Page 26 of Daughter of a Monster

“Average girl, huh? I doubt that.” And then he winks. A blatant, devious wink. I get flustered, unsure where to look, so I turn my attention to Jericho.

“It’s a beautiful home you have here. You’ve done a wonderful job of restoring it.”

“Thank you.” Jericho takes a sip of water. “The carpenters are true craftsmen.”

There’s a stark difference compared to the bustle of the kitchen and sitting at the dining table. Whereas the kitchen is filled with noise and chatter and laughter, here tension sits heavily in the room. Conversation is strained. Jericho answers the questions that keep babbling from my mouth, but in the briefest manner, as though he can’t possibly stand talking to me for too long. Gideon plays with his phone, an annoying tapping sound interrupting the silence each time he pushes a button.

Jericho clears his throat. “Do you think you could put the phone down while we eat?” He frames it as a question, but it’s not.

Gideon rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at Ette. She giggles then stops as soon as she looks at Jericho.

“The food isn’t even here yet,” Gideon moans. Reaching across the table, he grabs Jericho’s glass of water and drains the contents, even though he has his own glass in front of him.

“That was mine,” Jericho growls, and the sound sends a wave of deliciousness trembling through me.

“Maybe I like taking what’s yours. Maybe it tastes better than mine,” Gideon challenges.

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, the double doors leading to the kitchen swing open and Alma walks through, carrying cloche-covered plates. Mrs Bellamy follows not far behind with the condiments.

Gideon places his phone down. “Evening, beautiful.” He winks and Alma’s eyes drop to the floor, color flooding her cheeks.

“Leave the girl alone,” Jericho growls.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, Alma,” he’s quick to say. “I was talking to Mrs Bellamy.”

“Enough of your nonsense, Master Gideon.” Mrs Bellamy’s tone is that of a scold, but her smile is wide.

“Just Gideon is fine,” Jericho instructs her.

Gideon leans back in his chair, tilting it so only two legs are on the ground. Jericho frowns at the action and I don’t blame him. The chairs look as though they are handcrafted and no doubt costly. Gideon places his hands behind his head and grins wickedly.

“I kind of like it though. Makes me feel important. Master Gideon.” He waves one hand through the air as though envisioning the words in lights.

“Master Ette,” Ette copies him.

The legs of his chair come back down with a thud and Gideon leans across the table. “It would be Mistress Ette for you.”

“Or just Ette,” Jericho says.

“Or Lady Ette.” Alma pats the girl’s head affectionately as she places the plate in front of her. When the cloche is removed Ette’s face screws up in disgust.

“Spinach?”

“It’s good for you. Gives you strong muscles,” Alma demonstrates, flexing her own, earning another giggle from Ette.

“So, tell me, brother.” Gideon addresses Jericho but his gaze is directed at me. “What is it about this particular staff member that made you decide to break the ‘no staff at the dinner table’ rule?”

“Enough, Gideon.”

There goes the gravel-toned voice again. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Sometimes, I can feel the flashes coming. It’s like there’s a warmth that radiates from within, a warning burn, and then the vision crashes into my head.

I’m spread on the table. This very table. Prisms of light from the chandeliers dance over my skin. I try to move but I’m strapped there, my wrists and ankles held apart spread-eagle. There’s a head, a mess of dark hair between my legs. The person lifts their head, but just before I can see the face, my vision cuts away.

Shame burns. I always feel guilt knowing the things my father did to women and how I despise him for it. And yet, here I am, imagining myself tied, bound and at the mercy of a faceless, unknown man. They’re like nightmares but they occur when I’m awake. They terrify and excite.

My darkness scares me. It makes me wonder if I’m just likehim. If being his daughter has left me twisted and broken. If it’s in my blood. And it’s worse around Jericho Priest. It’s as though his darkness calls out to mine and begs it to sing in harmony.

I keep my eyes fixed on my plate of food until my breathing returns to normal and my cheeks feel less flushed. When I look up again, Jericho is staring right at me. Right through me. His mouth is parted ever so slightly, like he too has been caught out of breath. He’s clean-shaven tonight, no hint of stubble dusting his jaw and for the first time I notice an indentation on his chin. The slightest of dimples.

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