Chapter 21
twenty-one
RHYS
Thunk.
Our butler, Coggins, sets a silver tray on the coffee table in front of me and raises of his graying eyebrows. Darting a pointed look between me and the toast.
Dear God.
Now even the help is giving me grief?
Is there no depth I refuse to sink to?
“Last I checked, you weren’t my fucking mother,” I groan, sitting up and cracking my neck.
Coggins may be the one asshole in this house who’s allowed to talk back to me. And that’s only because he practically raised me and Cillian. With a dour scowl, he scoffs, “No, sir. You clearly didn’t have the benefit of a mother.”
He’s not wrong, but I lift my hand and flip him off anyway. The older alpha rolls his eyes. Sniffing, he points to the morning meal. “You’ll eat it or I’ll lock the liquor cabinet tonight.”
Meddling son of a bitch. He’s just made the one threat that will give me pause. And he knows it.
Glaring, I snatch up a piece of toast and stuff it into my mouth. Without my sense of smell, the flavor barely registers. I only get a slightly charred taste and a hint of the butter’s unctuous texture.
I swallow the bland wad and reach for my tea, gulping it down in four chugs. Coggins offers a slightly appeased chuff, turning on his polished heel and striding from the music room.
As soon as he disappears, I slump forward, scrubbing my fingers through my hair. Tearing at the roots with my fingernails. Wishing I could claw out the dull ache swelling under my skull.
My headaches dissipate occasionally, but those “good” days are getting fewer and farther between. Now, I can’t even sleep in my own bedroom without risking migraines. I’ve been reduced to collapsing on whatever couch is closest when I’m tipsy enough to fall asleep.
What the fuck did I even drink last night?
The empty bottle beside my feet looks like some good shit. Fancy red wine. Squinting at the label, I remember choosing the nicest vintage I could find. It felt appropriate to celebrate Briar fucking one of us for the first time by pouring Cillian’s hard-earned money down my gullet.
I set it in the middle of the coffee table, chancing a look outside. Before our “accident,” I used to love opening up this room. Our house has stone eaves carved over each window exterior, which meant I could always have fresh air, even when it rained.
I preferred the rain, actually. Those were the afternoons I spent reading or playing my favorite pieces on the upright piano positioned between the wide windows.
The flash of lightning, cool gusts, and billowing curtains. It felt good. Like abandon.
Now, weak sunlight hovers behind thick gray clouds. I squint into the searing light, wishing I could have just one afternoon as my old self. A single day to appreciate all the things I once took for granted.
I only hear Dane approaching because he chooses to be heard. We do that, sometimes, as a courtesy. God knows neither of us wants to surprise the other when we’re in the middle of a fucked-up reverie.
That’s how people lose an eye.
My packmate drops into one of the leather club chairs facing my sofa. His gold eyes snap to my tray, a question clear in his arched brows.
“Yes, I’m eating breakfast,” I grouse. “Fucking Coggins.”
Dane nods. His focus sails to the doorway, sensing our alpha seconds before I do.
“Good. We’re all here,” Cillian says smoothly as he enters, striding to the other club chair. He folds his body into it and reaches for my platter, helping himself to the empty teacup and steaming pot.
Clutching the porcelain in one hand, our pack alpha eyes Dane over the painted rim. “How did last night go?”
I balk, snorting. “For fuck’s sake. We’re doing check-ins now? Am I going to have to get those weird-ass wooden positioning dolls and reenact the whole scene for you? Are there punch cards involved?”
Cillian ignores me. Dane grunts, dropping his gaze to his lap. “It was fine,” he mutters, muffled by the mask. “She did everything I told her to.”
Somehow, I seriously doubt that.
Dane doesn’t notice my glower, though. He’s too busy burning a hole in the Persian rug. I feel something new brewing in him and decide I don’t like it.
“Are we sure there’s no other way?” he finally adds, toneless. “This is it?”
Cillian’s blue eyes take on an unfamiliar intensity. “No,” he says slowly. “There is no other way.”
I’m still waiting for a goddamned explanation on that. Why is there no other way? Did our grandfather mandate this shit or something?
And why is it starting to feel like I don’t recognize my packmates anymore?
Suspicion winds its thorns around my throat. A growl rattles low in my lungs. “Cillian, I swear to—”
He stands without hesitation, buttoning the navy pinstriped jacket covering his white shirt and tie. “I have to go into town for a meeting,” he announces. “I likely won’t be home for dinner, so Rhys?”
Our gazes collide—mine full of loathing, his bemused.
He smirks. “I guess it’s your turn tonight.”