Page 10 of Lost Kingdom

WHEN IN ROME AND ALL THAT SHIT

Visiting New York City, when your home is in a whole other state, would imply hotels. Big, fancy, multi-room suites and silver-tray service delivered to one’s door. The money my family possesses, oodles of it, split five ways, means I could stay anywhere, for any price, and have the best views and the most sought-after servants money can buy.

And yet, Felix Malone makes damn sure we stay in our childhood bedrooms.

“You all know where you’re sleeping,” he announces, striding through the front door of the massive, multi-story mansion set not so far from the beach—a fair drive outside of Manhattan. He’s never seemed to mind the commute each day when he conducts business in the city, and it’s never been an issue for me, considering I left this fuckhole almost half my lifetime ago. “Your bags are already in your rooms,” he adds, dragging Christabelle closer, the trailing tail of her gown bundled in his fist so she doesn’t risk tripping on the fabric. Heavy footsteps pound across the house as Bastard, the mutt dog that stands way too fucking large for comfort, sniffs out his visitors. “We’re going to bed, and we’re flying out early tomorrow for Spain. Stay as long as you want after we’re gone. We’ll be back in a week.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow.” I bend to collect the bottom of Aubree’s dress and bat the dog’s snuffling nose away as he sidles up on her left. I don’t care what everyone else is doing; Archer and Minka. Cato. Micah. I haveabsolutely no fucks to give about the rest of them. “You and I are on the plane at noon tomorrow,” I tell her. “It’s time to get you the hell out of this city.”

“Your insistence on telling me what to do is exhausting.” She snatches her gown and turns right with the dog, shadowing the direction Minka and Archer walk. Because she’ll follow Minka Mayet to the fucking grave, and she’ll ride the hound if he’s willing. “I’ll see you tomorrow sometime. Goodnight, Tim.”

I scoff and keep moving, because she’s not allowed to wander this house without me. Not for a single second. Not for a quick dash to the bathroom. Not for a coffee run in the morning.

The stairs we climb: my father threw me down them and broke my arm in three places.

The banister to my left: he fucked my girlfriend when I was seventeen. She was sixteen and, until that point, still a virgin.

The painting at the top of the landing: he stole that from an art house, slammed Archer’s head through the canvas when he was eleven, and then made Micah sew the fucking thing back together.

The painting. Not the boy.

This house is haunted by the memories of my trauma. It may be Felix’s now, and perhaps the occupants are happy, reasonably healthy people who possess hearts. But the building, and the ghosts inside, are not so easily exorcised. So the less time I have to be here, the better.

The fact I couldn’t keep Aubree away: my failure.

Archer and Minka cut left when they find their room, moving through the door and gently closing it at their backs. Because it’s nearing three in the morning, and no one is hanging around to socialize after the day we’ve had.

“What was in the envelope Estefan gave you tonight at dinner?” Aubree’s pink streaked hair still looks as good now as it did when it was set approximately fifteen hours ago. Her platinum blonde locks—a lie, I think, considering her darker brows—sit perfectly in place despite dancing and walking aisles. Drinking with gangsters and socializing with guards. She acted as though Felix’s wedding was just another event. Regular people. Regular lives. She saw the guns and power and side glances and whispered orders, yet she acted like she’s un-fucking-touchable.

Her nonchalance is enough to give me a stomach ulcer.

“Tim?” She comes to a stop outside my bedroom door, her fingers brushing through Bastard’s short hair and her back pressed to the woodwhen I attempt to continue forward. “I asked you a question. The envelope?”

“Asking a question is your right.” I snag her wrist and yank her out of the way, earning a warning growl from the dog that I ignore. Then I shove the door open to find not only my bags stacked on the end of a massive four-poster bed—rich with dark brown covers and gold leaf edges—but I find hers, too. A tan colored duffel bag with fabric that appears softer than tissue paper, and beside it, a backpack with buttons and glitters and all sorts of memorable artifacts that are easily reported to the cops when asked about a pink-streak-haired woman wearing puffer jackets and platform boots. The fact is, Aubree Emeri is not a forgettable woman. And knowing that makes my nerves stand on edge. “Giving you answers,” I finally add, “or not, is my right. Let’s go.”

I tug her into the room and kick the door shut, though not fast enough to lock out her guard.

“Tim!” She attempts to peel my fingers from her wrist, digging her nails into the top of my hand and stumbling in her heels when her focus is on me and not the excessive fabric of her gown. “What the hell are you doing?”

I release her when she’s only two feet from the bed, gratified when she drops to the edge and almost flops to her back. Steam builds between her ears as she shoves back to her feet and grabs a post for balance. She bends and angrily unsnaps the strap of her shoe, dragging the weapon off her foot. “I didn’t invite you into this room.” She lobs the heel at my legs, missing, though I’m not entirely confident she intended to hit me.

I feel, if she wanted to put a hole in me, she’d do it. First time. Every time.

“This ismyroom.” She goes to work on the second heel. “Your intrusion is a violation of my privacy.”

“This ismyroom.” I catch the second heel and study the sharp prong that could pierce a man’s artery if she wanted it to. “You’re staying in my room.”

“Yours?” She looks around, panic etched on her face as she searches for… I’m not sure. It’s not like I keep—in the past, or now—family pictures in here. Or trophies. Awards. Football cleats. Never in my entire life have I personalized my bedroom. “No. This is where I’m staying!”

I move closer to the bed and carefully set the heels on top of her bags. “We’rebothstaying in here tonight. So calm your shit and get over your tantrum.”

“Surely there are other bedrooms inside this monstrous house! We arenotsharing.”

“There are other rooms.” I shuck my jacket back, bouncing my shoulders and lowering the fabric until I can bring it around and fold it neatly. I drape the five-thousand-dollar material over my bag with an exhale of fatigue. “But I’m not sleeping anywhere else.”

“So, I will.” She snatches up her heels again, ready to move out and find somewhere else. Immediately, the dog snaps to attention and prepares to follow. “I’ll knock on doors until I find one. I doubt it’ll be that difficult.”

“I don’t think you’re listening to me.” I work on the cufflinks at my wrists, dropping the gold squares into my pockets, then I roll my sleeves up—one fold, then another. Another. Until my forearms are exposed and, for the first time today, it feels like I can finally breathe. “You’re not staying somewhere else without me. It’s not safe, and I’m uninterested in pretense. I won’t fake nobility all so you can get your own way. We’re sharing this room tonight. We’re sharing a flight home tomorrow. Then when your feet are back on the ground in the city weshare, you can do as you please and I’ll maintain my fucking sanity, knowing you’re as far from this place as I can get you.”

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