Page 17 of Splintered Memories
“I will do what I have to, to keep you safe.”
I leaned into my desk, legs wobbly from the seething rage I barely managed to keep down. My fingernails dug into the wood. “You’d evict your own son? Throw him back out on the street?”
My father winced.
Good. He deserved it. When his dark eyes met mine, there was a world of mourning in them, but I chose not to recognize it. I refused to feel pity for him.
“I know that you won’t let me evict him, because you are going to accept what I’m offering.”
God, I hated him.
I shook now. That burning in my chest started to rise in my throat. Tears threatened to well behind my eyes, but I focused all my anger on forcing it down. I was good at it after all these years.
I stared at my father, hoping he felt every lick of flame that raged inside my chest. My mind whirred with possible ways to get out of this, each one leading to a dead end. I had moved Jake into that apartment. I’d seen the hope in his eyes, the tentative excitement in his voice.
I could move him back in with me, but no matter how much I liked having him here, it wasn’t right for him. Living under my roof made him feel inferior, in some way. Though he’d never complained, I’d seen the struggle every day he had lived under my roof.
He needed his own place. He needed my father’s support, even more than he needed mine.
The silence went on for a long time. My father’s brows rose. “Emersyn?” He said my name as a question he needed answered.
My gaze flicked to August. I expected to see pity on his face, or maybe embarrassment at the way my father and I were fighting in front of him. But I saw neither of those things. I wasn’t sure exactly what emotion lingered on his face, but it was…comforting, somehow, even in the chaos warring inside me. He looked at me like…like I was something he admired.
The expression had a rush of heat touching my cheeks, a sliver escaping the fire I held firmly inside my chest. I looked away before I could read more into the look August gave me, meeting the gaze of my father.
He looked at me expectantly, awaiting my reply.
“Fine,” I spat out, the word reluctantly tearing through me.
I could do this, for my brother. I could accept this attempt to control my life, for a little while. For Jake.
But as I snuck another brief glimpse at August’s bright, gray eyes…fear sunk its all-too familiar claws into me. I wasn’t sure why, but this one little agreement felt like I was giving my whole life away.
7
Emersyn
Iglaredatthemansitting at my table.
He seemed absolutely unbothered, casually eating my cereal, one elbow propped on the tabletop while the other hand shoveled food into his mouth.
I, on the other hand, felt completely shell-shocked. I’d hoped that when my eyes opened this morning, yesterday would’ve been nothing but a bad dream. August Ramsey’s presence in my kitchen at this moment proved that it hadn’t been, and my stomach soured.
As if he felt my piercing stare, his eyes bounced up from the bowl he was decimating. A mug sat next to him, steam curling above the top. The smell of fresh coffee rushed over me, the one thing about this morning that didn’t seem like a complete nightmare.
August’s lips pressed together, as if fighting a smile. Those steely-gray eyes gently combed over me.
“Morning,” he said.
I was aware I probably looked as wrecked as I felt. Hell, this was my freaking house, and I’d just rolled out of bed. If he expected me to look presentable for him, he was going to be highly disappointed.
Still, my fingers curled into the soft plush of my robe, pulling it tighter around myself to keep my hands from smoothing down my braided hair that was a mess from sleep. “An unfortunate morning,” I grumbled. “As you’re still here.”
I turned toward the coffeepot before he could reply. Part of me couldn’t comprehend what was happening, even though August had gone through the contract with me line by line. It had taken much of last night after I made my father leave, exactly ten minutes after I let him enter. At least he’d kept his word and left.
The contract was surprisingly thorough for something that had seemingly been drawn up so quickly. It was woefully overbearing, but I supposed I shouldn’t expect anything different from Tristan Hawthorn.
I grabbed a mug and poured myself some coffee from the pot, inhaling the scent deep into my lungs. It smelled perfect, which surprised me. I enjoyed strong coffee and used way more per cup than the instructions suggested. Apparently, August enjoyed his coffee strong too.
