Wicked Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “I do. How could I put up with Cass’s absence if I didn’t feel that in my bones.”

  “Quite. Anyway, Aurora was the daughter of the village Rector, a very respectable family but not connected and not wealthy by any means. We were best friends growing up. I attended the local school because of her, and unofficially, she was my girlfriend. It would’ve been a huge scandal at the time for me to be dating someone like her, but once I turned eighteen, I was no longer under any obligation to hide my true feelings. We courted for three years officially before she was of age and I could formally propose. I was twenty-two and she was just eighteen. I’d never been so happy or so devastated as the day I was going to propose. As was right, I informed my father first as to my intentions to marry Aurora. He calmly informed me that he had other plans. My father wasn’t someone you crossed, ever. It nearly broke my heart, and I know it broke Aurora’s for many years. The men in our family have responsibilities.

  “I was unaware that my family had arranged for me to marry the daughter of Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam. They were a very influential, political family, extremely well-connected, and my betrothal was crucial to the plans my father had for Kruse’s business expansion into Europe. I hated my father for this, and I told him I would never give Aurora up. He told me I didn’t have to. I just had to maintain appearances for ten years, enough time to secure the company’s future, then I would be free to marry whomever I chose. I had to have at least one son of course, but that goes without saying” Does it? Despite his warm smile, I feel an uncomfortably icy chill numb my veins. He takes a long sip of his whiskey, and I find I need to do the same. The fumes sting my eyes and burn the hair in my nose, warnings enough to caution my approach, but I take a large gulp regardless. The whiskey is like liquid fire in the back of my throat and scours its length with raw heat until I can feel it hit my stomach. I swallow back the cough that is fighting to embarrass me, making me splutter back up a bit of what I had managed to drink down. Clearing my throat, I ask for some clarification, because I’m more than struggling to understand what the hell I’ve just heard.

  “You said you never left Aurora?”

  “Indeed, I didn’t. I couldn’t.” He shakes himself with the mere thought, and I sink deeper into my own dark pit of confusion. This makes no sense, none. He continues, “When I married Arabella Fitzwilliam and we were set to leave for the States, Aurora came with me.”

  “She was your mistress?” I can’t hide the horror in my tone. This fairytale romance has taken the nastiest twist and has my nerves on edge, my stomach in tight knots, and my mouth pooling with so much saliva, I think Oskar’s very expensive whiskey is about to make a surprise reappearance.

  “No, Tia, she was never my mistress; she was my wife-in-waiting. I had obligations, and she understood.” His clipped tone does nothing to quell my need for answers.

  “Potato, po-tah-to… What about your wife?” I push on despite the fact his back has stiffened, and he is now regarding me through piercing narrowed eyes. His voice remains calm, and he is impassive when he further explains this unique situation.

  “Arabella knew I never loved her. I never lied, and I was a fair husband. It helped that we didn’t have children. Still, it was a difficult time for everyone concerned, but we muddled through. My wife filed for divorce on our tenth anniversary and was happily remarried to a Canadian chap until they both died. Aurora became my wife, and she fell pregnant instantly with Ole, Atticus’s father. Ole never fell in love. His marriage to Inga was entirely for the benefit of the family in order to secure the name, our fortune and the bloodline. It is the Kruse way.” He takes another sip from his glass, his tone has once again softened, and he falls silent, pensively staring off into the glowing embers of the dying fire. I’m not sure if the whiskey has made me pleasantly numb, but I think the edge has softened on my judgmental outrage. I take another large gulp of whiskey, though, just to be sure. Oskar turns to face me before he speaks, placing his glass on his small reading table beside him. “We never really spoke about the time before our wedding. It’s like it happened to someone else. In life, Tia, we all have to do things we may not want, but as long as you stay true to your heart, you can never really go wrong.” His bony hand reaches for mine, and I let him take it and hold it in both of his. His gentle smile eases some of the sadness I feel for his situation, but the anguish and anger that I thought was being subdued by alcohol rears its fiery head.

  “But you didn’t stay true to your heart, Oskar; you married another woman!” I pull my hand free, because there is no way I can reconcile my emotions with his view of the situation. “Aurora must’ve died that day.”

  “I hurt her, yes, but I was hurt, too.” His voice catches, and it kills any rage I had building. He looks so fragile and broken that I hate myself for attacking him at all. This wasn’t my fight, and I can see now the pain was very real for him, too. His eyes say it all, soul sad and full of regret. I take his hand this time.

  “I’m sorry, Oskar. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I never left her Tia, and I never gave my heart to another. It always belonged to her. We just had to do what we had to do until we could be together. No one said true love was easy.” He shrugs, and I can see the effort to do that is exhausting. He looks world-worn and weary.

  “I guess times were very different back then. It just feels unbearably unjust, horrific actually.” I sniff and let out a small laugh to lighten the solemn mood, which rests heavily on both our shoulders. Then I shiver when an icy chill hits my heart, my breath freezes in my throat, and I have to force the words out, because I don’t want to give them the oxygen to be heard. No! “Why are you telling me this, Oskar?”

  “Atticus’s engagement to the senator’s daughter. You said he told you.”

  The glass in my hand falls to the slate flagstone floor, breaking it into a million pieces, a little like my heart. “No, that must’ve slipped his mind,” I mouth, not sure if the words are being spoken out loud or not. The fuzzy noise of rushing blood in my ears is all I can hear. “Would you excuse me?” I think I say that, too, only I can’t be sure. I’m numb and yet consumed with unbearable agony ripping through me, decimating every plan, every hope, all our dreams destroyed by one sentence. I stand dazed, and silently walk from the room. I don’t pick up my bag, or my coat, not even my shoes at the back door. I just walk out into the night, hoping the darkness will take away this pain.

  “Mr Kruse was asking after you again today,” my mother calls from the hall. I haven’t ventured far from my bedroom in the last week, and I’m not likely to open the door for a chat, so she doesn’t attempt to enter. ”What should I tell him? It’s not like you to not visit all week.” I hear her pick up the tray from outside my door. “I wish you wouldn’t waste this food, Tia.” I wonder if there will come a time when she expresses more concern for me rather than the food bill. I doubt it. “Atticus called again yesterday. What am I supposed to tell him?” She huffs as if my bad manners are just the worst thing.

  “To go to hell,” I reply loud enough to avoid the need to repeat myself.

  “Tia!” I can almost picture the outrage on my mother’s face. She’s probably looking over her shoulder, in case my words are heard by someone who matters.

  “Mother, I don’t care what you tell him, or Oskar, and I’ll pay for the wasted food.” She doesn’t reply straight away, but I can hear her shuffling from foot to foot. “I have work to do.”

  “You can take some time off from your studies, Tia, and eat.” It’s the first time in forever my mother’s tone actually exhibits concern, and I’m not sure if I find it a comfort or unnerving. It’s so wholly out of character from her default emotion of anger or indifference that I opt for unnerving.

  “My scholarship is dependent on straight A’s and it’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane, getting away from this godforsaken place so, no, I can’t take time off my studies,” I state flatly.

  “Suit yourself. It’s what you�
�re good at,” she bites out, and I am comforted that this is much more like her. I know this woman. She stomps down the stairs, the cutlery clinking on the tray with every heavy footstep. Only a moment later, and I hear the back door slam. I let out a huge sigh when I hear the front gate scrape open and close over the gravel drive. She’ll be gone up to the main house, or more likely to the new gamekeeper’s farm; she at least has someone to vent to.

  I feel bone-tired, and despite my study schedule, I collapse onto my bed. I tried to call Cass as soon as Oskar had revealed the ugly truth. When I couldn’t reach him, my mind just started to slowly destroy me with what he could be doing, why he lied, why he didn’t tell me. I couldn’t stop thinking that I must mean so little to him to betray me like that.

  I just felt too empty to function.

  I know some people come out fighting, all vitriol and venom, but I just feel so completely devastated, I barely have the energy to open my eyes each morning. I keep telling myself time will heal, but I know it won’t. He was my everything, and that’s the thing about first loves—they don’t just burn your heart, they brand your soul for all eternity.

  I wake to the gentle knock at my door. I lift my pillow to cover my ears and squeeze the soft down tight enough to dull the sound. After a short time there is another knock, then another.

  “Go away, Mum, please I don’t want to fight. I just want to be left alone, because actually that’s what I’m really good at.” There’s no answer, just another knock. I swing my legs over the bed and stomp to the door. Swinging it wide, I am hit with a sucker punch to end all punches.

  Atticus.

  God, he looks good. His icy blond hair looks almost white and is a little longer than normal. His chin is low to his chest, and he’s looking up through his impossibly long lashes, thick strands of his fringe partly obstructing the intensity of the dark scowl. His hand rests on the top of the doorframe, and the position flexes the muscles in his arm. The old rock band t-shirt he’s wearing has ridden up, and I hate that my eyes snap to that muscle on his tummy that seems to make me stupid, more stupid, that is.

  “I need to explain,” he states. His face is implacable, and his tone sounds more irritated than contrite, and all the apathy I felt about lashing out vanishes. I am filled with an instant and insurmountable flash of rage that surges through every nerve, travelling from my broken heart to my boot-covered foot. From the perfect distance, I launch my leg high, connecting my Doc Martin boot with his unprotected balls. He crumples to the floor on impact, and a hollow ear-piercing yell fills my tiny house. He falls, curled onto his side, gasping for breath and cupping his hands between his legs. Good!

  “You broke my heart, you piece of shit! What’s there to explain?” I would slam the door, too, but he is writhing in agony over the threshold.

  “Tia…” He coughs, his voice a pained gravelly whisper. “Call an ambulance.” I scoff at the notion and fold my arms defensively. He may be in pain, but it’s my heart that needs protecting.

  “Pussy, I barely made contact.” I sniff out a humourless laugh.

  “Please,” he pleads, momentarily pulling his hands away from his crotch. I gasp. They are covered in blood, dripping, and the crotch of his light jeans is a deep crimson and the size of the patch just keeps getting bigger.

  “Shit, Cass, what’s wrong?” I drop to my knees, my hand hovering over his curled up body, not sure where to touch.

  “Ambulance, please, Tia,” he groans, and I spring to my feet, jump over his body and race down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen, my sweaty fingers flying over the buttons. I make the call and rush back, crouching down next to him, I ask again.

  “What’s wrong, Cass? I really didn’t kick you that hard.”

  “You busted my stitches. I felt them pop, and I’m about to bleed out. It might be what I deserve, but I don’t want to die before I can explain.” His eyes meet mine, and despite the pain on his face, I can only see regret in his crystal blue eyes.

  “I don’t want you to die, period,” I reply, tentatively stroking my fingers through his hair, scared to touch him, terrified of losing him.

  I’ve never seen Cass look so pale. There was so much blood, and when he passed out in the ambulance, I very nearly died myself. I certainly didn’t want to live without him. By the time we were discharged, I felt about as wretched as could be. He barely said two words at the hospital, but insisted I stay with him the entire time. Twelve hours later, and I couldn’t be more relieved to be going home, together.

  “I’m sorry,” I say for the hundredth time. The taxi pulls away, and Cass takes my hand and leads me back into my house, silently up the stairs and only speaks once the bedroom door is closed and we are seated, facing each other, on my bed. I shift round until I am cross-legged, wringing my hands in my lap; his legs are splayed, and with good reason. Last week he had a baseball injury that nearly left him with just one testicle, but after emergency surgery he was set to make a full recovery, was being the operative word.

  “They said it’s going to be fine, Tia. They repaired the stitches, the blood made it look a lot worse, and at the moment, the painkillers are keeping the agony at bay. Well, the agony in my balls. My heart is not faring so well.” We’re holding hands, and he places my palm on his chest. I can feel the strong beat of his heart in my fingertips. I shake my head at the warm feeling that creates in my own chest. It’s all so wrong.

  “Your heart, Cass? I’m not the one engaged to another girl. How could you?” My mouth is too dry to shift the lump in my throat. All the moisture in my body seems to be poised right behind my eyelids.

  “Let me explain, and then whatever you decide, I will respect. I’ve never lied to you, Tia, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “Omission of facts is lying, Cass.”

  “Please, Tia.” He drops his head, and his tone isn’t nearly as confident as it normally is. His eyes are pleading, and he grips my hand just a little too tight. He’s nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him nervous.

  “Fine.” I nod, and he lets out a sigh filled with relief. He draws in a slow breath before he starts to speak, and then he says with absolutely certainty.

  “I love you, Tia. I think that’s the first thing that needs to be clarified. I want you more than my next breath, and I will have you as my wife, one day.” His lips carve the perfect smile, and I have to force myself to believe anything could possibly be wrong when he looks like that and makes me feel the way he always does—cherished, loved, complete.

  “But you—” I interrupt, and he quickly does the same.

  “Nah-ah…my turn. You’ve expressed how you feel with your boot. It’s my turn now.” I bite my lips shut and nod. “I am to take over from my uncle as CEO on my twenty-fifth birthday, but there are strings attached. I have some placements to undertake, learn the ropes as it were, and there are some deals I have to secure. Misty is the only daughter of Senator Jameson. I’m not going to bore you with the intricacies of what’s involved politically or financially with this connection, just that in agreeing to an engagement, I am fulfilling my obligations and securing the future of the Kruse Corporation, globally.” He pauses to adjust himself, wincing and drawing in a sharp breath. I take the distraction as an invitation to contribute my own musings on what he just said.

  “Bullshit.” I pull my hand from his, and he snatches it back, holding it firmly, and narrowing his eyes with warning. I may be a raging ball of hurt and jealousy, but he does have a very intimidating way about him when he’s mad. I’ve just never been on the receiving end, and I damn well know I’m not this time. He’s mad at himself. I can feel it radiating off him in waves. He kisses my fingertips as if to confirm my thoughts.

  “It really isn’t, Tia. However advanced society is, important deals are still made on the strength of family connections and personal relationships. It’s an ugly truth but one that’s kept the very rich very powerful for centuries. I know Grandpa told you his story, and mine is not much diffe
rent.” He shrugs lightly, and my rush of air escapes in an incredulous hollow laugh.

  “Wrong! If you think for one moment I’m going to be your mistress while you play house with Miss-fucking-America, your expensive education has been wasted, because you are one thick idiot.” The bravado in my tone falters when hot tears flow onto my cheek. I can’t wipe them away because he won’t release his hold. My voice catches, and I no longer try and hide my devastation. “I can’t believe you’re choosing to do this, Cass, after everything we’d planned.” Large ugly sobs rip through my chest, and fat tears streak my face. He holds my gaze, his own eyes glassy, but he has a little more control. His hand presses to my cheek, and he catches the tears, smearing my skin dry, only for a split second before it is once more soaked with my heartbreak.

  “I’m not choosing this, Tia. I have no choice. I will forfeit my place in the company and much more besides if we don’t do this.” I hear the emphasis on the we, but I fail to see how this is a joint decision when he is already firmly walking this path, with or without me.

  “You wouldn’t lose me,” I argue, sucking back the sobs.

  “I’m not going to lose you now. I said we, and I meant we. I need you to be on board, or I walk. I just want you to understand what that really means.” He waits until I look up, his gaze searching mine.

  I scoff. “I’m not on board, Cass. You’re engaged,”

  “In name only, and I promise there will be no wedding. Misty no more wants to marry me than I do her. She’s in love with a musician, but she’s struck the same deal with her family.”