Chapter Seven. Ember #9
Shock reverberates through me in seismic waves, damn near rocking me on my feet.
Marcus didn’t include me in the management of Cross business, but I still made it a priority to know everything about the empire that bore my last name and was part of my blood.
So I understood the importance of those names.
Xavier Holloway and Deacon Martins are two powerful street bosses who have been with Marcus for years.
Their fathers served under my grandfather, and even their sons were members of the organization.
No one could’ve ever convinced me they weren’t loyal to HoC.
They were supposed to be here tonight but had business in New York. Sounded plausible at the time. Now it’s suspect as fuck.
But here Carter sat, saying they were the instigators of this plot to kill the new boss.
The fuck is going on? Did they … Shit, could they have anything to do with Marcus’s death, too?
I look at Asad, and his expression is a blank slate. It reveals nothing of his thoughts or emotions. But standing beside him, I note the tendons in his neck popping out in stark relief against his toasted-brown skin. Catch the stiff set of his shoulders. The pounding of his pulse at his temple.
Finally, he nods at Carter. “Thank you,” he calmly says.
Then, in rapid-fire succession, he puts bullets through Carter’s mother’s, son’s, and brother’s heads.
A horrific cry tears out of Carter, and it’s worse than when Asad severed his fingers or when I cauterized the wounds. This is soul-deep and raw.
Low murmurs underscore the weeping. And a glance at the Cross soldiers reveal some of them nodding or wearing fierce expressions of satisfaction and pride.
I feel nothing hearing it. Their blood is on his hands.
Besides, he had to know his actions would cost them their lives.
Asad couldn’t afford to let them live; I already saw in Carter’s son’s eyes Asad was creating an enemy.
And once Demarcus recovered from his immediate grief over Tre’s death, that sadness would likely turn into rage and a hunger for revenge.
Nah, all this could be laid at the feet of Carter. Right next to his fingers.
“Get him out of here,” he orders.
Eli moves forward, along with two more men, and they free a sobbing Carter, dragging him from the room, his blood streaking the floor.
“Well, when I agreed to dinner, I didn’t know it would be dinner and a show,” Dimitri says with another of his signature chuckles. He begins to slow clap, but the glint in his eyes is cold, speculative. “Браво.”
“Traitors are owed no mercy,” Naoki says in his quiet but powerful voice. “Neither are their bloodlines. That was a pleasure to witness. And allow me to congratulate you again on your choice in wife. She’s your equal in strength.”
“I second that. I’d like to offer another toast.” Julian stands and waves a hand to the servers.
They move quickly, and within moments, everyone’s glasses are refilled.
Everyone at the table remains standing, a little disturbingly unmoved by the events that just passed.
These men underestimate women, but their wives must be as strong and cold as they are; none of their faces betray any disgust or fear at the violence that occurred.
A wave of heat rushes over and through me as I walk back to the table, Asad next to me, his palm a hot brand low on my spine.
A part of me screams out an objection; the nearly feral excitement that consumed me during Carter’s torture fades, and I’m right back in reality, where Asad is my nemesis and I’m being forced into a life I want no part of.
The other part fills—overflows with it. Because that same part thrills at being called his equal.
Fucking preens at it. That approval isn’t just of me as Asad’s future wife.
It’s of my last name, showing as a Cross.
It’s sick, twisted. I don’t need their praise, their recognition.
I for damn sure don’t need Asad’s. But that kernel of warmth, that …
thing that lifts its head toward the heat and light of his approval, contradicts my claim.
It’s obvious I have daddy issues.
Because the alternative … it’s untenable.
“Michelle.” Asad’s deep rumble of a voice vibrates against my back, snatching my attention from my internal existential crisis, and landing it on his mother.
If anything lightens my mood, it’s the repulsed expression riding her face as she glares at me standing there with her son.
Oh hell yes. That does wonders for me. “You’re not joining in the toast? ”
The question isn’t one at all—it’s a warning. And Michelle knows better than to disrespect not just her son but the head of the Cross organization.
With a smile, Michelle raises her wineglass. “Of course I am, Prince,” she says, giving him a tight smile.
The waiters bring Asad and me our drinks, and surprise ripples through me when he selects a whiskey for me instead of wine. Murmuring a thank-you, I accept it.
“To the future of House of Cross,” Julian says, his beautiful, rich voice booming in the room.
“Asad, as we’ve witnessed here tonight, you are a wise choice to usher in this new age.
Someone once said, ‘This is a ruthless world, and one must be ruthless to cope with it.’ I’d like to add that one must be ruthless to rule it.
You’re that man and that ruler, Prince. And from what we’ve seen, you’ve chosen a queen who shares your unflinching willingness to do what it takes to govern it. Congratulations to you both.”
A chorus of congratulations peppers the air, and as I lift my glass to my lips, my gaze meets Kareem’s. Like his mother’s, there’s no acceptance or joy there. Anger tightens his smooth brown skin and hardens his jaw.
Noticing my stare, he forces his mouth into a smile that doesn’t alleviate the flatness of his eyes. He nods his head and lifts his glass, taking a sip.
I don’t return the acknowledgment or the gesture. I’m too busy spiraling. Because this is suddenly too much.
Chatter and laughter follow the toast, and like all the air was suddenly vacuumed out of the room, I’m struggling to breathe.
It isn’t the torture or murder; it’s the blinding, hot exposure.
The nearly overwhelming sense of being seen …
and accepted with admiration by this lethal circle when my own “family” had rejected and reviled me for most of my life.
I’m like a mountain climber who’s gone from one altitude to another.
Disoriented. Sick. I need space that doesn’t include Asad or these people.
I’ve overstayed my welcome here, and more than anything, I crave the safety and familiarity of my home.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to no one in particular as none of them are really paying attention to me. I head toward the doors, but hard, long fingers cuff my wrist.
“Where are you going?” Asad bends his head over mine, and his lips are a sensual threat as they almost brush the top of my ear.
“To the bathroom.” And then out of here.
He studies me, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears because for an illogical moment I think he’s able to read my mind.
But then he nods and releases me. Silently loosing a sigh of relief, I wind through the servers entering with pots of coffee and plates of dessert, making my way out of the dining room.
Leaving the rest of them to toast, dine, and laugh and … do whatever partygoers do.
For several minutes, I weave and stumble through this maze of a house.
This might’ve been my father’s at one time, but it’s still foreign to me.
Bypassing closed doors and furnished but empty living rooms, parlors, and a den, I eventually locate the bathroom, and I spend about twenty minutes in the luxurious, tastefully decorated space.
I wash my hands and using one of the towels, clean up the few flecks of blood that splattered on my chest and neck.
There’s nothing I can do about the fluid on my shoes and hem of my pants.
I’m not tossing them though. Tired, and hoping it’s possible to avoid seeing any more people before I skip out, I exit the bathroom and heave an audible sigh this time when the hallway appears free of people.
“Ember.”
Fuck.
“Kareem.” I turn around and don’t bother pasting on a smile. My polite life expectancy expired for the evening. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m sorry. I saw you leave and followed to make sure you’re okay.” He chuckles, sliding his hands into his pockets. “A lot went down in there.”
“It did.” I nod. “Thank you, but there was no need to check on me. I’m good.” Irritation and an urgency to get the hell up out of here war with each other, and I glance over his shoulder. “Look, I don’t want to—”
“You sure you’re okay? I don’t mean to pry, but when Prince announced your engagement, you didn’t exactly look like a blushing bride.
” He gives a dry, short laugh, shaking his head.
“Ember, if anyone knows my brother, it’s me.
And I love him, but he can be … focused.
And when he has his mind set on something, he doesn’t allow much to deter him.
Not even the word no. I’m going to be honest with you, Ember.
I can’t imagine in what world you would willingly go into this marriage… ”
“And if that is the case, what could you do to help me?” I tilt my head, studying him, curious about his answer.
Because like he said, he possibly knows his brother better than anyone.
So he also understands that there isn’t shit he could do to save me.
Shit, he can’t even save himself from the hell of this family.
I’ve never once witnessed him stand up to his mother, much less Asad.
So how in the fuck could he do anything for me?
He huffs out another laugh, and it’s just as bitter as its predecessor.