Chapter One. Ember Cross #2
The employees and other unimportant people graciously allowed to attend the graveside service must wait until the family and executives file out before they can move forward with their flowers and final words.
The press continues to snap away, eager to catch every moment that transpires.
If they only suspected the truth, that Marcus Cross’s only child is in attendance and relegated to stand with the employees instead of family, this quiet buzz would transform into a feeding frenzy.
But they don’t know. Barely anyone does, and that’s just the way Marcus wanted it.
In life and now in death. Especially in death.
Michelle and Asad will make sure of that.
Why should today be different from any other though?
The truth is I haven’t been considered or treated like a daughter or sister in thirteen long, torturous years. Not since Dad showed up to the house with Michelle and her two sons.
“You okay, Em?” Perla Emory, my friend and co-worker, gently taps the back of my hand and peers up at me from her five-feet-even height.
A gust of wind ruffles her signature purple pixie cut and she blinks at me, concern bright from behind her blue-and-gold-frame glasses.
She crosses her arms over her chest, casting a glance over her shoulder.
She isn’t exactly a people person, and her discomfort with being around a sizable crowd like this practically bleeds from her pores.
Despite being an employee of HoC, she’s here for me, and I appreciate that more than words can express.
While most people would look at Perla and call her mousey, I see the opposite.
To me, she’s unique, sweet, and adorable. And can’t forget brilliant.
Though smiling is the very last thing I feel like doing, I scrounge one up for Perla.
“I’m good.”
She squints at me, but after several seconds, sucks her teeth.
“Okay. I know you’re lying, but I’ma let you have that.” This time my smile at her is a little more genuine. “I’m going to head out. Do you want to ride to the repast with me, Gus, and Jaq? We have room—”
“No, she’s riding in the family car.” A strong hand wraps around my upper arm in an implacable, don’t-start-no-shit grip seconds after the interruption.
For a moment, I close my eyes and clench my jaw.
Even if I didn’t recognize that low, sin-gift-wrapped-in-nightmares voice, the rush of fight or flight roaring through my blood and pounding in my ears would’ve clued me in.
Only one person incites this particular blend of rage, adrenaline, and dread.
And heat. Pure, unadulterated heat.
Asad.
I inhale a low, deep breath and open my eyes, meeting Perla’s wide gaze. The instinctual urge to tell Asad where he and his family can go by way of that fucking car burns my tongue. But the anxiety and fear saturating Perla’s expression bank the irritated words.
I get it … I do. My stepbrother is evil incarnate.
And honestly that’s an insult to Satan, who’s probably sitting on his throne of lies right now, saying, “Bitch, don’t do me like that.
” And having those gunmetal-gray eyes fixed on you would have anyone with half the sense God gave a gnat silently reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
So no, I don’t blame Perla, and since I care for her—and she’s one of the few people in this world who cares for me—I step in the line of fire for her.
Because apparently me and that gnat are congenital twins.
“A-are y-you sure, Em?” Perla stutters, still having my back even though her fear permeates the air like the dark earth they’re about to lower my father into. She even releases a small whimper when Asad switches his narrowed focus to her.
My heart pinches at the courage Perla displays on my behalf, as misplaced as it is.
Hell no dances on my tongue. I drove myself here since I wasn’t invited to ride in the family limo.
Since I wasn’t considered good enough, important enough, to join them.
Keep that same fucking energy. Not that I would’ve consented to joining Michelle, Asad, and Kareem anyway.
That would’ve been like volunteering to ride shotgun with a cackle of hyenas. Still …
“Yes, I’m good,” I assure her, not removing my stare from my stepbrother.
Only a fool diverts their attention from the biggest threat in the room.
A fool who’s not particularly fond of their throat.
It takes everything in me not to snatch my attention or arm away from him.
From his touch that burns through my clothes, straight through to my skin and beneath like a fiery brand.
I detest that his implacable grip makes me feel both trapped …
and grounded. Shit. “You can go ahead. I’ll see you at the repast.”
“Okay.” I drag my gaze away from Asad and glance at Perla in time to not miss her soft sigh of relief or the softening of her expression. With a final nod, she hightails it away from us.
A few people still linger, gathered in small clumps, voices never rising above a level that’s respectful of the dead. Like they give a fuck. Seems to me, they’d probably enjoy the noise. Liven up this place some. Must be boring as fuck being, well … dead.
Most of the press has dissipated, with a few sticking around like barnacles, hungry for that last shot. Several reporters trail after Michelle and Kareem as they make their way across the cemetery toward the main road and line of vehicles idling there.
“Give your last respects to your father, and let’s go,” Asad orders, and in spite of the nerves tripping over themselves in my belly, I arch an eyebrow at him.
Another thing only a fool does—show fear. Like most predators, Asad would smell that shit and go in for the kill.
I should know.
In the thirteen years he’s been in my life, I’ve died a thousand times.
“Thank you for the offer of a lift, but no thank you,” I say, voice even, void of the hate swarming inside my chest, saturating my bones.
Now he wants me to be included with the “family”?
Why the switch up? Because that better-late-than-never bullshit is a bone thrown to desperate losers.
So why—nope. Don’t care. I don’t want any part of it.
Besides, anything that comes from Asad cannot bode well for me.
“I planned on staying here until they finish burying Marcus.”
He cocks his head, studying me like I’m one of the worms that will eventually crawl into the coffin with my father and make him food.
Don’t you fidget, bitch, I silently hiss to myself.
Yes, that intense, scalpel-sharp gaze might send a flood of anxiety and heat rushing through me, but damn if he knows.
Anxiety, because Asad Prince can be called many things—brilliant, ruthless, lethal, sociopath—but predictable isn’t one of them. He’s capable of anything.
Heat, because looking at this man is like staring into the face of the sun. Blinding, painful if you do it for too long. It scorches.
His beauty is a Venus flytrap. He uses it to lure a person in, and before they’re aware of the real danger they’re in, it’s too late. They’re eaten alive.
“That could take hours,” he finally says.
I shrug a shoulder, finally … finally tearing my gaze from him and looking over at the glossy black coffin and flowers gathered on top and nearly spilling over the sides like a waterfall of color.
“I’ll wait as long as it takes.” Glancing back at him, I smile.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I clench my fingers around my black Hermès clutch.
Anything to prevent me from lifting my fingers to my lips and scrubbing away my plum lipstick along with the unnerving, phantom touch of his eyes.
An electrified current crackles across my skin, jumping down my spine and wrapping around my waist. His fingers, still gripping my arm, singe through skin to bone beneath.
Marking me. Igniting something hated, something … dark and needy underneath.
Once more, I shift my attention to the casket. I have no problem admitting this time it’s from cowardice. Or self-preservation.
That same sense of desperate self-defense urges me to pull away from him, free myself. Insert as much distance as possible between us because that grasping, electric pulse surging through me is as dangerous as the monster before me.
“What the fuck for?” Asad demands, impatience humming in that dark, roughened-silk voice.
“Because.” I force my lips to curl higher, and I wonder if the smile appears as ugly as it feels. As hungry as the rage and grief churning and mating inside me. “One man managed to rise from the dead. I want to make sure Marcus doesn’t make it two for two.”
If my callous explanation surprised him, he doesn’t betray it.
Yet his silence hangs over us like a condemnation.
Like I give a fuck. He doesn’t know what it feels like to be ignored, neglected, and deemed unworthy.
Not the great Asad Prince. Marcus treated him more like his child than he ever did me.
So fuck both of them.
“You have two choices, Ember.” I pretend like my name uttered in that voice doesn’t send a trickle of resentment and anticipation through my veins.
“A, you can walk over to the G Wagon waiting on us and get in. Or B, I throw your li’l ass over my shoulder and carry you over to that G Wagon.
Either way, you’re leaving this fucking cemetery. ”
“What about C? There’s no third option?” The trepidation and healthy dose of “what the fuck?” having its way with me aren’t reflected in my voice.
Show no fear. A mantra I’ve learned and exhibited since childhood.
Still … Asad has always been a show-versus-tell kind of man, so I have zero doubts he would carry through on his threat.
And nobody would dare stop him. So why am I goading this man?
I don’t know. Must be temporary delirium from no breakfast.