by Lucy Smoke
down and rummages around on the floor until he lifts the pants he'd been
wearing earlier. I snag a cracker from the remaining food on the tray and stuff
it in my mouth as I watch, curious. He digs his hand into one of the pockets
and when it comes free, he's holding his pocket knife. It's the same exact one
I'd used to hack off Kate's hair over a month ago. He holds it in his palm,
sliding the handle through his fingers as he twirls it. He releases a slow breath
and then tosses it onto the bed next to me.
"I want you to keep that," he says as he slips back onto the mattress and
reclines with his arms arching up behind his head.
Reaching for the knife, I lift it and weigh it in my palm with a smirk. "Oh,
yeah?" I spin it between my fingers the same way that he had. "Why's that?"
He grunts, leaning to the side and cracking his neck without looking at
me. "I've held onto it because of sentimentality," he admits. "But I think
you'll feel safer with it if you know you've got a weapon on you at all times."
"Safer?" I stop spinning the knife and just hold it. "What do you mean
sentimentality?"
Dean reaches down and grabs a piece of cheese and pops it into his
mouth. "I got it for my tenth birthday," he admits. "From Abel's mom."
My curiosity grows. I stare down at the small pocket knife in my hand.
Now that he's told me how old he was when he got it, it makes sense. It's a
small knife, and though I'd never really considered it, for a man his size,
having something this small is a bit odd. But for a ten-year-old, or for me—
with my smaller hands—it fits perfectly.
"Who gives a ten-year-old a blade?" I ask, hitting the switch that makes
the sharp edge jerk out of its hold.
Dean chuckles. "Someone who knew quite well the hardships that ten-
year-old would have to deal with," he tells me, turning onto his side. "Don’t
worry, Abel got something from her, too."
"Like what?" I ask.
Dean hums in his throat. "Abel got the car," he says. "His Mustang.”
I snort. "And what about Brax?”
"Brax isn’t the type to take anything," Dean says. “He doesn’t even like
getting gifts for his birthday.”
My amusement fades. I’d never really gotten gifts for my birthday, but
it’s kind of hard to imagine someone like Brax—growing up in the world that
he did—just not accepting them. Then again, when you have anything and
everything you could possibly ever want, what’s the point?
I look back at the knife in my hand. "If this is so important, why are you
giving it to me?" I repeat my question from earlier. "Why not give me a
different knife?"
"I want to give this one to you," he says. "Every time you dream of shit or
you even think of shit you don't want to deal with, I want you to hold it. If
anyone ever fucking touches you, if they get up in your face, if they do
anything you don't like—hold that knife."
My eyes meet his gaze and lock there for several long, tense seconds.
"Think of that knife as a part of me," he tells me. "It's a weapon, but it's yours
now. You can use it to hurt, you can use it to torture, you can fucking use it to
kill. Every time you touch that blade, you'll know—you're not alone and you
never will be again."
Silence rings in my ears as his words fade into the darkness of the room.
My breath echoes in my ears, and my heartbeat pounds like a drum.
"You loved her," I say aloud.
Dean's face softens. "We all did," he admits.
"Will you tell me about her?"
Dean's hand reaches for mine, he pulls the knife out of my hand holds it
up, carefully pushing the blade back into place before he sets it in my lap and
weaves our fingers together. "Maybe I'll tell you some other time," he says.
"But not tonight."
"Why not?" I ask.
He doesn't answer, just shakes his head. A part of me wants to be angry.
He knows all about me. He knows everything from my deepest darkest sins
to my worst, most shameful moments. It's unfair of him to ask to keep this to
himself, to keep her to himself.
But is he really keeping her to himself if he's giving you the knife?
Another voice asks in the back of my head.
As if sensing my internal thoughts, Dean leans forward and touches my
face. He kisses my forehead. “I will tell you about her someday,” he swears.
“But it’s not just my story to tell—it’s Abel’s and Braxton’s too. She was
more than just Abel’s mom, she was all of ours. She was the one fucking
parent we actually gave a shit about, and that actually gave a shit about any
of us. She didn’t like mine and Braxton’s mothers. She was more hardcore
than any of them.”
“Will you at least tell me what happened to her?” I hate the begging in
my tone. I don’t beg for shit, but this, I want to know. If this woman was so
important to them, I want to know why she’s not with them now.
“What happens to everyone in our life,” Dean replies. “She was killed.”
I frown at that and lean away from him. She was killed, he said. Not ‘she
died.’ There is a difference. “What do you mean she was killed?”
Dean reaches down and locks his hand on mine, keeping me from pulling
away completely. “There’s something you need to understand, Ava. We’ve
all lost something, but when Abel’s mom—when Josie—died, we all
suffered. Remember how I told you before that we don’t normally get to
choose our partners?”
I nod.
“That was true for our parents as well. Josie was an heiress hand-picked
to marry into the Frazier family. She didn’t get a say and neither did Abel’s
dad. The same is true for mine and Braxton’s moms. I truly thought my father
was trying to kill you, Ava, because you weren’t picked. Knowing what we
know now—about your father—about his connection to mine makes his
acceptance of you more understandable, but there have always been
consequences of marrying out of turn.”
“But if she was selected to marry him and she did then how was she
killed?” I point out.
Dean’s face grows hard. “Josie loved Abel,” he says. “She loved me and
Brax like we were her own, but she never loved Lionel and he knew that.”
His hand tightens on mine until it hurts. “She cheated on him,” I guess.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back.
Pain etches itself across Dean’s face. “Never trust anyone but us, Avalon.”
His tone is rough and hoarse. Dean’s head dips and his forehead presses into
my shoulder. “No one, but especially not our parents.”
“You think Abel’s father killed her?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to fucking think,” he admits. “Sometimes, I think he
did. It was a car accident. She was meeting her lover, though we didn’t find
that out until much later.”
“Who—”
“Viks told us,” Dean says, answering my question before it's even fully
out of my mouth, “when he left the company.”
“Was he the—”
“No, he wasn’t her lover. We don’t know who it was. Afterwards, though,
Lione
l was angry and he took it out on Abel. He wanted Abel to make up for
the loss of her connections by working with him. We didn’t realize what that
really meant to his dad until it was too late.”
“What it really meant to his dad?” I repeat. “What do you mean? What
did he do?”
Dean inhales sharply and then pulls himself back, his hands coming up to
cup my shoulders as he turns his face away. “That’s it,” he says. “I’m done.
That’s Abel’s story to tell, Avalon. Certainly not mine.”
I press my lips together, but I don’t argue. No matter how much I want to.
To let him know that I’m okay with it, I reach up and tug on a strand of his
hair before scratching my nails lightly down his beard stubble. When Dean
turns to me in surprise, I lean forward and kiss him. His tongue tangles with
mine and I move forward, letting the sheet drop as I wrap my arms around his
shoulders and kiss him like he’s got the last fresh breath of air on Earth.
When we part, we’re both panting heavily. I sigh and rest my cheek
against his chest. “You know,” I begin, “I feel like we’re all one fucked up
family.”
A bark of surprised laughter escapes him, making his body shake against
mine.
“I’m serious,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” he chuckles, reclining until we’re both laid out on the bed once
more. “How’s that?”
“We’ve all got fucked up family issues—none of our parents are any
good and the parents that are decent always end up being unable to help.”
They end up dead, but I don’t think this is the time to point that particular fact
out. It is a commonality that I have with Abel though—his mom, my father.
What great luck we both have.
“You have a point,” Dean surmises.
“Sometimes I think I got the shit end of the stick and sometimes I think I
got lucky,” I confess. “All of my emotions are contradictory.”
“Emotions about what?” he asks.
“About my dad,” I say. “I’m angry.”
Dean’s chest rumbles. “Angry?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Not just angry, I’m fucking pissed. I think ‘why the fuck
did he have to be the one to die? Why couldn’t it have been her?’” There’s no
guessing in the ‘her’ I’m referring to. I turn my cheek and rub it against his
warm skin. “Sometimes…” My voice fades, growing lighter, more of a
whisper. “Sometimes I think that I’m exactly who she made me. I am the
monster I am today because of all she did and I can’t help but wonder who I
would’ve been had things been different.”
Dean’s hand comes up and his fingers twist into my hair as they slide
against the back of my skull. “Don’t think of that,” he growls. “Because the
second you start to think like that, it’s hard to turn back.”
“I’m not remorseful,” I say. “I’m not even sad about what I’ve done. That
makes me fucked up, doesn’t it? I’m a bad person for killing her, but I don’t
regret it.”
“What about her?” Dean leans up, forcing me to pull away and look up
into his eyes. Violent anger burns in their depths. “What about all she did to
you?” he demands. “What about all she put you through? If she said she was
sorry, would that automatically make her a better person?” He doesn’t even
give me a second to answer. “No,” he snarls. “It wouldn’t.” His hand grows
harder in my hair, clenching into a fist and holding my head up and my face
near his. “If you want to think you’re evil, then fine, but you’ve never killed
anyone who didn’t deserve it. That piece of shit that raped you and your
fucking mother. Fuck both of them. I can guarantee you that if hell exists
then that’s where the two of them are right fucking now.”
“If it exists then that’s where we’re going,” I shoot back.
Dean smiles into my face, and it’s not kind. “Oh, baby, the only place that
would ever be hell to me is one where you’re not with me. Even if our souls
are damned to burn for eternity, as long as you’re there, I don’t really give a
shit. As long as you’re there, it’ll be heaven to me.”
I open my mouth to reply, but before I even get the chance, a loud
banging sounds out in the hallway, and Abel’s voice cuts through the
penthouse. Dean releases my hair and gets off the bed. My eyes track him as
he gathers up some clothes and starts to get dressed.
Neither of us say a word as I do the same, but it’s clear that this
conversation is far from over.
32
DEAN
AM I WRONG? FOR TELLING AVALON ABOUT MAMA JOSIE? THAT'S NOT MY
story to tell. Her life and death are not my sorrow to hold. She'd meant the
fucking world to me—far more than my own alcoholic mother—but she was
Abel's mom. Not mine. A kernel of guilt eats away at the shriveled-up husk
of a conscience that lays dormant within me as I stride down the hallway
heading towards where I can hear Abel and Braxton talking.
They stop the second Avalon and I step out into the living room. "We
have a problem," Abel says, his voice serious, his gaze hard.
Of course we fucking do. Would it ever be too much to fucking ask that
we have a night off? That we just have a chance to think and breathe?
Apparently yes—it would be too much to ask the universe. Fuck me.
"What's the issue?" I demand, running a hand up through my hair as
Avalon separates from me and moves over to the kitchen. I watch her out of
the corner of my eye as she searches through the cupboards and pulls out a
glass. She puts it under the tap and runs water until it's half filled up. It's on
the tip of my tongue to tell her to throw that shit out. We've got bottled water
in the fridge, but I doubt she'd listen. She never does.
"Luc's here."
Abel's words have me swinging my focus back to him. "What?" My voice
comes out on a growl that snatches Avalon's attention. Her glass clinks as it
hits the marble countertops. I feel her gaze on the side of my face, but the
entirety of my focus is on Abel and Braxton right now.
"He's here," Abel continues. "In the Aurum." His father's hotel, of course
if he'd be here, he'd be there, what I don't understand is why. "Brax and I were
at one of the local clubs when we heard about a Kincaid party going on
there."
A hiss escapes my lips. "You're sure it's him?"
"Who else would it be, man?" Abel replies.
He's right. Unlike us, Kincaid has no joint heirs. It's him and him alone.
The smaller branches of the Kincaid family don't even have legal rights. It
has to be him. "That motherfucker," I curse, turning away.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, checking the screen on the
off chance that he's responded to any of my numerous messages, but no. They
all remain unread.
"Dean—" Avalon starts.
I shake my head, cutting her off. "He knows how important the job we
gave him is," I tell her, looking up and meeting her gaze as she comes to a
standstill between the pillars that lead into the kitchen. "You said you trusted
him, but I don't. I can't. This"—I hold up my phone—"has gone o
n long
enough."
"We're going over there?" Abel asks.
I don't see any other option. If Luc won't come to us, then we'll just have
to go to him. Whether he likes it or not, he will answer me. Avalon presses
her lips together and then sighs. "Fine," she mutters, "I'll get dressed."
She's already dressed, but I know what she means. We're not going to a
regular party. We're going to a Kincaid party and that means she'll have to
look the part. As will the rest of us. Her hair shifts over her shoulder, the
scent of her making me inhale sharply as she passes me on her way back into
the hallway.
"But I think you're wrong about him," she says, loud enough for everyone
to hear. "I think he is trustworthy."
My gaze tracks her as she disappears down the hallway and when she's
gone, I finally release the breath I'd been holding. "She reacted better than
expected," Brax says casually.
Of the three of us, he seems to be the most at ease. It's a façade, I know.
He doesn't get tense or showcase that darker side of him until we're in the
moment, but his comment does make me rethink our plans tonight.
We still have to go. I can't stand to have Kincaid running or hiding or
keeping secrets. What he's been asked to do is far too important a task. Why
does Avalon seem to trust him so fucking much, though? I don't fucking like
it.
"We need to talk about what's going to happen," I say, my eyes still on
the hallway. A part of me half expects Avalon to come charging back out
here, but she doesn't. She's changing, little by little, and I'm not sure if it's
good or bad. I really don't know. The one person I'd normally go to for
something like this is on my shit list. I can't deny, though, that I want to
fucking call him right now. I still could. My fingers clench against my phone.
Viks would pick up—he's just that type of guy. No matter what I've said
before, he'd answer my fucking call. Unlike Kincaid.
"What's the game plan?" Brax asks.
"Information," I answer, turning away from the hallway and taking a step
towards the back of the couch. I slip my phone back into my pocket and cross
my arms over my chest. "I want to know why that fucker hasn't been
answering my messages. If he's got any leads on Corina and anything else
