Page 41 of The Villains We Make

“I’m sure he was,” Silas mutters, letting me know how little he likes this as we follow the porter to the elevator and take the familiar ride up.

Silas gives my hand a squeeze as the doors slide open onto the penthouse, and before we even step off the elevator, I see him. My grandfather. He’s there waiting for us—for me, I guess—his gaze fixed and anxious.

Silas keeps hold of my hand, and we step into the suite. The doors close behind us.

There is a smell in the room, something sickly that wasn’t here before when Silas occupied the suite. It’s barely masked by the odor of cigarette smoke. I take it in, processing the whole strange scene.

Two men in white nurses’ uniforms are working at the kitchen counter. A woman in a similar uniform is seated at the table typing something into an iPad.

Chandler Carlisle-Bent is leaning against the far wall. I see the remnants of a bruise on his forehead. He is holding a cigarette in his hand. It’s not lit, and I realize it’s not real when he brings it to his mouth to draw on it and the tip lights up. He watches me, his eyes boring into me with that same look inside them as I saw in the limo. Something unkind.

No. More than that.

Something malevolent.

I shudder, and he grins.

Silas’s hand tightens on mine, and I feel aggression build inside him, tension coiling his muscles. I look up at him, shake my head subtly. He draws me closer and glares at Chandler.

I turn my attention to the man I came to see.

Gordon Carlisle-Bent, my grandfather, is seated in a wheelchair in the center of the room. An oxygen tank hangs off the back of the chair, and a mask is hooked over one armrest.

He’s tall. I can see that even while he’s seated. He’s dressed in a three-piece tweed suit that’s a little too big on his frame. I wonder if he used to fill it out. His hands rest on the arms of the chair, and he’s wearing a gold wedding band. He has wisps of dark gray hair sticking straight up all over his head, and his skin is marked by age. His face is clean shaven and he’s not quite smiling. He looks inquisitive. His eyes are a pale shade of blue, bright, and alert on me. He raises his hand and one of the male nurses rushes over.

“Help me stand,” my grandfather says.

I press myself against Silas, who squeezes my hand.

The nurse fumbles, not working quickly enough apparently because my grandfather mutters a curse. “Just get my feet off these stupid things! Is it too much to ask for that little bit of competence?”

“Almost there, sir,” the man says and bends to set my grandfather’s feet on the floor before helping him to stand. I notice his expensive shoes are polished to a high shine.

“Well,” he says finally, and I’m right. He’s tall, taller than Chandler, and almost comes up to Silas’s height. “Ophelia,” he says like he’s just said the name for the first time ever in his life. “Claire’s girl.” He walks toward us, never taking his eyes from me, searching my face. I wonder if he’s looking for signs of his daughter in me.

“You’ll scare the girl, old man,” Chandler says from his place at the wall.

“Shut up, boy.” My grandfather turns to look at Chandler. “In fact, get out. Our business is finished.”

I’m surprised when Chandler tucks that stupid fake cigarette into his pocket and does as he’s told. He gives me a hateful glance before moving past Silas and I and calling the elevator. No one speaks until he’s gone.

“I’d prefer he used the balcony and made a final exit, but no such luck,” my grandfather says, making Silas and I glance at each other, surprised. That sickly smell, it’s medicine, covering or covered by a layer of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. “You look like her.” He finally says, then snaps his fingers. The nurse who helped him out of the chair helps him back in and puts an oxygen mask to his mouth and nose. My grandfather holds it with shaking fingers and draws deeply.

I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my own breath.

“Bring my granddaughter and her…” he pauses, raising his eyebrows at Silas.

“Husband,” he fills in.

“Husband then. Fox’s boy?”

I look at Silas to see his jaw tighten. I wonder if my grandfather sees the resemblance or if Sly had told him Ethan and I were going to be married and he thinks Silas is Ethan.

Silas nods tightly.

“Not the right one, though,” the old man says with a wide smile. He then begins to cough and has to breathe from the oxygen mask again. “Get us a drink,” he tells the nurse once he’s recovered. “She looks like she needs one. You two. Sit.” He points to the couch as the nurse rolls him into the living room.

Silas and I exchange a look, and when one of the nurses asks what we’d like, Silas requests whiskey for both of us. It’s early but if I’ve ever needed a whiskey, it’s now, so I take it.

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