A heavy sigh escapes me. “About that. I’m not sure that’s the way I want to go. I’m not a fan of the Sins of the Father bill, but after my time is served, I’ll get out and go about my life. I only got a year in here.”
Gray scoffs, irritation radiating off of him. “Bloody unbelievable.”
But it’s Arlanna who speaks to me on the subject. “Are you sure about that?”
My face pulls. “I think I remember the sentencing accurately.”
“I got five years,” she says, swallowing hard. “But that’s just the start. Do you really think my dad’s hands are going to start being clean all of a sudden?” Then her gaze levels on me, heating me with things I shouldn’t feel. “Do you think your father’s criminal ways are behind him? Or could this open the door for him to do whatever he likes, now that he realizes you’ll pay the penalty?”
An awful gavel of finality creeps over my shoulder, scaring me more than the heavy clink of the iron doors closing me off from the free world. The air suddenly feels too dense to drag through my lungs, the walls impossibly closer than they were a minute ago.
My knees wobble, and before I know it, I’m grasping for anything to keep me upright.
Lost Memories
Paxton
Panic shoots through my bones. I’m not supposed to have to think about a longer sentence. One year is all I’m prepared to serve. To think Father could push the limits of the law over and over makes me sick to my stomach.
The thought of staying in these concrete walls for five minutes longer than my year-long sentence steals the breath from my lungs.
Of all people, Gray’s hands reach out to steady my swaying as he and Charlotte lower me to sit on the bottom bunk.
“It’s not true. It can’t be. I’m serving one year, and then I’m out. I’ll go back to my normal life. Father made one bad decision. It’s not going to snowball into more.”
My fingers are tingling, and even though I’m flexing them, they move robotically, if at all. My breath comes in uneven pants, my chest spasming out of sync with each inhale.
“He wouldn’t do that. He’s learned his lesson. Father made a poor choice, but he won’t make a habit of it.”
Gray grips my shoulder as he sits beside me. No shifter’s ever touched my shoulder. I’m not sure he actually wants to be near me. He’s more just a good person.
A shifter is a good person? Huh. Never thought I’d come to that conclusion. Despite the fact that this shifter clearly isn’t fond of me, he’s reaching past that because that’s the decent thing to do when a man is falling apart in front of your eyes.
Bollocks, I’m falling apart. My bodyguards always shove me into the car when things start to go south like this.
The room blurs until an orange shape crouches in front of me. “Deep breaths, Paxton.”
Arlanna’s voice is like an angel’s, sent here to ruin my resolve and tempt me beyond what a man can handle. I can’t get distracted by her blue eyes, her long chocolate hair, the softness of her voice that lulls me away from the edge of hysteria.
Oranges. She smells like oranges—something sweet in this concrete nothingness where everything stinks of rock. The more I take in drags of her citrus scent, the more the walls seem to spread apart, giving me the space to breathe normally again.
Her eyes are kind and brimming with empathy, beyond what someone who’s had every need seen to her whole life should possess.
Whenever my mind wandered to her over the years, I wondered if we were the same, her and me. I wanted to know if she felt the pangs of isolation that came with the social expectations placed on us from birth. As far as social royalty goes, the two of us are the only ones on this stifling level. Too blessed to be able to complain, yet miserable in our positions of prestige that have pushed us away from anyone who can add real meaning to our lives.
The shifter’s hand is on my shoulder and Charlotte’s fingers are still laced through mine. Yet when Arlanna takes a chance and touches my cheek, the band around my chest finally loosens. Her skin is ice, too cold for comfort, but the chilled touch centers me, clearing away the fog of anxiety I swore I wouldn’t allow myself to feel in here.
“I went through acclimation. I don’t know why I’m being like this.” I’m embarrassed that I need this much help and attention. My fingers are still tingly and useless.
“You raced through acclimation,” the shifter corrects. “That’s where you and Arly went wrong. You need that time to adjust, because it’s a lot more than your freedom being stripped away. It’s everything.” His voice turns gravelly, making me wonder if I’ve ever had a truly masculine moment in my life. “We’ll help you through it.”
I turn with an unsteady swivel of my head to face him head-on to see if he’s joking. But his face is stony with seriousness.
A shifter wants to help me?
More importantly, I’m now the kind of man who needs help? From a shifter? My heart hammers with the revelation that yes, I might be more of a mess than I’m ready to admit to.
I’ve never held a shifter’s hand before. Actually, I’ve not held many men’s hands in my life. But when Gray offers his fingers for me to grip while my carefully constructed walls take a good beating, there’s a strength there I didn’t know I needed.
A lump rises in my throat. I can’t recall the last person who didn’t want a thing from me, who only came near to help me.
“Thanks,” I rasp. “Maybe I did go too fast through acclimation. You don’t really think my father will continue on committing crimes, will he? That one year could stretch on to two or more?”
But as the question leaves my lips, I lock eyes with Arlanna, who’s walking proof that our fathers can do whatever they like, now that they have a scapegoat. I know without having to guess that she’s going to serve more than the five years she was sentenced. Her father wouldn’t know how to run a clean life if… well, not even if his daughter’s life depended on it.
My heart broke the day she was sent away. I’ve always felt a connection to her, watching the papers for mention of her doing the most mundane things. I pictured her in that tower of a house, sipping tea with Sloan, entirely shut away from the world.
She went from one prison to another, yet has the grace to think of my pain.
Our eye contact feels like actual touching. It’s intimate in a way that gives me the sensation of being both naked and unashamed. “You don’t deserve to be in here, Arlanna.”
She swallows hard, as if she is also aware of the personal nature of our forbidden gaze. “Neither do you.”
When she touches my hand, a thousand memories I long suppressed come flooding back to the forefront of my mind.
Playing cops and robbers in the attic while our fathers had their grownup talk time over cigars and brandy.
Sledding in the park while Sloan and my guard, Havil, chased us. Havil was annoyed at the additional running and lugging he had to do, but Sloan actually went down the hill with us, laughing and tilting the sled over so we didn’t crash into a tree.
Playing hide-and-go-seek in the palace.
I still remember one of Father’s particularly humiliating punishments that Sloan witnessed. Afterwards, Sloan caught me in the hallway and told me something that stuck with me through all these years.
“You have a right to your voice, Paxton,” Sloan told me.
I didn’t believe him then. Sometimes I still don’t. But every now and then, I take a step forward, making my passions for peace public. Sloan’s one bit of belief in my voice saved my tiny spirit from being crushed that day, and for many days after that.
We were so young, and Arlanna so little. I’m only a year older than Arlanna, but there were times she seemed eternal with the wisdom and composure engrained into her from birth.
My self-control had to be beaten into me over the years. It took a long time for me to accept my place in the world, and the expectations that had been laid out before I was born.
I take a chance and r
each out, touching her nose the way I used to when we were children with nothing but mischief on our schedules. Of course, back then, I made sure to have flour, dirt or paint on my finger, staining her nose without her knowledge.
Her mouth twists to the left in a crooked smile that makes her seem like she’s still capable of the silliness I tried so desperately to groom into her. If it lasted in her spirit after all these years, then perhaps there’s hope mine hasn’t been forever lost.
Maybe my happiness was stored inside of her for safe keeping, and she gifts it back to me with that beautiful smile.
“How I’ve missed you,” I whisper, certain my heart is bleeding all over the place.
Perhaps it’s her gift to unlock magic in others, but the more prominent trait is that her mere presence unlocks memories and emotions I thought I’d imprisoned for good. It’s a different kind of unlocking she does now, loosening my tongue. But I have no doubt that it’s every bit as magical as her other abilities.
She tilts her head, as if my words confuse her. “Well, then I’m glad you found me. I never thought…” Then she shakes her head. “I never dreamed your dad would send you here. First off, because it’s a horrid thing to do. But secondly, because our dads went to every effort to keep us apart. Your dad knows I’m here. He knew sending you here would put us in the same building.” Her chin dips down with sadness. “Why did they keep us apart?”
My throat is dry as the truth scrapes against my esophagus. “Because they’re smart. You call it unlocking, but Father calls it enhancing.”
Arlanna’s jaw stiffens. “I don’t understand how the king knows about that. How did he know about my ability to enhance people’s magic when I only just found out myself a few months ago?”
I tilt my head to the side, wondering how it’s possible that she doesn’t remember the mischief we got up to.
She has no memory of our time together, or if she does, it’s precious little.
This does nothing to help my peaking anxiety.
“You don’t remember me,” I state flatly.
She situates herself from crouching to sitting on her backside, as if she’s ready for an education on all that I know that she’s forgotten.
I feel so foolish, holding tight to a phantom connection that hasn’t been there for years.
I do what I can to breeze past the discomfort lodged in my chest. “I’ve always known that you can unlock people’s magic, or enhance it or whatever. Our fathers were well aware of how dangerous it would be for me to be near you. You’re a direct link to ancient magic, and I’m… me.”
She frowns, which should be a crime unto itself. “I don’t know what you mean by that. Daddy never told me a thing about it.”
I cannot believe she doesn’t remember one of the most traumatic moments of my childhood.
Gray understands what I’m trying to say. Or at least, he can surmise enough. “What does the king want with Arly? He tried to steal her hair just before he was arrested, knowing it would give him a ticket to the ancient magic. Is that why he sent you here? To take Arly’s hair?”
My lips pucker as I hold up my hands. “Obviously not. I’ve been fitted with these, and so has she. He doesn’t know she’s found a way around the cuffs that mute our magic. And trust me, if he did, there’s no way he would send me here.” I rub the nape of my neck. “It’s why you can’t unlock me, Arlanna. It could be devastating to set me loose in here with my magic untethered.”
Arlanna leans forward, her hand meaning to touch my knee, but she pulls back as if there’s an electric fence in place to keep us apart. “Paxton, what are you talking about?”
I don’t want to tell them. I don’t know how they’ve tricked the truth out of me in such a roundabout way, but I feel it spilling out before I can conjure up the discipline to stop myself.
Whatever kindness they have for me now, I savor it in my soul, because I know in a few seconds, it’s all going to fade.
If Looks Could Kill
Arlanna
Watching the tips of Paxton’s ears turn red with worry causes me a great amount of angst. He’s a sweet man, I’m certain. If he doesn’t want to tell us why he won’t allow me to unlock his magic, I should respect that. I feel like I pushed him into confessing this thing he clearly doesn’t want to tell us.
Paxton squeezes Gray’s grip—a sight that, I’ll admit, gives me a heavy dose of peace. “I… My magic is… I’m dangerous.”
“You said as much.” Still, Gray doesn’t release his grip. It’s like his steadiness is a conduit for the chaos swarming inside of Paxton.
I know well the feeling of trusting my internal hurricanes with the steady ocean that is Gray. Paxton may not know he’s in safe hands, but I do.
Gray’s voice is even, leading Paxton closer to the edge while silently promising not to let go. “Why do you think that?”
It’s strange, like he can’t find the words until I touch his knee. It’s as if my close proximity draws out his secrets.
Paxton’s blond hair moves only slightly as he tosses his head back, as if trying to shake off all the things he wished didn’t plague him. “Our family comes from old magic. Same as yours, Arlanna. Most gifts are watered down to mere persuasions these days. Like, a fae could be good at hiding, sure, but they used to be able to disappear completely, becoming one with the shadows.”
I glance at Charlotte, who’s chewing on her lower lip, no doubt restraining herself from blurting out one of our secrets.
I decide trading him secret for secret is fair. “Actually, Cass can now do exactly that. Her gift was hiding, which you’re right, is a watered-down persuasion of what used to be called a shadowmelder. It was passed down from her mother. But after I unlocked her and enhanced her latent magic, it’s grown. We’re hoping that soon, she’ll be able to vanish completely at will.”
Paxton freezes. “Are you joking? You’re messing with that kind of stuff in here?”
Charlotte squeezes his fingers. “We’re learning, and we’re keeping things between the four of us while we do.” She bumps her shoulder to his. “The five of us, now. We’re following the path that’s slowly unraveling before me. Setting us all free requires a lot of steps. For some reason, destiny needs Cass to be able to vanish completely, so the ancient magic has been awakened in her. It’s the same tugging that sent you to us, instead of to any other cell in this place. Don’t you think it’s odd that the one person you’ve been forbidden to be near is the one person you’re stuck with in a cell?”
Paxton gapes at Charlotte, speechless until I run my fingers down his shin, coaxing his story from him, whether he’s ready to divulge or not. The truth is on the tip of his tongue; I just know it.
His mouth opens and closes several times, and when he finally speaks, his voice has a croak to it. “I put things to sleep with my vision. If I’m not careful to keep my gaze darting about instead of fixed for more than a few seconds at a time, whoever I’m looking at falls asleep.”
I’m not sure what to say to that.
Luckily, Charlotte takes the lead. “That’s kind of sweet.”
Paxton scoffs, though it’s clear he loathes himself more than Charlotte’s comment. “Far from it. When I started growing stronger, I glared at my mum because she made me leave a friend’s house. Mum ended up in a coma.”
Gray swears under his breath. “If looks could kill.”
To which, Paxton snorts.
Paxton motions to his face. “It’s why you never see me photographed without my sunglasses on, and why I spend so much time in meditation and yoga and things of that sort. I have to control my temper at all times. When I can’t, the sunglasses keep me from harming anyone with my gaze.”
I can’t help my gasp of horror, and hope it doesn’t sound like judgment. “How old were you when this started happening?”
“Seven.” He meets my eyes, and I have to remind myself that he’s got magic-muting cuffs on. His gaze can’t actually hurt me. “It was the week they took
me away from you. You were the friend I didn’t want to leave. We’d had a sleepover because our fathers were working late together. Sloan put us in the same bed, and by morning, my gaze was so potent, that when my mum came to wake me and take me home, I accidentally put her under for five days. We’ve always known you could enhance other people’s magic. I’ve had the ancient magic brought out in me ever since that slumber party, and I’ve had to learn to live with it. Keep it hidden.”
I fall back, plopping on my butt as anguish washes over me in waves too grand for me to stand up against. “Why don’t I remember any of that?”
Now it’s Paxton’s turn to be distraught. “You don’t?”
I shake my head. “We had slumber parties? I always wanted one of those.”
Paxton’s cheeks pink. “You painted my nails.”
“How do you remember details like that, but I don’t remember any of it?”
Gray chimes in with a gentle. “You were young.”
“You were six,” Paxton calculates.
“That’s old enough to recall events.” My heart beats unevenly in my chest, and I’m certain I’m missing a piece that could solve this puzzle. But the answer is just out of reach, no matter how far I stretch my mind. I grapple for the truth, but a fog comes into play, pushing me away from the parts of myself that might always remain hidden.
Paxton’s brows push together, and I can feel the hurt radiating off him. “All these years, you don’t remember me? You don’t remember us?”
The heartbreak in his words makes me feel that much worse. “I have one memory of you coming over.” My hands are clammy, so I rub my palms over my thighs. “It was at the dinner table. Someone was telling you to eat, and you were crying, because they murdered a pig. You didn’t want ham.” I tilt my chin toward the floor. “Broke my heart to watch you cry. I gave up eating meat that day.”
Sins of the Mother: A Paranormal Prison Romance (Sinfully Sacrificed Book 2) Page 3
