by Angel Payne
Doesn’t bring me any more phantom scoffs or laughs. And sure as hell no more answers.
In the silence, only one sensation remains.
The ice in my veins.
It pushes me to my feet again. Yanks me back from the cement square by a step, staring down at the marker with a brand-new recognition.
I no longer want to kick more mud.
Or hang on to more memories.
Or try to get out any more words, except the ones that well up right from the heart that, for the first time in so long, I can feel beating. Feeling.
Living.
“You know what, brother? Save your answer. I don’t care what it is anymore.” The words are snatched at once by the wind—fitting exactly what has happened to the ice in my veins and the loss in my heart. It’s time now. All of it needs to be taken higher…transformed into freedom. “The thing is…I’ve found an answer of my own. Someone worth my fight. She’s waiting for me right now, and she’s ready to fight for me, too. Hell,”—a smile spreads, and it feels fucking good—“she already has.”
I breathe deeply. The sunshine seeps into my limbs, and the music of the new day fills my senses.
It’s time for this. At last.
“You know what that means, Damon?” I step back over. Stoop once more. Lay a hand to the cool stone slab, letting the damp mud spread up between my fingers…letting it remind me…empower me.
“I’m not coming back anymore, brother. Because you sure as hell aren’t.”
SEVEN
*
Mishella
“Damn.” Doyle mutters it as he and I ride Temptation’s wrought iron elevator from the art décor splendor of the building’s lobby to the glass and dark wood modernism that await six floors up.
“What?” My prompt is soft but stressed. Exhaustion bites at my bones but no way can I relax before Cassian’s return—from wherever.
From visiting yet more ghosts?
And there is the extra burn I did not need, even knowing Doyle will be a sympathetic audience if I need to vent. He probably sees through my thin façade anyway, though is merciful about bypassing the notice to go on, “Sometimes, it’s worth it when Prim gets stressed.”
I do not have to ask for elaboration. By the time we glide past the fourth floor, the aromas in the building provide it. Melted butter. Baked dough. At least three kinds of chocolate, and sugar in twice as many forms. By the time Doyle pushes open the door and we step out, my mouth craves an early breakfast feast of everything I smell.
Sure enough, we round the corner into the kitchen to find Prim kneading a mound of bread dough. Two more loaves cool nearby, next to four platters of cookies and frosted petit fours topped with candy decorations, nearly too exquisite to eat.
The woman peers up through a blonde dreadlock, an escapee from the others knotted atop her head. She wears an oversized Dashboard Confessional T-shirt and bright pink shorts, the same attire in which she tore into the living room as Doyle and I hustled Cassian out to the ER. Not a line of weariness mars her face. If not for the mini bakery surrounding her, I would think she’d gone back to bed after we left. I want to hate her for that but cannot summon the strength or the heart—in many ways, because of the new lens Cassian has given me to her. Temptation is not just the building in which the woman works. It is the home she has found.
It is a helpful conclusion—to an extent. I battle for a peaceful demeanor as Prim hurls her stare around Doyle and me before charging, “Where is he?”
“He’s fine.” Doyle cuts to the real root of her demand. “And he’ll be back soon. I need one of those cookies. Now.”
Prim blocks his path with a stance that could stand up to even my soldier of a little brother. “You need to tell me where you let him go with a busted-to-hell hand. Now.”
“For fuck’s sake. He’s a grown man.”
“He also had a…tumultuous night.” The pause in her statement is due to glancing—correction: glaring—once more toward me.
“‘Tumultuous.’ Damn. Bread, cake, cookies, and the walking thesaurus.” He fakes a step to the right before sliding left and snatching a cookie. “You are stressed.”
“And I don’t have a fucking right to be?”
“Didn’t say that.” A groan caps the comeback. “But I will say you make amazing cookies, woman. Shit, this is—”
“The woman said to get away from the cookies.” The warning comes from the newest arrival in the room: a scowling Hodge, whose flame for Prim is a secret to no one but the woman herself.
Now is clearly not the moment to turn that light on for her either. “Can everyone forget the damn cookies for a second? The man took out his shower door with his own hand. Did you really just let him leave the hospital and—”
“Prim.” The interjection does not belong to Doyle or Hodge. Too tender. And female. “Honey. Breathe.” It is one of Mallory Court’s favorite words, usually used to tease, though issued this time as a mandate. She lets Prim gets through a minor fume before stating, “I’m quite certain Cassian is aware of what he did to his hand. I’m also certain he didn’t just feel the need to go for a little coffee run.”
Prim rolls her eyes. Pivots back to the bread dough, digging hard at it. “My coffee is better than any swill in the neighborhood anyway.”
“And if you have some of it fresh, I’d love a cup.” Mallory’s smile is such a seamless stitch of regality and warmth, I wonder why she is not queen of some small island of her own. “Thank you,” she murmurs, after Prim sets a cup of the fragrant brew in front of her.
I feel nowhere near as elegant as another steaming cup is slid over—in front of me. It is plain hot water, accompanied by a small wire ball filled with my beloved blend of jasmine and mint teas. I look up, bewildered, into the golden gaze still bisected by the single dreadlock. Though those eyes no longer glower at me, they are a long way off from friendly.
“I…know how he can be,” she finally mutters. Reaches and pats my hand—just once. The gesture, a Prim Smith version of an olive branch, diffuses the tension in the room faster than a puppy in a preschool. Accordingly, Hodge and Doyle make up like a perfect pair of four-year-olds, talking in grunts, fist bumps, and three-word sentences while fetching their own coffee then vanishing.
In the stillness that falls, I am jittery. There is no explanation for it, as Mallory and I have always been all right with passing silences with each other. In just six weeks, we have had plenty of practice. The hours in the hospital, watching over Cassian after the shooting. After bringing him home, dealing with fidgety moments by tending the potted plants and flowers up on the terrace. Even our long minutes of strategic silence during Scooby Doo Monopoly…
But something about this is different.
Most notably, her.
The steadiness in how she pivots toward me. The focus in her stare. The way she seems to reach some hidden decision, only to sip her coffee with a knitted brow, as if trying to talk herself out of it.
“Mallory?” I almost talk myself out of murmuring it. The woman takes pride in her surety of words and meanings, as well as her commitment to them once declared. I am familiar with the trait, since it got solidly passed down to Cassian. Perhaps she does not want her vacillation to be called out—
“Mishella.” Just as suddenly, she is the decisive queen again. Picks up my hand like a monarch going for her scepter, and nods back at my tea. “Grab your drink. Let’s go up to the terrace before it gets too hot.”
I have gotten attached to many aspects of living at Temptation. The terrace tops that list, reminding me of many like it back on Arcadia. The view is much different, of course. The coastal bluffs and island trees have been replaced by a vista of buildings old and new. But like the Arcadian landscape, their appearance changes as the day goes on. Right now, just past daybreak, the air is still calm, though vibrates with a low hum of anticipation of the day to come. The rumble of delivery trucks thrums in time with the shouts of a coxswain, driving her rowers f
aster on the river. A light breeze ruffles the potted ficus trees, bringing a riot of smells: sweat and steam, cinnamon pretzels and honey-roasted nuts, patchouli and incense, bagels and bacon, and about a hundred more.
Surprisingly, it is all as soothing as my tea, which refreshes my throat as I turn toward the padded seating area around a granite table with a bed of glass fire rocks in the center. I settle onto a couch, looking up as a hummingbird buzzes in for nectar from the tiny white flowers in the arbor overhead. Mallory lowers next to me, already drinking from her own cup with a reprise of that “decision that is not a decision” expression.
When she lifts her head, the look remains. Oh, her confidence is still there, firm in the set of her chin and the brace of her shoulders, but shadows still battle for control in the depths of her gaze. There is definitely something on her mind—and it is not about Monopoly strategy.
“So.” She works her lips together. Pulls in a deep breath. “We know the only ones buying the ‘stupid slip in the bathroom’ line are the dumber members of the press.”
I am not sure how to reply to that—or if she wants me to. Another sip of tea seems the best choice instead.
“So why don’t we talk about what really happened.”
A blush prickles my cheeks before I can leash the thoughts causing it. “I—I am not sure what you mean.”
Because talking about what really happened would mean discussing the orgasm your son gave me three minutes before stomping off in a mysterious rush, then removing his shower door with his fist. Not that anyone did not discern that exact fact for themselves, once I frantically contacted Scott on the mansion intercom. The recall is a strange combination of vividness and blur…
Throwing on clothes—Cassian’s T-shirt, my shorts—before letting Doyle into the room.
Struggling not to slip on the bathroom tiles, slick with blood and glass, as he rushed to help his friend.
Cassian rearing up, growling at the man to shut the hell up, because I had no idea what a “nine one-one” was, let alone how to dial it.
And every step of the way, fighting the nausea and terror and fear of watching too much blood leave Cassian’s body at once.
“Oh, dear.” Mallory’s mutter, despite its self-censure, is a welcome break to the memories. “I flashed the G-string again in public, didn’t I?”
“Errrmm…” I actually know about G-strings, thanks to Kathryn and the lunch trip for the waxings from hell, but have no idea if Mallory is being literal or symbolic. To be safe, I sneak in a fast peek—which comes up fruitless. Her stylish summer blouse has a trendy bow below her waist, preventing any conjecture about anything she wears beneath the cute white culottes. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry, cutie.” She sets down her coffee. Reaches for my hand with both of hers. “You’re so damn bright, I sometimes forget…”
“Forget what?”
Her smile transforms into a full but soft chuckle. “That you’re not as…worldly…as the other women my son has been involved with.”
Ergh. It is a meaningless swat at a mosquito of vexation, despite knowing she meant her words as praise. Why the damn insect has continued to grow, I cannot explain, even after last night.
Wait.
Maybe because of it?
Knowing now who Lily was—exactly what she was to Cassian—swings a new spotlight onto the relationships Cassian has had in the four years since. Seven models, three CEOs, a couple of professional athletes, and a princess. Yes, I have looked up each one. Probably know more about them than he does—because I know exactly how long he was “involved” with them. Involved. The word is an easy grab for Mallory but chomps into my psyche and sucks blood, just like that mosquito. From the photos that made it to the internet, one would presume all those relationships were happy and romantic, comprised of dates to both high-profile events and low-profile retreats, marked by plenty of hand holding, cute kisses, and that dimple-framed smile a woman could become obsessed with all on its own.
Every relationship looking exactly like what I have with him—
Except that all of those women were fifty times more polished than me. Five hundred times more glamorous. A thousand times more elegant.
A million times worldlier.
And none of them lasted more than ten weeks.
So, yes…ergh.
“Hey.” Mallory shakes our joined hands like she’s flicking a bullwhip. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mishella, that’s a good thing.”
Her tenderness is my undoing. My nose wrinkles and my eyebrows arch. “And having a child around the house is a good thing too, yes? Until it paints the dog pink.”
“What’s wrong with a pink dog?”
“Maybe you should ask the dog.”
She gives that two seconds of a scowl before her face firms into more thoughtful angles. Serious intent.
Very serious.
She spends at least half a minute ensuring I am fully aware of that point, before speaking with just as much quiet tenacity. “He’s never taken anyone else up into that tower before last night. Not even me.”
Thank the Creator the wind has gone still. If it even whispers across the terrace again, I will be flat on the Italian stones at our feet. “Wh-what?”
She jogs her chin up. “He told you. About her. Lily. Didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Speaking it is probably unnecessary. Certainly, she can read it on my face already. That is the easy part. The questions that still remain—those are the hard part. When waiting for the answers about Lily, at least I knew what the questions were.
“Mallory…” It is my turn to lift a steady gaze. “Lily is not the only part of it all, is she? Of why Cassian lashed out last night?”
My hunch is confirmed when the woman’s shoulders hunch with tension. The stress travels down her arms and into her grip. I soothe fingers over her knuckles, taking the right to be her strength as she has been mine.
“I met Kathryn Robbe not long after arriving here.” I murmur it carefully, still not understanding completely why. “She told me that Cassian has been battling…ghosts.”
Her forehead furrows deeper. I backtrack, overriding my initial intuition. Careful is not the right call. Bandage. Wound. Whether removed slowly or quickly, the blood is going to be plentiful.
“Through these weeks, I have kept that in mind,” I go on. “How she phrased it. Ghosts. Plural. Then last night, after he revealed everything about what Lily did, I thought—well—that—”
“The ghosts were she and the baby.”
“Right.”
She squeezes her eyes shut—exposing the glitter of fresh tears along her tawny lashes. “I’d already started thinking of names,” she whispers. “Funny thing was, they were all girls. Madeline, Chloe, Elizabeth…” She shrugs and pushes out a laugh. “I was selfish. Never had the chance to do the girl thing. Imagined this perfect little person with Lily’s dark hair and Cas’s dimples…getting to do princesses and ponies and tea parties, you know?”
My throat squeezes around my breath. “Of course.”
We sit with that sadness for long minutes, each dealing with broken hearts from imagining Cassian with his heart wrapped around the delicate pinky of his gorgeous, grinning daughter.
Suddenly, even more about him makes sense. His mantra of motivation and religion of a work ethic. His brutal physical workouts. Even the way he usually sets aside most cocktails before they are half-finished. Nothing that will even crack the unwavering dominion over his own emotions.
Unwavering—until last night.
Mallory and I collide into a hug. Seize each other like buoys in a storm, letting our tears softly fall and our heartbreak quietly blend. “I am sorry,” I finally blurt. “Mallory…so very sorry.”
She presses her hand to my face. Lifts a watery smile and jerks in a sniff. “I know, cutie. Thank you.”
I pull my bottom lip beneath my teeth as more understanding snaps together. “So…was that why he punched the door?” I venture. “Perha
ps he started thinking about his baby again, and was struggling with processing it?” Especially after everything he’d just revealed to me in the turret. “He has also just been more restless this last week…” I tilt my head, notching more deduction into place. “I had actually just thought it was an itchy gas pedal foot. He hates not taking life at less than mach five.”
Mallory snickers. “You think?”
“So maybe he tried to drive what he could.” Contemplative breath. “Flush the gunk from his engine, while there was mentally time to do so.”
I leave out my silent addendum—that if that is the case, I must share the blame for every stitch the doctors put into her son’s hand. I think about the moments when I have been inches apart from Cassian but still felt as if he were oceans away, his psyche swimming at depths so dark, I feared he will never return. I do not tell her how I have halted my very breath, funneling even that force into begging his ghosts to release him back to me…
Never dreaming that spiritual rescue force included his own baby.
Mallory draws her posture straighter. “Logically, that makes sense,” she offers. “But no, I don’t think that was the case.” She soothes my frown by patting my hand. “Believe me, Ella. Mothers just know these things. They know their children.”
I fight the urge to pull my hand free. They know those things when they care. When those children are more important than status, power, or the next political “agreement” to gain more of both.
But I do not pull away. Despite that, my nerves snarl and my belly twists, as if Maimanne or Paipanne has actually just strolled out here. The self-doubts are worse than ever, compounded by a new element: second thoughts. Have I been unfair to both of them? Maybe remembered things wrong? Looked at their love through the lens of the teenager I once was, even the strong-willed woman I was genetically bound to become? Being by Mallory’s side, witnessing all the forms her love for Cassian takes—even pulling her dictator over his dictator when it is necessary—has made me wonder about all the judgments I have cast.
Over the people who were entertaining bids for the chance to take your virginity?
