Page 7 of Unleash Hades
Children were why I could not be with Calissandra. Children were why Alastair’s wife looked like she was on the brink of death and sorrow. Children were why he was blind to it all.
Rose reached out to the water jug at the center of the table, her elbow knocking her cutlery along the way.
Her knife and fork fell to the floor with a clang. The ringing of the metal objects danced in the air, sounding like a bell, announcing the approach of something bad.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Alastair pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Shit.” Rose covered her face.
“It’s not a big deal, I’ll go get you a clean one from the kitchen.” I rolled my eyes at their extreme reaction.
“It’s not that.” Alastair looked up at the ceiling. “It’s not the damn utensils… it’s… something she and her cousin are cursed with.”
I might believe in fate, but I do not believe in curses.
What the hell was he on about?
I looked down at the table to the minced meat and food. I could not believe we lost the battle of Agincourt to people who couldn’tboil potatoes. I had to eat this shill to keep my strength up. I knew that.
But I really did not want to. I lifted my fork to spear the meat, calculating how many bites I'd need to get my requisite grams of protein.
The dining room door flew open, slamming against the adjacent wall, rattling on its ancient hinges.
In came a pair of squabbling spies.
“I can’t always spare a man just because you can’t handle your end of the bargain,” Philippa Fox, Geordie Campbell’s wife, strode in. Her white stilettos clacked against the floor.
She kicked the fallen utensils aside, and they went sliding across the hardwood, bouncing off a wall.
“Oh dear,” she said, as she looked down at her feet, then the silver knife and fork. She bent at the knees to spare her modesty in her white pencil skirt and picked them up. “You dropped these, Rose?”
She stood, utensils in hand, and placed them on the tablecloth. Without invitation, she took a seat at the table.
“Help yourself, I insist,” Alastair said sarcastically, leaning back in his chair. “Why don’t you join us, Pippa? You and your little Yankee friend too.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The second intruder took a seat beside me. The American. Brett.
He had another name, but it was too good for him. His spy name worked just fine. Brett fucking Bradley.
He placed one large hand on the table as he lowered himself into the seat to my right. He was fully sideways, facing me, his elbow draped over the backrest.
He was staringrightat me.
It was creepy.
No good ever came from this man being around. The last time I saw him, he was beating up Philippa’s husband. Wait, no… maybe it was when Chloe was in danger? I wasn’t sure. It had been an eventful two years.
“Why is he looking at me like that?” I wrinkled my nose at Philippa. Then I said it again, for extra emphasis, “Why is he looking at me like…that?”
I could feel his stare. It was strange and piercing. His smirk was infuriating. What the hell did he want?
“I’m not looking at you, you handsome Frenchman,” he said, taking his knuckle and nudging my jaw with it. “I’m looking at my beautiful daughter.”
He turned his head, which just emphasized that he was lying.
He reached forward and picked up the carafe of water, refilling Rose’s drink.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Brett was all warmth and love when it came to his daughter. Then he turned his eyes to his son-in-law, and a dark cloud came over his features. There wasmurderin his eyes.
