Page 7 of Burn With Me

A groan rumbles up my chest and I bend until my forehead nearly presses into the chalky top of my pool stick. After a beat, I stand up and move into place, shooting and scratching in under a minute like an idiot. My head’s so full of fucking shit, I can’t even concentrate on a simple game of pool.

Neither Paris nor Shep say a word as I toss my stick into the holder to the side and take a step back, crossing my arms as my mind whirls.

“Why’d you want to know, anyway?” Paris asks.

If it were anyone else, I’d ignore the question, but these two are as deep into my father’s world as I am—we’re one and the same. Their fathers are just as monstrous in their own right as mine is. It’s how we became friends—birds of the bloody feathers flock together and all that shit.

“It’s not me that has anything going on with Summers,” I say. “It’s my father.”

Paris’ jaw drops. Shep freezes where he’s bent over the pool table and slowly, inexplicably minutely, he stands without making a shot before turning to meet my gaze. Their reactions do not offer confidence, and I know without having to go into detail that they understand the situation.

“The new wife?” Paris asks, proving me right.

I nod.

“Fuck.” The curse is hissed out between Shep’s lips, surprising me.

“My intel says he hasn’t spoken to his mother in three years,” I say. “But he showed up to the meeting we had the other day. His sister called him.”

“Are they close?” Paris demands.

I shrug. “Close enough for him to come to her rescue.”

“And the plan to have her move in?” he continues.

I shake my head. “Not happening.” It burns my father’s fucking ass that someone else is going over him. He is not a man that likes to be out of control. I should be thankful for Marcus’ intervention, but after seeing Aurora Summers, I can’t help but feel like he’s going to be more of a thorn in my side than anything else. If not him, thenshecertainly will be.

Aurora Summers is nothing like I originally expected. There’s a thread of steel beneath the beautiful exterior and also something else. Something intricately … damaged. Sure, most pretty rich girls have their own demons. They aren’t exempt from the scars our society leaves as a result of their gender.

She’s different, though. Instead of covering it with designer handbags and an elitist mindset, she seems more salt of the Earth type. It was clear by her fidgeting that she’d been uncomfortable in the expensive dress she’d worn to lunch. Or perhaps it’d just been the situation. I can’t blame her for that if that’s the case. She also hadn’t seemed too keen on her mother’s new beau. My lips twitch in amusement at the reminder of her sour-looking expression the entire way through the painful ordeal. It had only changed when her brother showed up.

Yet still, the shadows in her eyes remained even when clouded by relief.

It makes me want to find the wound she’s trying so clearly to camouflage and dig my fingers into its bloody surface and see what kind of demons she’s hiding beneath her skin.

“What’s the plan now, then?” Paris asks.

If only I had an answer. I roll my head back on my shoulders, closing my eyes as I try to work through my options. I could just do as my father says and keep an eye on the girl—she’s attending Hazelwood, so that shouldn’t be too difficult. It wouldn’t be hard to plant someone close to her or take advantage of the ones already in her circle. Regardless of whatever else I do, I plan to have someone watching her at all times. But if I just follow my father’s orders then that would mean giving up my own agenda, and I have no intention of letting him dictate my life for much longer.

Opening my eyes, I blow out a breath and move across the room until I hit the wet bar at the edge. I yank down a glass and uncap the decanter sitting on the counter, pouring a healthy dose of whiskey into the cup before I grip the counter with two fists.

“I want the fucker out of the way,” I say. It’s my primary motive for this whole fucking thing. I want my father to fucking pay for what he’s done. For the last several years. For my mother. And for forcing me, his fucking heir, to run after him like a dog to its master.

The question is, though, am I acting too fast? Is it too soon?

Almost as soon as I ask that, I know the answer—no, it’s not too soon. In fact, I’m running behind schedule, trying to catch up with the information that’s coming in from all sides. I need Marcus and Aurora Summers out of the way before my father manages to make things solid with their mother’s connections.

There’s always the chance that the marriage could fall apart before my father gets what he wants, but then there’s always the chance that it won’t, and those are the chances I can’t afford. Not in this.

“This marriage can’t fucking last,” I snap, making my split-second decision. Grabbing the glass, I turn and face my friends, my brothers, and my comrades. “Even if it means earning the wrath of Marcus Summers, before the semester is over, I want Emilia Summers out of the picture—and if I have to drive her daughter to the brink to get it done, I will."

No matter that she’s got eyes like fresh-turned graves and hair like burning sunshine. I tip the glass back and swallow it all in one gulp. Expensive whiskey burns down the throat just like cheap whiskey and leaves me feeling just as determined.

Paris and Shep exchange a silent look before they meet my gaze. “God help you, man,” Paris says.

“But we’re here,” Shep finishes. “Whatever you need. You’ve got it.”

For the first time since this conversation started, the tension finally drains away from me. I knew they were solid. I knew they would have my back, but having it said so openly is a relief that they can’t even begin to understand.

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