Page 8 of Into the Woods

I drew my shoulders back. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then get your head back in the game, Court, because it’s not fair for us to carry your ass.” Royal reached up to slap the back of my head. I blocked the shot, grabbing his wrist and twisting his thumb until the muscle and tendons pulled tight.

He smiled, the unfamiliar expression catching me off guard for a beat. “Not bad, little brother.” Leaning into the pressure of my hold, he popped his thumb out of its joint.

“Jesus,” I swore, staring at his hand in shock. And then I was on my ass again, him having used my surprise as leverage.

Smirking down at me, he casually popped the thumb back into place without so much as a grimace. “But not good enough.”

“You’re a fucking psycho,” I muttered, shaking my head. This time I let him help me up.

A harsh laugh rumbled from his chest. “Don’t ever forget it.”

CHAPTER 3

BEX

“Rebecca!”

I was halfway down the stairs when I heard my grandmother call my name, her French accent giving it a posh spin that I’d always loved. “Yes, Mémé?” I trailed my hand down the ornate oak bannister and used the scrolling loop at the bottom to swing myself around and into the parlor like I was eight, not eighteen.

Mémé looked up at me from where she sat perched on the edge of a floral wingback chair near the fireplace, her legs crossed at the ankles and a deep frown set in her face. Behind her was a large picture window that looked out on a courtyard that bloomed a riot of brilliant colors in the spring, but right now, deep into winter at the beginning of February, showcased a few random snow flurries blowing around bare branches.

“Rebecca, this blasted contraption is yet again refusing to alert me to new calls. Your Aunt Celeste has been trying to get through, but it won’t make a lick of noise.” With a heavy sigh, she held the top-of-the-line iPhone out to me. “You know I’m utter rubbish when it comes to these new devices.”

Grinning, I took the phone and unlocked it with her passcode—her and Papa’s anniversary—before checking her settings. I turned the phone over, smothering a smirk when I saw the orange peeking up at me. She’d turned off her notifications. Again.

I quickly righted the issue and handed the phone back. “All better.”

She exhaled with a happy smile. “Thank you, chérie. Would you care to join me?” She motioned to the adjacent velvet couch, and I couldn’t refuse. The soft fabric was like a hug, so familiar and precious that everything seemed a little less awful.

I’d always loved my grandparents’ home in Paris. Situated on a quaint street in the 16th arrondissement, with a lush, green park at one end and gas lamps illuminating the cobblestone street at night, it was like something out of another life.

The three-story château had been in our family for over three hundred years, with some of the stone and wood inside dating back even longer. With vaulted ceilings, gold accents, and ornate lines, it made me feel as though I lived in a fairytale. My cousins and I had spent summers playing hide and seek for hours in the home’s three stories and numerous rooms.

Over the years it had been updated—carpets replaced, walls painted and papered, and plumbing updated—but it had kept the same feel as the original home. It was ornate and decadent, but not overwhelmingly so.

The main parlor was Mémé’s favorite, with its large fireplace and furniture that looked like it had been plucked straight out of the Regency era. At one point, the producers of some streaming company making a TV show out of a famous historical romance series had tried paying my grandparents to use the location for filming. They’d declined, not wanting to have their lives disrupted by TV crews and actors.

I’d sat in this room for hours with Mémé. She was usually reading or working on her latest crochet project. I was usually reading, too, or watching a movie on my laptop with my earbuds in. We didn’t need to fill the silence with chatter; we were happy just being near each other.

“Have you spoken to your maman?” Mémé asked, arching a delicate brow. At seventy-nine years old, she was still in shape and had an elegance that commanded respect and awe. Her skin was radiant, her eyes a sparkling blue that my grandfather claimed captivated him.

“She’s working late,” I replied with a tight smile.

Mémé sighed, looking mildly distressed. “She works too hard. That's why she had her episode.”

Episode was one way of putting it. Most people would call it a heart attack, but Mémé preferred to give things a more positive spin. It was an endearingly naive trait that everyone in the family smiled about.

But this time, Mémé was right. Mom’s heart attack had been scary, and it was brought on by a genetic flaw no one had noticed. Her heart had been a ticking bomb in her chest, and years of prolonged stress had finally led to it seizing up one night a few months earlier.

When Mom had filed for divorce from my father, sold off her private practice, and decided to start over in Paris, I’d never expected to stay with her. I had a life in California. Granted, that life, up until the past six months, had kinda sucked, but still.

Okay, that was a lie.

The past six months hadn’t exactly been a picnic. In addition to Mom’s heart attack and my parents’ divorce, I’d also learned that my father was into some seriously shady shit with some seriously messed up people. Plus I’d been drugged, almost raped, and kidnapped. Oh, and I’d almost died in a huge earthquake.

It had been an eventful few months.

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