Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
He gestured to the couches. “Can we speak?”
“What is there to speak about?”
Grave stood there with his arm in his sling, his eyes shifting back and forth between us.
My father had my eyes, and they looked at me with the same impunity I possessed. He was an impatient man who lost his temper easily, so it took all his strength to contain it within his vessel. “Anything you’re willing to share.”
The more he tried to have a relationship with me, the more I despised him. These attempts to rekindle our relationship popped up here and there. He made a gesture of reconciliation, and then I said something that pissed him off so much that he didn’t reach out again for six months. We’d been doing it for years. Now I just had to find something to say that would make him angry enough to leave me alone again. “Grave has sabotaged my mines several times, and it’s taken me weeks to get back on course. His wounded pride has set back my schedule for months. All because the woman he wants for his own prefers me instead.” I turned to look at Grave. “It’s not my fault there’s not enough money in the world to make her care for you.”
Grave’s only reaction was a slight tightening of his jaw.
“Grave.” My father didn’t raise his voice, but it still reverberated within the parlor. “Forget the woman. There are others.”
Grave forced his eyes to leave mine as he turned to look at him. “No.”
“Grave—”
“If there are others, then he can find someone else. The only reason he wants her in the first place is because she’s important to me. Fucking child.”
My father let out a quiet sigh, like a parent to children below five. He looked at me again. “If you’re doing this just to antagonize your brother—”
“I’m not—”
“Bullshit.” Grave’s voice erupted as a bark from a rottweiler. “Fucking bullshit.”
“It was that way in the beginning,” I said. “But not anymore.”
Grave pierced me with those angry eyes like his head was about to explode. “Maybe you believe your own lies, but I don’t. I wish she wouldn’t either—because you’re going to hurt her far more than I ever did.”
“Let it go, man,” I said. “It’s over.”
“It’ll never be over,” he hissed.
“Grave,” my father interjected. “The only reason you want her is because your brother has her. And the only reason he wants her is because it pisses you off. There’s only one solution to this—get over it.”
Grave clenched his jaw but didn’t make a rebuttal.
“The jealousy and spite you continue to feel toward each other is ridiculous,” my father said. “You’re grown men. Men who have dominated the material world. Men who have castrated your enemies and made them into fools. Men who can have any woman you want, for money or for free. The resentment you feel toward each other needs to be buried and forgotten.”
The chuckle slipped from my lips.
My father turned his piercing stare on me, and if I were anyone else, he’d have his barrel pointed at my temple.
“Just because we share half our blood doesn’t mean he’s entitled to my forgiveness. Same goes for you, asshole.” I looked at my father again, the man I’d hated for nearly a decade. We had the same features, looked more like brothers than father and son, but I felt nothing for him whatsoever. Whenever I looked at that goddamn face, I heard my mother’s screams as she was pinned to the mattress then slaughtered.
He said nothing, just stared at me with his iciness.
I walked out of there without looking back, abandoning my murderous plot because I was too angry to execute anyone tonight. I left the Parisian apartment and returned to the darkness of the car. When I drove away, I imagined the two of them upstairs, looking at each other in silence.
She was still awake when I walked inside.
Her hair was in a messy bun, and her long-sleeved shirt was loose enough to fall off her shoulder, exposing that sun-kissed skin given to her by the departed summer. She was always in little pajama shorts, the kind that were so short they were practically underwear. She sat up when I walked in the door, her eyes dissecting me like a knife on the operating table.
I tossed the pocketknife on the coffee table and dropped onto the couch across from her. A couple lamps were on, but it was mostly dark in the apartment. Pius and the other members of the staff were already asleep. If they were awake, I’d ask for a double scotch. I was too tired to get it myself.
She sat forward on the couch, her legs crossed, her hands together at the edge of her knee. Her eyes lingered on the pocketknife between us. She must have noticed the faded leather because she said, “Antique?”