Ember (The Hunted Kingdom #2)

Chapter One. Ember Cross

CHAPTER ONE

Ember Cross

I’ve experienced hate before.

I hated Jennifer Myler when she slipped my crush Guillermo Braga a note during recess in the fourth grade, asking him to be her boyfriend. Served that little bitch right when she caught him kissing Kim Dixon behind the slide a week later.

I hated Anthony Warner when he pulled a Carrie and took me to prom on some bet shit, only instead of pig’s blood, he humiliated me by spreading a video of him fingering me in the backseat of his car. He died right before graduation of a drug overdose. Pity. I still despise that ho though.

So yes, I’ve known hate.

Or I thought I did.

It isn’t until this moment, staring across the ebony lid of my father’s closed casket into eyes as cold and dark as the storm-darkened sky above us, that I truly understand the meaning of the word.

I hate Michelle Cross.

And her bitch-ass husband, too.

Yes, I do mean my father. May his soul forever do the Cupid Shuffle in hell.

One would think on the day of my father’s funeral, Michelle would chip a sliver off that block of ice she calls a heart and allow me to stand with my “family.” To claim one of the empty seats next to her and her sons, my stepbrothers.

To at least, on this day, be acknowledged. To be seen. To be recognized.

But no. Even a funeral for her husband, my father, isn’t a good enough reason to not be a cunt.

Instead, I’m exiled to the other side of the grave, relegated to one of the faceless masses of business acquaintances, employees, and nosy-ass reporters while Michelle and her sons pretend to be my father’s only living relatives. Cosplay as Crosses.

After thirteen years of mental and emotional torture by Michelle and her brood, I’d built up a lot of years of loathing for my stepfamily.

And because he’d turned a willful blind eye and deaf ear to it all, anger and hate wars with love for my father as I listen to the pastor drone on about earth, ashes, and dust.

Fuck, I think I’m going to miss him a little bit.

Since I’m here and so is this pastor who supposedly has a direct line to Sky Daddy, maybe the man of God can get Him to explain how I can miss someone who’s been emotionally absent for the last thirteen years.

Or maybe that’s one of those mysteries that we’re supposed to just accept and not question God about.

Or maybe God doesn’t know either.

I’m betting on the former. I mean, He still hasn’t explained how He could take the only loving parent I had and leave me with a man who only acknowledged my existence to use me.

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord, we commend to almighty God our brother Marcus Cross, and commit his body…”

A sea of people showed up today to see Marcus Cross off.

Those not perched on the padded fold-up chairs stand around them in an ever-widening circle rudely encroaching on others’ graves.

Shit, it must break some kind of fire code, right?

He would’ve been proud, cocky even, to witness it.

Yet, even the distant cacophony of sound called Los Angeles traffic doesn’t dare intrude on the cemetery’s quiet as Pastor—Richter?

Richard? I don’t know—goes on and on. I deliberately force my mouth not to curl into a sneer.

The bitch dabs at the corners of her eyes with a snow-white handkerchief, patting away imaginary tears.

I doubt she even has tear ducts, so I know the ho isn’t crying for real.

But the Widow Cross must put on a show for the mourners and the media allowed to film this graveside ceremony.

The media forms a perimeter around the crowd of mourners, the not-so-silent shutter of cameras clicking away, providing background music like a discordant hymnal.

Are their digital eyes catching the strategic angling of Michelle’s body that offers a great shot of the “grieving” wife?

Do they notice the lack of smeared makeup or the perfect posture that isn’t slumped with sadness?

Will the reporters comment on the absence of affection between mother and sons?

Neither of her children comfort her, the careful distance between them an indictment rather than respect of personal space.

Or maybe it’s just me that isn’t blinded by the mist of rain or the loamy scent of freshly turned earth.

Maybe it’s just me that sees this as less of a funeral and more of a spectacle.

Nothing is sacred or private when even a funeral can be transformed into publicity and revenue for House of Cross, the successful and exclusive fashion house that was founded by my great-great-grandfather and has been run by a Cross male heir for the last four generations.

Until now.

No sons came from my father’s nut sack. Just me.

And neither he nor my grandfather, may God not rest his soul, ever forgave me for that. As if it’s my fault I was born with a pussy instead of a dick. Men. They’re going to find a way to blame a woman for their shortcomings every goddamn time.

Just ask Eve.

As Pastor—shit, what is his name?—instructs us to bow our heads in prayer, I don’t do either.

Bow my head or pray. Michelle’s quiet tears escalate to undignified whimpers and sobs.

Good God. If there were awards for Best Performance at a Funeral …

Instead of focusing on her, uh, display, I unwillingly shift my gaze to the man standing next to her like a golem, huge, silent, and her puppet.

My childhood tormentor. My bully. My malevolent shadow.

My stepbrother Asad Prince.

I swear, when Dad decided to marry Michelle and bring her home along with her two sons, my guardian angel must’ve been on a binge, hitting the crack pipe and getting shit-faced, because they failed me. Epically.

Asad stands there, an imposing, stoic sentinel next to his mother, gaze fixed straight ahead, staring at nothing …

and everything. As if he can hear my thoughts across the distance separating us, he looks at me.

Those steel-gray eyes clash with mine like gladiators with raised swords, determined to fight to the death.

I return his unwavering stare, taking in his thick, dark eyebrows and smooth, peanut butter skin that make those startling smokey eyes appear almost ethereal.

With lethal bone structure, a salacious yet cruelly slanted mouth surrounded by a coarse but neat, dense beard and long, curly hair pulled back into a sleek bun at the top of his head, Asad Prince stands out even among this crowd of beautiful people.

Sticks out like a fucking sore, gangrenous thumb.

It’s not so surprising though. Satan had the prettiest face, after all.

The longer we engage in our visual battle, a low-grade sizzle races over the exposed skin of my face, neck, and throat.

The force of that intense, unblinking gaze slides beneath the jacket of my black pinstripe pantsuit, skims the brown skin rising above the top of my vest. That damn near electrical pulse resonates with disgust, hate, maybe even a slash of fear.

And underneath, fine ripples of—nope. Not even going there. Because that would make me a masochist.

And after thirteen years of unwillingly living in this man’s presence, I am well versed in him being a sadist.

One of his eyebrows rises slightly, as if he’s questioning why I, the cast-off Cross, would dare to maintain eye contact with him, Michelle Prince Cross’s beloved oldest son?

Well, fuck him. He might not consider me his equal, but I don’t see him as mine either.

Him, his mother, and his brother—none of them are.

My veins are the only ones coursing with the DNA of the Cross family.

By rights, people should be consoling me.

I should be the person hovering next to that ornate casket.

Yet, I’ve been exiled. Again. And though I should be used to it, should be resigned to this position of forced anonymity, the rank bitterness of it still tastes the same. Hasn’t lost its potency.

Neither has the loneliness that skitters across my skin like a cold, whispering wind.

“… with love, we leave you in peace. With respect, we bid you a fond farewell until we see one another again in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection as we now commit your body to the ground.”

“No.” Michelle’s cry rips through the air, a seemingly heartrending, brokenhearted sound to punctuate the reverend’s last words of prayer. Too perfectly timed, if you ask me.

Her knees buckle, but as if choreographed, Kareem, her youngest son, catches her with a supportive arm around her shoulders and across her stomach.

Her thin hand presses to her mouth, as if shuttering the rest of those plaintive sounds.

A ripple of murmurs sweeps through the crowd of mourners, and the echoes of “She loved him so much” and “How is she going to go on without him?” and similar platitudes have my bullshit-o-meter pinging.

Okay, girl. Work hard for that photo op.

Moments later, Kareem guides Michelle forward to lay a red rose on top of the casket. He follows suit, as does the parade of others standing directly behind my stepfamily.

Maurice Neilson, CFO of House of Cross.

Gregory Jones, COO.

Leonard Mansfield, senior vice president.

They all march forward, flowers in hand, a dutiful, appropriately somber line of black suits and designer dresses, paying their respects with a lingering touch to the casket lid or a brief pause before moving along like a well-orchestrated performance.

Well, almost everyone. Asad remains standing in front of his chair.

As do I. But not for the same reasons.