Page 41 of Claiming Pretty

I grabbed the teapot before she could reach it, lifting it high above my head.

Her small hands clawed at the air, trying to grab it, but I was taller, stronger, her desperation fueling my suspicion.

“For the professor, is it?” I taunted, my smirk twisting into something sharper. “A little bedtime brew?”

Her breath hitched, and tears filled her eyes.

“Give it back!” she pleaded, her voice breaking.

“What’s wrong, Ava?” I asked, my tone mocking as I stepped closer, towering over her. “Don’t want me to have a taste?”

“Don’t drink it!” she shouted, lunging again, but I twisted away, keeping the pot out of reach. Her panic confirmed everything.

She’d done something to the tea.

“Get. Out,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous.

Tears streaming down her face, she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the hallway until they disappeared entirely.

I set the teapot down on the counter and removed the lid. The bitter scent of the brew wafted up, sharper now.

Along with black tea leaves, pink petals floated on the surface, soft and delicate, belying their deadly nature.

Oleander.

My chest tightened, a mix of rage and guilt clawing at my insides.

Ava had done this. Ava, who never stepped out of line, who endured in silence, had reached her breaking point.

She was trying to poison my father.

I counted the flowers, my heart thudding with every petal. But she’d miscalculated. This wasn’t enough to kill him—just enough to put him to sleep.

My throat tightened.

This just confirmed it. She hadn’t wanted his attention. She hadn’t wanted any of it.

And I hadn’t protected her. I hadn’t been there to shield her from him, to save her from feeling like she had to do this herself.

My gaze swept across the counter, landing on a handkerchief haphazardly tossed aside.

A pale-pink petal peeked out from beneath it, its presence like a whisper of her hesitation.

I pulled back the cloth, revealing more flowers—more deadly oleander—enough to finish what she started.

I grabbed the handkerchief, scooping the remaining flowers into my palm, and threw them into the pot. They swirled in the boiling water, their color leaching into the tea, deepening its poison.

Could I really kill him? My father?

The thought twisted inside me like a knife. My feet moved, carrying me forward, but my chest felt like it was being crushed.

My father had always been cold, a man of discipline and control, his affection doled out like rare coins, if at all. He caredmore for his work, his endless experiments, and his precious plants than he ever did for Ty or me. When my mother—our soft, kind, loving mother—died, he hadn’t even cried. Not at the funeral. Not in the days after. He’d gone back to the greenhouse, back to his vials and his notebooks, as if nothing had changed.

And yet…

He was still my father.

I clenched my jaw, the teapot handle cold and unforgiving in my grip. Memories flickered in my mind, half-formed and sharp-edged.

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