Page 4 of Fractured Loyalties
“I don’t bite, Ivy. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
But there’s something there, beneath the softness of his voice, that tells me…
Iabsolutelyshould be afraid of him.
And he probablydoesbite.
Two
ROMAN
Ivy seems so fucking innocent.
I run my tongue along my lower lip, tasting the remnants of the pre-dinner wine.
I’d like to be tasting her.
Pushing the thought away for now, I lean back against my chair and watch as my father and stepmother exchange a look across the dining room table. They have their own language—one that I couldn't care less about trying to understand.
Truthfully… The two of them are insufferable.
“Where is she?” My father’s voice suddenly becomes louder, making Edward jump, where he’s standing in the corner. My father glares at Irena, and she reacts in the way she does best,unmoving.
Luckily, whatever it is doesn’t escalate, as a set of footsteps arrives to fill the unsettled silence in the room. Edward clears his throat, and before I even lay eyes on Ivy, I already know it’s bad.
And when Idolook at her? I realize it’sreallybad.
She’s dressed like a homeless vagabond in faded jeans and her dead dad’s hoodie. Her hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail. Though, there’s something almost admirable about her refusal to perform. Or maybe it’s just ignorance.
Either way, she’s royally fucked.
She looks everywhere but at my eyes as Edward directs her into a seat opposite me. As she sits, her gaze stays pointed at her clasped hands in her lap, and my father clears his throat, looking at her with his dark, beady eyes.
“Glad you could join us,” Robert says carefully. “I trust Irena explained the expectations here. Though obviously not very well.”
“She did,” Ivy says, her voice a whisper. “Nothing in the closet fit.”
“I see.” He shoots one of those weird looks at Irena, and she gives a ghost of a shrug.
I roll my eyes and open my mouth to say something, but my stepmother is one step ahead of me.
“Ivy, you’ll be starting at Woods Private tomorrow. I believe the uniform in your closet will be sufficient for the week. Though I do suggest you try it on before bed.”
Ivy nods. Her eyes are enormous and glassy, and I wonder how close she is to crying, again.
There’s something sick in me that wants to find out.
At that moment, the first course arrives. It’s something French and pointless. Ivy stares at it, then at her spoon, and then at the rest of us. I watch her try to mimic the way Irena moves, the careful geometry of cutlery, but she’s two steps behind. I let the moment linger for a little longer, and then I dive in.
“What? Don’t they teach you basic etiquette where you’re from?” I say it flatly, no humor intended. I want to see her squirm underneath that hellaciously unflattering Dodgers hoodie.
Her face flushes, and she glances down at the sports logo, as if it’ll give her some sort of superpower. “We usually ate in front of the TV.”
I snort. “How fucking charming. Living the TV dinner dream.”
My father glares at me. “Show some civility at the table, Roman.”
I smile, slow and razor-edged. “I’m just getting to know our new addition. I’m trying to be civil.”
