Page 132 of Brutal Prince

My eyes dart up to my father’s face. He looks lost in the past for a moment. “What? Why? It’s fucking beautiful.”

“He commissioned a full set, but when it came time to pay, he could only afford the necklace.”

“Oh. Isn’t that like…breach of contract?”

Edward shakes his head, inhales, and lets out a soft sigh. “He was dying of cancer, Son. Didn’t feel right to hold him to it. And he did give me one of his wife’s painting in partial payment. The one over the safe.”

“Fuck, okay.” I close my hand over the bracelet, and then hurriedly open it again. “Can I have a box or something?”

“Sure. Second cupboard on the right.” As if he’s coming out of a trance, my father waves his hand at me and leaves the vault.

As soon as I’m out, he pushes the door closed. “Leave everything as you found it,” he says, heading for the study door. “And make sure to lock up.”

“Dad, wait.”

“What is it?” He turns back, and it’s as if I’m talking to a different person. He looks rushed and almost irritated, as if I’m wasting his time.

But I promised.

“Uh, I’m sure it’s okay, but I just wanted to let you know that Marcus is gonna be staying here for a little while.”

My dad remains motionless.

“You know, so we can study and stuff,” I add lamely.

Still nothing. If anything, it looks like my father’s thinking about his upcoming meeting, not what I’m telling him.

“We’ve got enough room, so—”

“Marcus?” Dad snaps. “Marcus Baker?”

“Uh…yeah.” I shake my head, and let out a soft laugh. “My friend Marcus.”

“You’re still friends with that delinquent? I told you to stop seeing him years ago.”

My head moves back an inch. “Delinquent?”

“Have you let him into my house?” Father hurries forward, head moving to the side so he can study me from the corner of his eye.

“He’s my fucking friend. Why wouldn’t I—?”

“No.” Dad shakes his head. “No. That boy will not set foot in my house. Not now, not ever!”

“What the—?”

But my father flicks his wrist and grimaces at his watch. “I have to leave.” When he looks up, his blue eyes are ice. “This isn’t up for discussion. That boy doesn’t come anywhere near this house, understand?”

My mouth is still open. I want to yell at him, to demand to know what the fuck he’s on about, but all I do is nod mutely.

He must take it as acceptance, because then he’s gone and I’m left with one of his precious trinkets in hand and a mind whirling like a spinning top.

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