Chapter One. Ember Cross #4
A latent bratty part of me itches to brush my fingers over the door, defying him.
Pushing him. Just to see what the consequences would be.
Though Asad was my biggest childhood tormentor next to his mother, the urge to needle him is as familiar, as prevalent, as the disgust and unrelenting curiosity.
I glance at him, that big body with its broad, strong shoulders and thick thighs spread wide, knees slightly bent, and his aloof, almost bored expression that gives away nothing.
Except for those eyes. A flicker in those silver depths promises retribution.
My belly twists, tautens. Flutters.
And I lower my arm.
“I told her to ride with us,” he says to his mother as he removes his cell phone from the inside pocket of his black suit jacket. He switches his attention to whatever is on the screen. Knowing him, it’s either destroying someone’s life or arranging a fuck. Y’know. Tuesday.
Something as inconsequential as his stepfather dying wouldn’t stop business as usual.
I’m envious.
I’d rather be in my lab or studio, working. Anywhere but here.
“Why, Prince?” Michelle demands.
That’s right. She calls her son “Prince,” as if it’s a title instead of his last name. Not far off since Marcus treated him like the son he never had—the son he wished I was. Asad was his second-in-command and not to be questioned.
He doesn’t immediately answer his mother, instead continues to scroll through his phone, and even type out something on it.
A couple minutes of silence pass before he finally raises his head and fixes his unblinking gaze on his mother.
He’s not even looking at me, and a small shiver trips down my spine.
But hell, I want to know the answer to her question as well.
“Because I wanted to.” His flat tone has Michelle straightening and leaning against the seat back. After a moment, she dips her chin and smiles, but the three blind mice could see that shit is forced. “And the gossip about the circumstances involving Marcus’s death has already started.”
Acidic bile races for the back of my throat at that reminder. I know about the nature of gossip and rumors.
The whispers of murder.
A man who attains Marcus’s level of influence and power can’t do so without amassing enemies.
But murder? A part of my mind refuses to accept it.
Maybe because of a latent remnant of na?veté that can’t believe someone would actually resort to that?
Definitely not because Marcus wouldn’t incite someone to take that drastic action.
On more than one occasion, I’ve wanted to commit a li’l bit of patricide myself.
But those were just that—words, daydreams, fanciful thoughts.
“I’m not sure what this has to do with me,” I point out.
“For once, she says something I agree with,” Michelle snaps.
Bite me, bitch.
“I’d prefer not to give anyone else something to put in their mouths,” Asad continues. “When we walk into that repast, we’re going to at least appear like a family unit. Since everyone in this muthafucka is an expert at faking shit, that shouldn’t be a big ask.”
Appear like a family unit? Not a big ask?
The fuck?
I wasn’t even allowed to sit with them during my father’s funeral or graveside service, but he’s concerned about a united front now?
Granted, not many people outside of House of Cross’s board and a handful of employees knew I existed.
Still, they knew. And no matter how … complicated my relationship was with Marcus, these bitches could’ve allowed me that.
But they didn’t. And now he wants to include me?
Michelle and Asad have treated me like curated shit from the day they darkened the foyer of my childhood home.
Kareem was … the lesser of two evils. Not evil like his mother and older brother, just …
timid. When it came to standing up to them, well, he never did.
And nothing has changed in thirteen years.
And Asad actually thinks requesting I pretend this trio of sociopaths is family isn’t a big ask?
Why not ask Nick Cannon to get a vasectomy, too?
“Yes, it is, Prince,” Michelle hisses. “I don’t understand—”
“Hold that thought, Michelle,” I interrupt, lifting up a finger.
She leans forward, eyes glittering, body damn near vibrating with rage at my disrespect, and her hand slightly rises as if she’s about to slap fire out of me.
I wish a muthafucka would. She’d find I’m not the same teenager who had to live and breathe that “turn the other cheek” shit.
Try that, and she would find out I’m more of the “flip a fucking table” scripture follower.
“You’re going to have to explain to me like I’m three because I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.
I’m just a scientist in the cog of the machine,” I say, trying and failing to keep the faint taunt from my voice.
“Why would a nameless, faceless employee walk into the newly deceased’s celebration of life with his family?
I was good with making my way there, eating dry-ass finger foods, and leaving all incognito and under my own power.
This”—I wave a hand around the interior, encompassing the three of them—“isn’t necessary. ”
It could be my imagination, but a blast of frigid air drifts over my skin, and I stiffen against the shiver ready and willing to overtake my body.
Asad’s head slowly turns my way, and a burst of nerves trembles in my belly as I wait, wait, wait for that narrowed scrutiny to land on me. Nerves and, fuck, anticipation.
“It’s necessary because I said it is,” he states, tone flat, ominous.
“Everyone will be on their best behavior. I don’t give a fuck how we truly feel about each other.
When we walk up in there, the media better report we look like the Black Partridge Family or they gon’ see the other fucking side of me. Understand?”
Michelle nods, though anger burns in her gaze, and Kareem murmurs an agreement, still obsequious to the authority he wears like the delicious scent that clings to him.
I stare straight ahead, not uttering a word. He can take my silence any—
A hard, ruthless grip pinches my chin, turning my head to face Asad.
I’m seconds away from jerking his hand off me; I even lift my own hand from my lap to do just that.
But the slight narrowing of his eyes makes me rethink that course of action right quick.
That don’t get fucked-up in here glance and the tightening of his fingers on me until it feels like a vise is steadily twisting, bruising me.
The tender flesh inside of my mouth presses into the edge of my teeth, but I don’t drop my gaze from his.
I’m not that grieving, pitiful twelve-year-old desperate for his attention but scared of the pain it inevitably brings.
Asad has never broken me.
Not him or his old bitch of a mother or his pussy of a brother.
So even though the tinge of blood hits my tongue, I still silently order him to go fuck himself. As if he can read my mind or see the message in my stare, his lips curl in the barest definition of a smile. And it’s not a nice one. No, it’s downright mean.
My stomach knots again, and this time my heart joins the circus.
Trepidation and a little bit of panic, yes. But, Jesus, take me to the cross, I wish that’s all it was.
“I asked you a question, Ember. It wasn’t rhetorical. Do you understand what I just said? Nod if you do.”
Fuck you. I hate you. I wish you’d choke on that rancid pussy you’re always deep diving into and die.
I nod.
“Good.”
He releases me with a slight shove, and while I want to massage my aching jaws, I don’t give him the satisfaction. Returning my focus straight ahead, I don’t miss the damn near feral gleam of satisfaction and perverse pride in Michelle’s eyes. Yeah, her horned and hoofed spawn has done her proud.
Kareem’s gaze softens with sympathy, pity—I can’t tell and don’t care to decipher it. Both have greasy humiliation sliding through my chest.