Page 6 of Our Radiant Embers

ADAM

My father wielded silence like a blade. I hadn’t known how to shield myself as a child, and even now, at the age of twenty-nine, it still cut.

“It could be worse,” I said weakly.

More silence. I let my gaze sweep over the partial assembly of my family in the spacious drawing room. With floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining one of the walls and portraits of ancestors adorning another, the room was designed as a testament to our family’s wealth and taste. The crisp, cool brightness of a sunny day in March flooded through large windows and reflected off gilded cornices.

“It really could be,” I tried again. “In fact, this might not even mean very much. With the experience we bring to the table, we’re essentially leading the project—everyone knows that. The Morgans are just along for the ride.”

“Adam.” My father’s tone was a deliberate show of patience—and he was not a patient man. The flames in the fireplace crackled with a burst of energy. “A joint venture with the Morgans is nothing short of an insult.”

Thanks, I was aware.

“They did bring something unique to the table.” It was another doomed attempt to put the government’s decision into perspective when clearly, perspective was not in high demand right now. “We’re talking about a project that will be very visible to the public. Blending technology with magic makes it far easier to cite scientific progress.”

“Or maybe their pitch was just better.” A sly smile played on Christian’s lips. Feet crossed at the ankle, he was lounging against the mantle and didn’t even try to hide his delight at my failure. “And here I thought the golden boy could do no wrong.”

Oh, fuck you very much.

I reminded myself that he was eight years younger and had grown up in my shadow. While the undercurrent of rivalry simmering between us had been largely one-sided, it was easy for me to be magnanimous when I was the Nova of my generation, the one born with a power that eclipsed the rest. Yes, that had to smart—but by God, Christian made me want to punch him sometimes.

“You act like our pitch wasn’t a joint effort,” Gale said quietly. Unless it was just the two of us, my brother did most things quietly, adept at fading into the background.

“And you act like?—”

“Boys,” my aunt Eleanor cut in, speaking over her son. “That’s quite enough.” Perched on an antique chair, she leaned forward, her eyes sharp and calculating. “Frankly, this entire matter is an affront. To imply that the Morgans are on equal footing with us?”

She reserved the same distaste for the name that one might express for a maggot found squirming in the salad. For some reason, it made me stifle a snort—hysteria, most likely. How would she react to knowing that now and then, heat still zinged up my spine at the memory of Liam’s hands on me?

Yes, he set my teeth on edge. My pickings were slim, though, so my dick didn’t care.

“There’s a rumour”—my uncle now, his voice a whisper of silk—“that it was their waste recycling units that swayed the decision.”

“Be that as it may.” My father’s gaze weighed and likely found me wanting, even as I stood up a little straighter. “This is an inconvenience, Adam. Reputation is everything, as you well know, and we cannot allow anyone to overshadow us. I expect you to handle Liam Morgan so the rest of us can get the work done.”

Meaning I’d serve largely decorative purposes while they’d take care of the actual decisions and heavy lifting. Oh, they’d call me in if my services were needed, but that was it. I inhaled through my frustration.

“Don’t think Liam is the type to play second fiddle,” Christian put in, helpful as always.

“I can handle him,” I told both Christian and the room at large.

Contemplative silence was my answer, the taste of their doubt thick on my tongue. ‘You need to toughen up, honey,’ was how my mum had put it when I was younger—a Harrington didn’t cry over a dog that had died overnight. Gale had cried too, of course, but he’d been six so they’d let it slide. At eleven, brimming with magic potential, I was held to a higher standard.

God, I still missed my mum. She and my father hadn’t loved each other, no, but there’d been respect and mutual appreciation. He’d been a better person while she was alive.

But some things you couldn’t change or fix. Cancer was one of them.

The meeting drew to a close soon after, my dad, aunt, and uncle staying behind while the rest of us were excused. Christian slipped away with barely a word, Gale falling into step with me as we headed towards our section of the manor. We were quiet for a short while, and in passing, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—lips pressed together, tension obvious in the line of my shoulders.

“Don’t take it to heart.” Gale’s low voice cut into my thoughts. “They’re all in on this, think it’s our family legacy or something. A joint venture wasn’t part of their plan, but they’ll come around.”

“I know.” I did, and I wasn’t going to cry about how daddy loved me a little less now—not to the person who’d always felt like a disappointment.

We took the winding staircase to the upper floor, its marble steps polished to a reflective sheen. The east wing that we shared was slightly more modern in design, lacking the heavy oil paintings and ornate tapestries of the main house.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Gale asked just as we passed the heavy oak doors that led to our rooms. “It was a good pitch, and you did a great job with it.”

How would you know? You weren’t there.

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