Schraeder Fane was wealthy. They had resources. Did she have any idea what that house was like for me?
But then I realized, too, if I hadn’t grown up in Gabriel’s house, I would never have been there for Banks.
Still, though…
Rika looked between us, a confused pinch to her brow.
“It was you at the hospital,” I said to Christiane, remembering the voice and the comforting touch of her hands on my face.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she sucked in a breath. She took a step toward me, but I backed away, keeping her at a distance.
“I have no use for a mother,” I warned. “Not anymore.” And then I gestured to Rika. “But I have plenty of use for her. This changes nothing, just don’t come between her and me.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” she asked her mom, concern hardening her voice. And then she turned to me, “Damon?”
I broke eye contact with Christiane—done with fucking parents—and locked eyes with Rika. “I told you you’d never escape me,” I reminded her. “I always felt it.”
She glanced at her mother, worry written all over her face. “Mom? Please? What is it? What’s going on?”
I started to back away, toward my car, but still looking at Rika. “We’re going to rule the world, Rika.” I held out my hands, grinning. “You, Banks, and me.”
I spun around and headed for my car, hearing Rika beg her mother to snap out of it.
But to no avail.
I drove off, Christiane Fane still standing in the doorway watching me.
That was all she ever did.
And hopefully she knew better than to try for more. She wasn’t welcome now that my father was dead and out of her way.
I didn’t respond well to bad parents. She’d do well to remember that.
Damon
I pulled my phone off the charger and held it up, the light hurting my tired eyes as I looked at all the notifications that had slowly woken me up over the last half hour.
Fuckin’ Will.
Missed calls, texts, pictures… He was having the time of his life in Rio.
Or Cartagena. I forgot.
Him on the beach. Him with what’s-her-name. Him in the sun and sand, not freezing his ass off back here in Thunder Bay in January. Eating good food and laughing.
In the nearly three months since Devil’s Night, we’d gotten him clean but not dry, and as Kai, Michael, and I settled into the holidays, our homes, our women, and our work, he broke away and did some traveling. He said he needed a change of scenery, but he’d been gone a while, and although the pictures looked great, and he looked happy, I knew he was spinning and spinning until he eventually lost his balance and fell.
And, at twenty-four, his family would only tolerate the self-destruction for so much longer before they cut him off and made him come home.
Throwing the sheet off, I grabbed some sleep pants and pulled them on, dialing Will.
No answer, though. I sent a text, letting him know I was awake, and he could call.
Walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, I peered out at the master bedroom balcony, taking in the blanket of fresh snow falling, making it look like cake frosting on the stone railing as the wind howled outside, making the trees creak.
Picking up the cigarettes on the table, I pulled one out and slid it under my nose, smelling the tobacco and cloves. My lips burned, and I stuck it in my mouth, rolling it and feeling the comfort of its feel already.
Winter was trying to get me to quit. It was a non-option for much of the argument. I wasn’t a non-smoker.