Page 2 of The Darkest Chase

His lips twitch faintly. A hint of weariness, maybe?

“Please forgive the tone. The young master is rather accustomed to getting his way, yes. May I tell him he can expect Mr. Grey in the morning?”

“Well… let me talk to him first.” I flash my politest smile, though I feel like I’m putting on a mask. Especially when this guy keeps standing here like he’s waiting for me to go talk to Grandpa now and come back with an immediate answer. I take a step back, one hand on the shop door, my smile frozen in place. “We’ll be in touch. No need to wait around, dude.”

The valet looks like he might protest.

I almost feel bad for him.

Too bad.

If Xavier Arrendell is anything like the rest of his kin—and from the rumors, he’s the most short-tempered of them all—then he won’t like this minion coming home without an answer.

“Sorry to be so short. It’s just a busy day for us,” I say, hastily closing the door in his face before I bustle back into the rear of the shop.

God, I need a minute.

I’m not good with people or unexpected surprises.

And I really do need to talk to Grandpa before we can even think about accepting this invite to hell.

When I step into the workshop, my grandfather stops the lathe. He still uses the old manual kind with a foot pedal, and its whirring grinds to a halt, along with the bassinet leg he’s been shaping.

“Serena?” he asks. “Is that you? Would you mind bringing me a glass of water, please? All this sawdust is choking me somethin’ fierce.”

My heart sinks when he calls me that name.

So it’s a bad day.

He thinks I’m my mother again. He’s forgotten my parents have been gone for over twenty years, killed in a car wreck caused by a drunk when I was just a toddler.

At twenty-seven, I guess I do look a lot like my mother did when she died, though. Now I know I made the right choice, not letting the Arrendell valet see him.

Gerald Grey is a proud man.

He’ll probably work until he dies because he can’t stand not being useful. He’s been showing more signs of dementia since last year, and we don’t like to talk about it.

It’s so hard.

But he knows it’s there, just like I do.

I won’t hurt his pride by letting anybody see him when he’s not completely himself.

And I’m not going to upset him by arguing, either.

For now, I’ll be Serena, even if it shreds my heart.

“Sure, Dad,” I say cheerfully as I walk to the sink and fill a glass, then bring it back to him and press it into his wrinkled hands. “How’s work going?”

He takes the glass with a grateful nod, then scratches a hand through his sparse remaining hair. It’s tinged grey with a fading touch of the same red as mine.

We have the same eyes, too. His midnight-blue gaze darkens as he looks over the piece mounted on the lathe.

“Slow.” He draws the word out thoughtfully and takes a long sip from the glass. When he speaks again, his voice is smoother. “Then again, handcrafted’s always slow as molasses. It’ll come when it comes.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” I squeeze his shoulder.

“Eh, we’ll see.”

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