Page 101 of Tempting Little Thief

He walks out the door, once again stopping by simply so he can give my leash a little tug, a leash I’ve only recently come to realize I was wearing.

Be strong, be dominant, be the best, and don’t forget to smile. Those were the words I heard often and held close. They were an assignment I was to ace, and so I did. Do.

I was to earn the right to the north wing, the wing with my family’s name on it, and so I did.

Find my place within the manor and a way to leave my legacy.

Earn the respect of the others at Greyson Elite by being all the things a leader should.

My father had been thrilled about the waves I’d made, yet slowly, the nudge behind the knees, encouraging me forward, stopped, and now the one against my chest, pushing me back, has taken its place.

Why?

I’m no fool. I know being dickless in my world is a negative where most are concerned, but I’m no Southern belle, as many of my peers were raised to be, though sometimes I play the part of one at my father’s orders. For the outsiders.

For the sake of the school and its reputation.

For the world outside our own.

But I have proven my place is in one of leadership.

I can handle the head seat of the school, and once my father is older and grayer, I will do my duty,do as I must, transitioning into the chair in which he sits.

I’ve made a mark, and I’m still mid-studies.

My father said bloodshed is necessary, always, and I took his words and gently washed them down his throat, proving wecould eliminate threats against him without bloodshed and avoid the headache, not to mention the cost of a “cleanup crew” that follows. Jacobi Randolph was the latest example of this and the scheme we pulled was child’s play. Too damn easy, as most are.

I, with the help of my girls, increased our bankroll tenfold, simultaneously growing my own, while smoothing over business relationships that were on a kill-or-be-killed level, creating new ones at the same time.

Me.

I did that.

You would think I would be allowed to deny my father when his “ask” could potentially affect the school I’m supposed to speak for, let alone make my own decision about who and where I eat dinner, but no. Boston is coming back to Greyson Elite, and in three days, I’ll be ready at seven sharp, wearing a red dress, accompanying him to a dinner I’d rather not attend. I’ll smile and walk with pride and power as my sister parades around my fucking zone as if she isn’t a cow at risk of being corralled at any moment.

Boston gets yet another free pass she doesn’t deserve and will not be forced to sit and fake laugh and chat, drink bourbon or champagne, depending on what my father chooses to order for his nineteen-year-old daughter on this little dinner date to “celebrate” our mother’s death. Not that he’ll mention her name a single time during … or permit me to do so either.

No, we don’t speak of Mother. We “enjoy” our meal, grateful for the family we do have because family is everything. It’s the be-all and end-all—blood before all.

We might work with and worship the Greyson union, but we live and breathe for our name.

I am sworn to be a Greyson first, to think and act with consideration of the girls I stand beside, but according to my father, I am a Revenaw above all else.

What sense does that even make?

My mind and body are ticking time bombs, begging for some sort of release while also warning me against it. The sensationleaves my limbs heavy, and it takes real effort to force myself to the dining hall for dinner.

There is a seat for all who live in the house at the dining room table, and shockingly enough, most days, we’re all here together, if only long enough to finish our meals, but this evening the Greco brothers, Delta, Alto, and Ander are feeling chatty. Bronx chimes in and Damiano laughs with them, Boston having excused herself early on—probably to throw her food up before it has time to settle too long—but I don’t feel like talking, numbly pushing the braised cherry duck that I’m sure is divine, but tastes like nothing on my tongue, around on my plate.

Suddenly, I want barbeque. Chicken with a bone in it I can eat with my hands.

I want Bastian, but not the way I should.

I want to sit with him and do nothing, talk about things that don’t matter, invite him for dinner and laugh when he tries something for the first time and hates it. I want to wear his headphones and listen to what he likes while he pushes my hair over my shoulder, feel his rough hands holding me still if only so my heart will stop pounding against my ribs.

Goddamn it, it is pounding.

I excuse myself, ignoring the glances I get from around the table, and make my way down to the pool. I change into a suit and ease into the temperature-controlled water, slowly swimming from one end to the other. I do this until my body takes control and my heart rate demands I concede.

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