Page 31 of Don't Say A Word

The steps are wide and sweeping, a circular staircase that leads to the rooms I know I’ll find my father in. They are large and grandiose, filled with all the things my father deems beautiful. Paintings so real it feels as though you could step inside their world. Antiques so old their cracks tell stories. Stuffed animals, endangered and rare, so lifelike you avoid their claws. Women so pretty they could be dolls.

One day this will all be mine. But not yet. Unfortunately, despite his age, his penchant for cigars and alcohol, the old man is as strong as an ox.

My footsteps echo loudly and laughter litters the air as I approach, punctuated with the heavy guffaws from my father. I knew he would be with them, his pretty dolls, the ones with beauty and poise but no passion or talent. Nothing but empty vessels. Clearing my throat, I wait for him to notice me standing at the entrance to his playroom. He’s dressed in a thick gown, loosely tied at the waist. A glimpse of his wrinkled chest pokes through the open strip and sickens me.

“What do you want, Junior?” his voice is clipped. I hate when people call me Junior. Especially him. I despise the name. It implies that I am less, nothing more than an inferior version of my father.

He looks over at me with frustration and pushes a girl from his lap. She falls to the ground ungracefully and scrambles to her feet, fear in her eyes as she glances my way. My father is easily distracted. Easily fooled by his girls. He likes them frivolous and stupid. I do not. I am not inferior to the man. I am more.

I speak through gritted teeth, trying and failing to hide my anger. “When I visited she had wounds around her wrists. I specifically instructed she was not to be hurt.”

It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him since I made the request for my songbird. At first, I was surprised he agreed so easily. I was expecting a fight. Expecting to come up against his usual wall of refusal. But I was quick to discover there were caveats to his agreement. Someone else was to train her. Just the basics. Just enough to ensure my anger didn’t get the better of me as it had in the past, but it still made me seethe that he didn’t trust me. That he trusted his beloved employee more.

She is with him now and although he has my instructions, I don’t truly know whether he is heeding them. It’s driving me crazy. All I can think about is what he is doing to her. She’s completely at his mercy when she belongs here with me, protected by a cage fit for the sweet nightingale she is.

“Ryker will do as he’s told.” My father’s tone has softened a little, and, for a moment, I think it is to alleviate my concerns, but then I see the direction of his gaze. Lily. The flaxen-haired beauty is his favorite. Unlike the others, she’s been here for as long as I can remember. She holds a special place in my father’s heart and it infuriates my mother. I can tell by the set of her jaw anytime she lays eyes on the girl. Not that you can call her a girl anymore. She’s older than the rest. The only one who has retained her beauty. The only one who hasn’t had it stripped from her.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I level my gaze at my father. “But how do I know that?”

“Because,” my father stands, stepping toward me, “Ryker has never let me down before. I only asked him because I trust him. As should you. Besides, Everly ensures his obedience.”

Everly. Ryker’s little sister. She was my first obsession. A pretty little thing. But my father has made it known she is off-limits, only to be used as a way to control his guard dog. But he will not be around forever. In the meantime, I will enjoy the way it makes Ryker’s eyes flash whenever I mention her name. I will relish the way fury licks his skin, knowing there’s nothing he can do other than contain it.

“But if you are truly concerned, he has sent a recording of her training. It’s in the top drawer of my desk.”

Rage pulses through me at the thought of my father’s insolence. How many times has he watched her? My songbird is for my eyes alone. The insult of having someone else train her is painful enough, but knowing my father is keeping parts of her from me starts the blood buzzing in my veins.

Buzzing of blood. The hum of electricity that pulses through me. It is a torment and an ecstasy my father will never experience. He is a simple man, obsessed with wealth and power. He does not see beyond what is right in front of him. He doesn’t see past the skin to the blood that flows beneath, the lifeline, the source of passion and desire, brilliance and pain, the essence of life. No. My father is a feeble man, too easily taken with the vessel rather than the talent within. He doesn’t feel things the way they are supposed to be felt. Music does not speak to his soul. Art is nothing more than pretty colors on canvas. He does not see the pain and the torture behind the skill of dance. And words are nothing but arranged letters used for the transfer of information alone.

One might not think this when looking at his collection. And indeed, his collection is beautiful. But that’s all he sees when he looks at it. Beauty. The surface. The outside. The mask the world wears.

Storming from the room, I bound up the stairs, down the hallway and burst open the doors to his study. Rifling through the contents of his desk drawer, it takes a while before I find the small USB stick, insert it into his laptop and sit down on the leather chair.

The screen flickers and fades before she appears on the screen. She’s sitting against the wall, knees pulled to her chest and staring at the stars out the window. The buzzing of my blood grows louder, but it’s a hum of elation rather than rage. The light is dim, but somehow it only makes her more beautiful. Her mouth moves, chanting the words to some unheard song, and I fiddle with the volume controls, wanting, no—needing to hear her voice again. But the fool has recorded it without sound. I fast forward through the clip but there is nothing more, just the silence of her sitting and staring at the stars. Getting to my feet, I push the laptop off the table, not caring when it falls to the floor and smashes into pieces.

Ryker has done this to infuriate me. To break me. To ignite my anger and cause me to do something stupid, something that might make my father renege on his promise. Again. But he does not know the extent of my desire. He does not know what I am willing to suffer in order to get my songbird.

He called me a coward when I pressed my gun to his head. Said I wasn’t a man. If only he knew the truth. He doesn’t know that I longed to feel his throat between my fingers. That given the chance, I would smash his skull and make Everly watch, just so there was no doubt in her mind who was superior. I would make her mop up the blood that spilled from his body and then dance over his corpse.

The thought alone excites me. I take a few deep breaths, just the way I’ve been taught. In. Out. Inhale. Exhale. I keep going until the buzz to my blood subsides and I sink into my father’s chair again, my gaze drawn out the window at the horses trotting around the track, cooling down after a hard day’s training.

I think back to watching my songbird from the shadows, following her around the small town and getting to know the aspects of her life. Closing my eyes, I think of her body cutting through the water during her morning swim. There is something so inviting about seeing her skin wet. It glistens in the light, stirring lustful thoughts. I follow her home, along the familiar streets to her house. She’s teaching piano to a small girl in a pretty pink dress. The little girl presses the keys to ‘Hush Little Baby’ while my songbird sings. I close my eyes, losing myself in the sound of her voice. Once they are done, the little girl moves away from the piano, holding out the folds of her dress and twirling. Through the window, I watch my sweet songbird smile and stroke the material. Her eyes light up and she presses her hands as a prayer beneath her chin as the little girl twirls again.

Pretty dresses for pretty girls.

I sit up.

My songbird needs her feathers.

Pulling my cell phone out of my pocket, I dial the number for my driver, my bodyguard, my Ryker, Cameron. But unlike my father with Ryker, I do not keep him close. I make him stand to the side, watch from afar, choosing not to have him obvious in my life. His presence only infuriates me.

He answers on the first ring.

“I need you to make a delivery.”

mia

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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