Chapter Two. Asad Prince #4
Her swift intake of breath pierces the silence like a razor-sharp scalpel.
I switch my attention from Sam to her, and though her expression remains aloof and reserved, those light brown eyes tell another story.
Scream that story. And it’s one of rage, betrayal, and pain.
Of hate. Seeing as how I’ve seen those emotions reflected in that gaze often over the last thirteen years—shit, I’ve been the cause of them more often than I can count—I easily recognize them.
But in the next moment, it’s as if those eyes shutter, and there’s … nothing.
Like everyone else in this family, she’s mastered the art of pretending. But of us all, she’s perfected it. She’s had to, given the family she had the misfortune to be born into.
Marcus was as disloyal and dismissive of her in death as he was in life. When, in truth, House of Cross wouldn’t exist without her.
That knowledge won’t stop me from stealing her birthright though.
With a will that’s been forged in the fires of rage, pain, and helplessness, I don’t move a muscle. Not even an involuntary flinch. Nothing in my face or demeanor betrays the vicious and primal exhilaration sweeping through me like a destructive twister.
Three inheritances read and revealed. Only one more left. I can nearly taste the victory, fuckin’ feast on it with bloody, grasping hands. Mine.
Michelle turns in her chair and looks at Ember, a malicious smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
Even before the words escape her, I know they’re aimed to maim, to eviscerate.
To see Ember bleed. I won’t allow it. Not here, not in this room with the ghost of her father not even fully formed yet.
Nah, Michelle won’t get the chance to draw that first blood.
Even if it’s me who has to make the initial slice.
“Anything to say, Ember?” I ask, embracing the ugly, slick slide of anticipation weaving its way through my veins like a bloated, filthy river.
That unblinking gaze of sunshine and syrup shifts to me, and my dick thumbs against my thigh, stretching and hardening at the heated punch of her eyes meeting mine. My whole body tightens with an eagerness that’s usually reserved for dirty fights and dirtier fucking.
Will this be it? Will this be the time she unleashes all that banked and beautiful rage on me? I’ve waited for over ten years for it to happen.
But as she inhales, then slowly exhales, and her head slightly tilts to the side, apparently today won’t be that day.
Fuck.
“No. Just sitting here being quietly thankful for all of my blessings,” she evenly says.
Her reply leaves a distinct scent in the room. Smells like bullshit and broken dreams.
“If we can continue,” Sam says, his voice possessing a warning that I ignore for a protracted moment where Ember and I engage in a visual fuck you.
I almost smile.
Almost.
I shift my attention back to the company attorney and find myself entrenched in another game of warfare.
A muscle ticks along his strong, tight jaw, and his narrowed gaze is drenched in suspicion.
The older man has never liked me, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
Unlike her father, Sam has always sought to protect Ember, shelter her.
For that, I resent the fuck out of him. Not because I want the role he’s assumed.
No.
It’s because he stands between me and my self-appointed victim.
“To my stepson, Asad Grayson Prince, I bequeath the rest and residue of my estate, including but not limited to real estate in Los Angeles, Miami, New York, London, England, and Paris, France, sixty billion in assets, forty-six percent ownership, and the position of CEO of House of Cross and all of the Cross Corporation entities. If he does not survive me, his brother and my stepson Kareem Malcolm Prince will receive his inheritance.”
A roar invades my head, thundering and deafening me to everything but the bloodthirsty howl of mine.
Finally fucking all mine.
For all intents and purposes, I own eighty-five percent of HoC.
Forty-six percent belongs to me outright, but with Marcus granting me voting proxy of Ember’s thirty-nine, no one—not even my mother or brother—can defy me.
Marcus didn’t screw me. He screwed his daughter, but not me.
A sensation too hot, too blinding, too primal to be labeled mere joy soars through me like a meteor crashing into earth.
All the lies, the scheming, the years of submitting myself have proven worth it.
House of Cross is mine now. Mine to take in any direction I want. Mine to shape how I decide. Mine to shatter right down to the corrupt, bitter roots and erect in my reflection. No more Marcus Cross. Just Asad Prince.
I glance at Michelle, and her eyes glitter with pride and triumph.
Even though I could give two shits about how my mother feels about me, the tightening of my chest makes a liar out of me.
In my thirty years, I can easily count the number of times Michelle looked at me with delight etched into her features and brightening her gaze.
Every single one of them had been when I inflicted some kind of torture on Ember.
My mother raised a sadistic sociopath, and she’s gotdamn tickled pink.
“I hereby nominate, constitute, and appoint House of Cross’s legal counsel and my lifelong friend, Samuel Chavis, to act as the executor of this, my Last Will and Testament.
In the event that Samuel Chavis declines to act or precedes me in death, I nominate and appoint my stepson Asad Prince to act in his place.
” Sam pauses, and I can’t tell if he’s having a moment of mourning for his friend …
or silently calling him a bitch-ass muthafucka.
Maybe both. “That’s it. If any of you have any questions about the details of this will, you have my contact information.
If you don’t mind, I’d like to have the room and speak to Ember in private, please. ”
It’s not a question or suggestion; it’s an order.
Though a sneer curls Michelle’s lips, she stands from her chair.
I don’t need to possess telepathy to know she wants to tell Sam fuck him and she’s not going anywhere.
But as loose as she is with the mouth, Michelle doesn’t have a death wish.
And Sam would wrap his hand around her throat and wouldn’t let go until she pissed on herself.
And if she counted on me to save her, well, meeting her husband in the afterlife would dispel that belief.
Wisely, she remains quiet and stalks for the study door, Kareem on her heels. As they pass Ember, my brother’s steps falter, and he pauses in front of our stepsister. His fingers flex near his thigh, straightening, then curling in a fist.
As if he longs to touch her but is afraid to. Instead of laying a hand on her, he leans over and whispers something in her ear that’s too low for me to catch. Ember nods and grants him a small, strained smile.
That’s more than she’s ever offered me.
An equally unholy and dark possessiveness swims behind my rib cage, slamming against it like tsunami waves desperate to swallow and destroy everything in their path.
My body locks, and I force myself to remain still and not charge across the room, throw my younger brother to the floor, and stomp a mud puddle in his ass.
Thankfully for him, he straightens and follows our mother out the door.
“Prince,” Sam says, voice hard, ice-cold.
“You just read that will, Sam.” I drag my gaze from the direction my brother disappeared in and return it to the older man.
“I own all this shit … including you. I’m not Michelle or that fuck ass Marcus.
You tread lightly with me, and I won’t pay a visit to your youngest up there at Stanford. Florence Moore Hall, right?”