Chapter One. Ember Cross #3
A beat of silence, and then he shifts closer to me. My gaze is still focused on the casket, but like a fucking Police song, I’m very aware of every move he makes, every breath he takes. Living with him for over a decade has taught me it’s in my best interest to keep careful track of him.
“C, I can pry that casket open, toss you on top of your father’s stinking corpse, and bury you right along with him. See if you and him will make that rising-from-the-dead shit a three-peat.”
The shiver that rips through me should be fear.
Hell, if it was fear, I could try and convince myself I have even a splinter of morality left.
But while I have no problem lying to other people, I refuse to do it with myself.
That shiver is all sharp hope and eagerness.
For all the torment Asad inflicted on me, he’s never physically touched me.
The same can’t be said for his ho of a mother, but Michelle’s touch never had something akin to a fever simmering beneath my skin.
Never had me anticipating glimpsing bruises darkening my body.
Never had me longing for my breath to be cut off by strong, absurdly elegant fingers wrapped around my throat.
Like I said. No morality left.
Because only a sick-ass bitch would lust after the bully and monster that made her childhood a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.
“A it is.”
This wasn’t a battle I could win, and over the years, I’ve learned how to wisely choose them. Asad and Michelle might think they’ve won every skirmish we’ve engaged in, but I plan on claiming the war as my prize.
With Marcus gone, all they see is House of Cross. Claiming the whole empire. Me? The only thing in my front view is freedom.
Autonomy.
And getting the fuck away from them.
Turning, I tug my arm free from his grip, but it isn’t lost on me that if he truly willed it, I would have him clamped around me like a Pandora bracelet.
I slowly walk over to the casket, stopping right on the edge of the open grave.
The fragrance from the fresh flowers tickles my nose, smelling like death and final goodbyes.
I inhale, dragging the scent deep into my lungs and holding it there.
This is what I’ll carry with me, not the Cool Water cologne that was his signature scent.
The familiar anger rises within me, and the pain swimming underneath doesn’t temper it.
“I’m not going to stand here and give you some sentimental farewell.
We both know it would be bullshit. We barely spoke to each other in the thirteen years since Mommy died; I won’t be a hypocrite and eulogize you now.
One thing I can thank you for—you’ve been consistent.
You abandoned me in life and you’re doing it again in death.
See? You never switched up. Goodbye, Marcus. ”
I open my clutch and remove the item I’d stolen from the safe in his office late last night.
Comical how he didn’t think I knew of its existence, much less the combination to open it.
Slowly, I lift my arm and tuck a ring bearing the Cross family crest among the flowers, hiding it from sight.
Since the line of male heirs to the House of Cross and its empire died with Marcus, I think it’s fitting the heirloom passed down from son to son goes into the ground with him.
He’s taking a secret with him, too. Call it my parting gift to the father who didn’t give a fuck about me unless he could use me.
Even then, he didn’t care about me as much as what I could do for him.
Briefly closing my eyes, I give him both middle fingers, then shoulders drawn back, I walk away without a backward glance.
I head in the direction of the path that leads to the cemetery’s private street, currently lined with all models of luxury vehicles. By now, only stragglers litter the freshly mown grass. Most people have either left or are waiting in their cars to exit the gated property.
“Mr. Prince, we offer our condolences on the passing of your father…” A tall, slim, and either brave or disturbingly reckless reporter with a short, dark red bob and black shirt and skirt, slightly too short and inappropriate for the occasion, approaches Asad.
He barely pauses in his long stride to address her, but I don’t wait for him, continuing toward the Hummer he pointed out.
Marcus made it his lifelong ambition to hide my existence from the general public’s knowledge, and old habits die hard.
I can’t lie though. A rebellious, furious, and petty part of me wants to barge over there and introduce myself as Marcus Cross’s only daughter.
Kind of like Edward Rochester’s only wife, both hidden unwanted and scurried away. Both hiding a killing rage.
But no. I keep walking. Even after Marcus’s death, I’m keeping the status quo, toeing the line.
Moments later, he reappears at my side, his long-legged stride easily catching up with me.
Must’ve been a very short conversation. At damn near six feet, five inches, Asad towers over me by nearly a foot, and his muscled bulk far outweighs me.
And I’m not a small woman. My family runs a fashion house, but my frame—all breasts, hips, ass, and thighs—isn’t the “ideal” model-thin or tall. Another black mark against me.
Ask me if I give a fuck.
We silently advance on the waiting gleaming, black-on-black Hummer, and I deliberately inhale a breath and allow my mask in place and drop the barricaded shield around my heart.
All necessary and learned precautions when coming in contact with my stepmother.
Do I want to analyze why I’m just now erecting these barriers and not when Asad first approached me?
No, I’ll pass.
The driver opens his door and climbs out of the vehicle, but Asad holds a hand up to him and stretches his other arm across me, opening the rear door.
The heat and the scent of his Creed cologne mingled with an undertone of cedarwood and musk that even I couldn’t duplicate in my lab reach out to me.
Shoring up my protective walls, I reluctantly slide into the waiting vehicle and sink down onto the long, black leather seat across from Michelle and Kareem.
The sound of teeth being sucked greets me, and I meet my stepmother’s glare.
Her mouth curls as if a rancid odor followed me in, and though a lava-hot hate tries to melt the ice around my emotions, I simply cross my legs and clasp my hands together, resting them on my lap without flinching or dropping my gaze.
Unlike her son, she doesn’t put fear into my heart.
No matter how many times she laid a belt over my back and legs, yanked my hair until I swore my scalp bled, or put her cigarettes out on my skin, she could never break me.
For a moment, my eyes clash with Kareem’s and the warm, weighty sympathy there barely registers. Not because I don’t think it’s genuine. Kareem Prince is nothing if not … genuine. Genuinely polite. Genuinely nice. Genuinely weak.
At one very brief time, I almost considered him a safe space.
A space who didn’t belittle, threaten, or punish.
But very quickly, I learned Kareem wasn’t Switzerland.
Kareem, with his pretty brown eyes, handsome face, and lean, wiry build, was more like a country that puts up a brief fight, then caves to the bigger power.
He’s the least dangerous of the three. But that’s only because his malice wouldn’t be intentional, just apologetic.
Asad enters right behind me; his big body settles on the same seat as mine, and I inch over, again placing much-needed space between us. And I still feel crowded. Almost like I’m suffocating, though the vehicle could fit about ten more people.
“What is this? What are you doing here?” Michelle snaps, distaste dripping from the question.
A stunning woman with long, dark hair, piercing eyes, elegant, almost elfin features, and a willowy, toned frame that could easily grace one of HoC’s catwalks, even the sneer on her face can’t take away from her beauty.
That lump of calcified shit in her chest does though. “This is for family only.”
That dig is lightweight compared to all the other shit she’s said to me over the years. Must be the stress of the day getting to her.
Yet … the reminder that my last name might be Cross but I’m unwanted and unloved still hits its target.
I hate that for me. Hate that she can still manage to hurt me after all these years. Maybe Marcus’s death and my imminent emancipation will trigger the beginning of some kind of healing.
Or fuck healing.
I’ll just take Teflon-esque skin.
“Ask your son,” I say with a small shrug.
She leans forward, hate glistening in her eyes instead of tears for her dearly departed husband. “Bitch, I’m asking you. Get your sad, ugly ass out of—”
“Mom, please.” Kareem, ever the peacemaker, sets a hand on his mother’s shoulder, attempting to … what? Calm her? Stop the caustic, foul words streaming from her lips like acid?
A little too late to save me from that.
Thirteen years too late. As he well knows.
“Oh, stop it, Kareem.” Michelle swats his hand away, sucking her teeth at him.
“You’re always playing Captain Save-a-Ho with this thing.
” She scans me from the top of my head down to the pointed toes of my special edition House of Cross stilettoes—the last design my mother created before she died.
Anger flashes in her dark eyes, and her mouth tightens until it’s little more than a ruby-red thin line.
“I repeat, what are you doing here? This is reserved for family only.”
I reach for the handle on the door next to me. “Fine with me.” It’s not like I want to be here. And I never claimed these muthafuckas anyway.
“Touch that door if you want to.” The silken yet hard-as-armor warning halts my movement, my fingers hovering just above the handle.