Chapter Seven. Ember
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ember
So this is what Daniel felt like?
Except he was a whole punk in those biblical streets.
First, he got to kick it in a lions’ den.
Try hanging out in a drawing room with exquisite, prettily upholstered furniture that invites no one to sit their asses on, art that is pricier than good, and a large, looming fireplace that feels more like a threat than an offer of warmth.
Do that, then come talk to me about discomfort.
Second, those lions’ mouths were sealed shut while he was in that den. Standing here in the middle of this elegant and luxuriously appointed drawing room, the mouths of these predators are wide the fuck open, flashing razor-sharp teeth that are just ready and waiting to tear into vulnerable flesh.
Am I being a little dramatic?
Given we’re congregating in Marcus’s—no, now Asad’s—Malibu property instead of Asad’s home because he wouldn’t dare invite anyone to where he lays his head?
No. I’m not being dramatic in the least.
Still … I dislike most people under ordinary circumstances. They’re annoying, ignorant, rude, and talk too much. As a person who values quiet, I can’t put up with all that noise for too long. Which is why I’m ducked off in a corner of the room, alone except for my drink.
Add my natural aversion to a room filled with the heads of powerful crime families—families who share a tenuous history—several of the Cross organization’s soldiers, my stepfamily, and of course, Asad, and my tolerance level is nearing flash point. And then there’s Aryn Murray.
Her light, slightly husky, and sensual laugh floats above the conversation in the room. It’s not garish or rude. And judging by the expressions on most of the men’s faces, they find it alluring, delightful.
I’m not a man.
Asad is.
Though his usual stoic expression gives nothing away, including how much he appreciates his lover’s laughter, he doesn’t try to avoid her slim hand on his chest. He doesn’t ignore all the smiles she directs up at him.
No, my “fiancé” allows another woman to loop her arm through his and press her body against his.
Sure, we’re an exclusive party of two that knows about this “engagement,” but the disrespect of inviting the soon-to-be side chick to the same party as your almost wife?
The fucking audacity.
My hand tightens around the cut crystal whiskey glass. The sharp edges press into my fingers and palm, and I relish the small bite of pain. It blunts the fringe of anger simmering in my chest, combating and keeping it under control.
I’ve been trying not to glance in the direction of the supermodel, but shit, it’s a damn difficult thing to do. Kind of like attempting not to stare at a giraffe in a room: It’s tall as hell, with long legs, and if you move in any direction, you can see its pussy.
The ends of her long, dark brown hair nearly reach her ass, making the silken length only several inches shorter than the black lace cocktail dress.
On another woman, I would assume she had some business to attend to down on Figueroa Street.
But Aryn, with her astonishing beauty, glowing brown skin, and innate sense of sophistication, pulled it off with grace and style. You had to admire her for that.
And yet, I’m over here still calculating the amount of rocuronium I would need to inject in order to lay her out like a fucking mummified mannequin. At least then I wouldn’t have to hear her gotdamn voice speak his name.
Is it crazy that I’m battling the urge to snatch up my “fiancé’s” ho for peering up at him with the knowledge of a woman who knows exactly how he looks when he cums?
Hell yes. Especially when I would rather be anywhere but in this bitch with all these strangers.
Especially when I don’t want a gotdamn thing to do with said “fiancé.” When I don’t want a fiancé at all. Particularly that one.
Yes, it is crazy as fuck.
But Aryn reminds me of the women I went to college with—beautiful, carefree, laughing, unspoiled.
I’ve always held a … disdain for them. They’ve never known neglect, rejection, uncertainty, instability.
Being so young when entering university, I didn’t participate in or enjoy the usual collegiate experience.
I didn’t party, drink to excess, or fuck.
And not only because of my age and social immaturity.
Let’s be honest, that’s never stopped a lot of teens.
But I had—have—a healthy mistrust in people, particularly men.
Given the ones in my life—my grandfather, father, Asad—is there any wonder?
I couldn’t trust a man with any part of me—my mind, emotions, heart, body—for fear of manipulation, deception, cruelty, and abuse of control.
So, yes, knowing all of this about myself makes it ludicrous that I give a damn about Aryn touching or smiling at Asad …
Am I willing to analyze why I still want to inject homegirl with a paralytic so I can eviscerate her and splay the flaps of her torso wide like a dissected frog?
I’d rather stay here for another hour and engage in small talk.
In other words, hell no.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a sip of the seventy-two-year-old Macallan whiskey and savor the delicate sweet oak, citrus, vanilla, and smokey flavor.
I already received several raised eyebrows and disapproving looks when I requested the same whiskey as the men, instead of the wine most of the women were indulging in.
Fuck that. When they broke out a bottle of alcohol carrying a $121,000 price tag, there’s no way in hell I’m partaking of some weak-ass Jesus juice.
Asad must be really trying to impress his guests given there are less than six hundred of these available in the world.
Who am I kidding?
This has Michelle scrawled all over it. Asad couldn’t give a shit about impressing anyone.
But his mother, my stepmother? One of her favorite pastimes is shoving her wealth in others’ faces.
And now that her golden child is the ruler of the entire kingdom?
Oh yes. She’s in her element and wants everyone to know it.
In particular, me.
As if I summoned the bitch with the full moon and nut of a hellhound, Michelle glances at me from across the room. She says something to the circle of jeweled, plucked, and surgically enhanced women gathered around her like ladies-in-waiting playing court with a queen and heads in my direction.
Fuck.
Who got time for the bullshit she’s undoubtedly on?
I purposefully found a corner to duck off in to be by myself since that’s whose company I prefer above any person in this place—mine.
Here I am, minding my business, and this ho gotta make her way over here and make an already painful evening more agonizing with her stench of gloating and Black Opium.
I hastily down the rest of the whiskey just in case I need the glass to crack her upside her head for coming at me wrong. Tonight ain’t the night for shenanigans.
“Over here alone, I see,” Michelle says, coming to stand in front of me with her signature smirk.
“Some things never change. You always were too awkward and inept for social occasions. That’s why your father never insisted you attend them with us and your brothers. You were always an embarrassment.”
If she expected me to cry at her corrosive words like I used to when I was younger, she’s going to be sorely disappointed.
Not because they don’t burn and eat away at my soul.
I don’t think there’s been a Teflon coat invented that can protect against the cruelest words meant to strip emotional skin.
But Michelle fucked up and let those wounds she inflicted over and over again grow into inches-thick keloids.
I hide behind them like masks, concealing my rage, my pain, my humiliation.
This bitch had enough of all three over the years from me. Damned if I give her a peep show for free now.
“Believe me, Michelle, I had other plans tonight rather than be here with you and your venerated guests.”
I held up my glass, signaling to the roaming server to bring me another drink.
I would need about five more of these things to make it through this evening without stabbing myself in the carotid with a salad fork or starting a gang war by telling Don Amato that his wife eye-fucking Dimitri Petrov, the pakhan of the Russian mob, was bad form.
Michelle scoffs, raising her wineglass for a sip, eying me over the rim.
“You have no man, no life, and soon, no position within this family once I speak with Prince. What could you possibly have on your busy social calendar this evening that would trump being here with people who you’d never have the pleasure or chance in hell of being in the same room with? ”
I barely smother a bark of laughter at her poor but very ironic choice of words. No man? No position in this family? Shit, if my presence at this little affair is headed where I think it is, she might want to buckle up.
And who is this “Prince” she speaks of that she can bend to her will or influence to do what she wants? Have we met? Shit, have they met? Because she can’t be talking about the Asad Prince I know or she pushed out her tired-ass snatch.
The server approaches me with another cut crystal glass, and I exchange my empty one for a full one. Or I almost do. Instead of letting the staff leave with the empty glass, I discreetly place it on the table behind me. You know. Just in case I need a quick weapon. Preparation is key ’n’ all that.
I take a sip, humming in appreciation before giving my attention back to the ho who seems to so desperately want it.
“Reruns of Bill Nye the Science Guy. PBS has a marathon going on. Oh, and figuring out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.”
For a moment, she stares at me, as if not fully comprehending my answer. But when it hits, I hold back another chuckle as her face screws up in an ugly scowl, her eyes darkening to damn near black.