Page 6 of Fractured Loyalties
I stand, slowly, stretching the moment, and offer her my arm. “Ready to return to your cage?”
Her lips curl in something that looks like disgust, their plumpness on full display, and she glares at my arm. She shakes her head and pushes back from the table, uninterested in my gesture. “I know how to get back to my room,” she levels at me. “I don’t need you to show me.”
“Hmm,” I rake my eyes over her in an obvious manner. “Well, given your dinner attire, I’d say that there are alotof things you need to be shown. You’re lucky your dad’s six feet under and?—”
“Actually, he’s on the shelf in my room,” she cuts me off. “And I’m certain he’ll fucking haunt you, if you don’t leave me alone.”
I raise my brows. I can’t tell if she’s joking or aiming to jab at me. Either way… I like the fire enough to let her have her littlewin.“Come on.”
She mutters something under her breath that I miss, but still falls in step behind me. I lead the way through the labyrinth of halls, making sure to take the longest possible route. She stays silent, and I don’t bother to fill the void. I can feel her eyes on my back the entire time, and it’s enough to know I’ve got her attention.
And trust me, I know I’ll keep it.
When we arrive at her door, I swing it open for her. The room is one of the most basic in the house with cream walls, a beige carpet, and a bed so large it looks almost unreal. Ivy steps inside and doesn’t look back.
Nowthatis an insult.
I grab for her wrist, startling her, and her body spins back to face me.
“Listen,” I say, leaning in and holding her gaze from about six inches away. “Don’t leave your room after midnight. Keep the door locked. If you need anything,don’task the staff. They’ll report straight to Irena. For towels and sheets, that’s fine, but if you need something real, come to me.”
Her pretty hazel eyes flicker with fear and then narrow. “And why would I ever trust anything you say?”
I shrug, releasing her quickly, so she stumbles backward. “Oh,Ivy…You’ll see.”
Before she can say anything else, I close the door on her and head to my own sanctuary in this fucking house of horrors.
By mutual understanding, my wing is off-limits. My father loves to claim it’s so I canfocus on my education, but it’s reallybecause he doesn’t want to see what kind of son he’s raised. The hallway lights are on a timer, dimming at nine, to a level that’s just enough to see by. It smells like old books, and cold air seeps through the stone walls. The only sound is my shoes echoing on the floors as I pass my siblings’ rooms…
See, Ivy. I understand loss, too.
All of the rooms are empty. All of the rooms are locked. And we don’t speak about any of them. Nor the flashing cameras in the corner.
Someone is always watching.
I reach my own door, punch in the code, and step into solitude.
Inside, it’s my world. Walnut desk, sleek Scandinavian leather, and blackout curtains over windows that look onto the graveled east drive. I keep the temperature low here. It always seems more straightforward to think when my blood is just above freezing.
The room is immaculate, except for the desk, which is organized chaos. There are textbooks, two laptops, and well… mylatestproject.
I take a seat at the desk and stare at the unlabeled manila folder. It doesn’t appear to be much, but it’s thick and full.
Just like Ivy’s lips.
I flip it open, and the world contracts to a five-by-seven-inch radius. It started as just a background check. A bored act of seemingly due diligence when my father first got serious about Irena, and I was old enough to understand. A private investigator gave me everything on Ivy. I have school records, old photos, and a Facebook cache before she locked it down. At first, I was looking for something I could use against her, but then…
Then I justlooked.
I arrange the photos in neat order across the desktop. Ivy Christianson, at eight, stood in front of a cheap theme park, one sock pulled down around her ankle. Ivy at twelve, braces and a chipped tooth, clinging to her father’s arm like it’s a life preserver. Seventeen, standing at the threshold of some sorry-ass coffee shop, her face narrowed in suspicion at whoever snapped the shot.
And then the latest, Ivy, a few months ago, standing on the beach in a black bikini. Her eyes are shining, her hands resting on her small waist. It was her eighteenth birthday, and she had no idea the grief that was coming for her.
I lift the last photo. She looks back at me from the glossy paper, a bright smile on her face. I trace my thumb over the curvature of her lips and then slide it to her perky little tits. She’s all unrefined, her blonde hair a mess over her shoulders, and her nail polish chipped.
“You don’t belong here,” I say, barely above a whisper.
I close my eyes, still gripping the photo. My mind runs to her in her new room, sliding into the new sheets. Maybe the room is too cold, which is why she’s shivering. I could go there now, silent as sin. I could watch her sleep and see if her face softens. I could sit at her bedside, leaning close enough to feel her breath and close enough to slip a hand under the sheets.
