserve.
Everything I’ll ruin if she stays.
This is the warmth I need to protect. From afar.
She might not need a bodyguard anymore, but she’s still one innocent in a sea of sinners.
When her hold tightens, so does mine instinctively. I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair as my arms squeeze her small waist.
God, I’ve missed her.
And hell, I’m going to miss her.
My heart already aches with pain.
Tomorrow, things have to go back to being the same. To keep this distance between us.
It’s her birthday, but I’m the one being selfish.
Reluctantly, I loosen my hold on her, but she doesn’t let go.
“Adriana.” Her name feels like a prayer on my lips.
She shifts her head to stare up at me, and I grit my teeth to keep my involuntarily hitched breath from escaping.
So goddamn beautiful.
Up close, I can see the brilliant rich dark chocolate brown in her eyes, enticingly seductive and innocent all at once, framed by thick, long lashes.
My eyes dart to her lips when her tongue flicks out to lick them.
Fuck.
I grip her arms to push her away, but she holds on tighter.
“Damien,” she pleadingly whispers.
Before I know it, one of my hands slide up to cup the back of her neck, and I’m holding her tight against me again. The skin in the hollow of her ear is so warm and soft, and her pulse flutters against my thumb.
How does she do it? How does she have this effect on me?