Page 79 of The Lies We Steal

Had his father not be a raging psycho, Thatch might have grown up to be an ordinary wealthy dickhead. If things had gone differently, I know I would have hated him. We probably would have ended up being life-long enemies.

Just so I didn’t have to hear him, I walk to my closet, clicking the light on and searching through the rows of clothing I’ve never worn.

Mostly suits, tuxes, gifted to me or purchased when I was young and could be forced to wear them.

“You’re not showing up in jeans to a masquerade ball, Alistair. It’s tasteless and you’ll stick out even more than you already do. We need to blend in.” He makes a point, but it doesn’t mean my skin stops itching when I think about wearing a collared shirt.

“I don’t even see why we need to go. Besides giving you an excuse to wear something ridiculous.” I grunt, I pull a black set off a hanger, needing to see if it will even fit before I worry about packing it.

Hopefully it was too small, that way I had a reason not to wear one.

“Because it’s our safest bet. We know where all the teachers and students will be. It will give us more time just in case your pet tries to do something ignorant.”

My pet.

She’s the worst behaved pet ever. A beaten dog that won’t stop pissing on the couch just to make me angry.

The All Hallows Eve ball was one of many outrageous traditions held by Hollow Heights. It was like college prom, but much worse. My mother still has pictures of her and my father when they attended. It happens every year and it only grows more extravagant as the years go on.

Clearly it was not on my list of things to do, but like I said, Thatcher had a point. Everyone agreed it would be the best time to sneak back into Greg’s office guaranteeing us more time for Briar to do what we’d asked of her.

Shedding my clothes and stepping into the slacks with my phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, I thought about how naive she had been.

Making demands I had no intention of keeping. We knew she would be telling Lyra, which was fine with us. She wouldn’t talk and she’d already seen too much to not be involved.

It was when she spoke like we were expected to leave her alone after she did this for us. Sure, the other guys would comply. But the stick and poke tattoo I’d decorated her finger with while she was passed out from chlorophyll, was there for a reason.

She was mine. For however long I saw fit.

Knowing she wasn’t a part of Rosemary’s death made her less of an enemy and more of a girl in need of breaking. Swinging her finger around ordering us to leave her be, never to bother her again.

Did she really think I would stop? After coming so close to having her break into pieces in front of me in the pool, did she really think my terror would end that easily? That I meant what I said when I shook her hand?

The tattoo had been for the possessive man inside of me. So that when Easton Sinclair asked her to study in the library again, he’d know who she belonged to. And if my brother crossed paths with her again, which wouldn’t be happening if I could help it, he would know that Briar Lowell was one of the few things he’d never have.

I watched her, seeing her try desperately to hide the parts of herself she felt didn’t belong in a place like this. Like her dark desires were something filthy to hide away. But I knew, I could see it, she was not the kind of woman who ended up with a douche like Easton.

He wouldn’t be able to feed the curiosity that lurked beneath her skin. Not the way I could.

I had no plans on stopping. When I was finished, she’d see just how twisted she really was, and she’d love every second of it after it was all said and done.

I’d slipped the black button down over my shoulders, listening to Thatcher talking in my ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

Not at all.

“Yeah, something about your shirts missing. Are you asking me if I’ve taken them? Because that would be a seriously misguided question, I would never, and I mean this in the worst way, never wear anything you own.”

“Pardon me for thinking my roommate was going through my closet. Maybe it was Rook. Anyway, I’ll see you later, what time are you gonna be here?” He asks, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Yeah, the pyromaniac is burning shit down in your ten-thousand-dollar cashmere shirts.

But now that I think about it, Rook’s probably using it for flint.

“The next few hours. I’ll text when I’m on the way.” We say our goodbyes before I toss the phone onto the bed, buttoning the rest of my shirt up, tucking it into the pants. Snagging the jacket off the chair, I stand in front of the full-length mirror as I shrug it on.

When I glance up at myself, I catch the reflection of my mother behind me. Her shoulder resting against my door frame wearing a dark purple nightgown that shows just how much starving herself over the years has done to her body.

I should have heard her by now or at least noticed her presence that’s giving away normally by the clicking of the whiskey tumbler or the smell of her Virginia Slims cigarette that wafts off her in waves, even when she tries to cover it up with Chanel perfume.

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