Page 36 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

“What do you mean?”

“You said that I have my security detail for as long as we're doing this, whatever this is.” She waves her hands in the air between us as if to indicate what she's talking about. “As soon as whatever is going on between us stops, I presume you will take your security detail back. So, I'm just asking; how long do I have to sort this out? A week, a month, maybe two or three?”

“I don't have a crystal ball,” I say. “Who knows how long this could last?”

Those words, though, and the idea of this ending, even though its barely begun, fills me with a pang I was not expecting. It’s deep, and it pisses me off because it’s another sign that my obsession is winning out any rational ways to play this to win.

I'm starting to think that I need to change my plan. Clifford’s words of earlier echo in my mind, and I know that he's not wrong. All of this is a cover up for the fact that basically I want Renata. Will it kill me to admit that?

I want her to be mine.

I want to own someone so beautiful and feisty and downright hard to tame. She’s a prize that any man would be proud to have on his arm. So why not make sure that she is mine? I can still bring her family down, and in fact, if she's with me, if she's my wife, she will be protected from the fallout to a much greater degree than if she was alone.

“Would you care if you never saw any of your family again?” I ask her.

“What kind of question is that? Are you planning on spiriting me away to a private island or something? Is this a kidnapping? Do I need to tell Babbo to get the ransom money ready?”

She's a little bit close to the bone with that joke, so I shake my head. “No, I was just wondering. You said that you dislike them, and honestly, I wouldn't care if I didn't see most of my family again, except for Clifford. I'm just asking how you would feel if they all decided to go and live in Australia, and you never saw them again.”

She tosses her hair behind her shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe in some sick and twisted way I'd miss the weird dynamic we all have. Perhaps I'd be pining just to hear my mother put me down one more time. Don't eat desert, Renata, your hips can't take it. Oh, Renata, how long since you had your roots touched up, I think you're starting to show some gray. Renata dear, why don't you just go upstairs and let the grownups talk.”

I grit my teeth. “Jesus. I'm sorry to say this because I know there's that old maxim about how anyone can say stuff about their family, but no one else can, but your mother sounds like a real piece of work.”

“Oh, she is. Trust me. I swear she could cut a queen down to size with one of her pithy remarks and barbed insults.”

It makes me want to tear her parents apart that they did such a number on her. We talked when we were younger, of course, but all teenagers spend a great deal of time being angry at their parents. Plus, we often avoided the topic of family back then as it was so loaded. Hearing her words now and realizing her mother scarred her in ways that still resonate, even though she’s a grown woman, makes me feel a deep sympathy for her. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, and I’m once more disturbed at how evidently not in control I am here. I change the subject to a movie I saw the previous night.

For the rest of the journey, we make small talk, and I learn that her favorite films are either a gory horror, or old school Hollywood musicals. It's a jarring juxtaposition, much like the woman herself. When we arrive at the house, I usher Renata inside, and one of the awaiting staff steps forward with two perfectly chilled glasses of champagne on a silver tray.

She takes the glass, and I show her into the dining room. The table is groaning with food, that the staff have put out while I was picking her up. There are platters of cold meats, and plates piled with all kinds of different cheeses. There are a variety of salads, perfectly crisp asparagus, bowls of olives placed around the table, and in the center off the table there is caviar resting on ice.

I glance at her, and her stunned expression makes me smile.

“Wow, this is fancy. Is this how you eat every day?”

“No, some days I miss out the caviar,” I quip. “On a serious note, I know you don't like seafood as such, but I wasn't sure if you liked caviar. I took the risk. Feel free not to have any.”

“I love it,” she says. “It’s the texture of things like oysters I can't stand. They remind me of slugs. Caviar is a totally different matter, and it is delicious. Especially with champagne.” She raises her glass and taps the edge of it against mine.

“We should have a toast,” I say.

“To old friends reunited,” she toasts.

I nod and toast to that. “Yes, indeed.”

“Or, perhaps, old enemies. Who knows what we are?”

“Are we enemies, Renata?”

“Our families are.”

“Does that mean we need to be?”

She shakes her head. “No, but it’s hard to be anything else when your families have been at war for years. There’s no way anything between us could end well.”

I think back to what Clifford said about it. He was right, of course, and so is she, but there is a way it can end well. I destroy her family and take her as the spoils. She’d be pampered, wealthy, and I wouldn’t damn well leave her without security.

As we dine, I mostly enjoy watching her eat and don’t take much myself. Renata eating is strangely erotic. She bites into a thick stem of asparagus dripping in butter and licks her lips after. I want to lick them too and taste the butter from her skin.

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