Chapter 31 #2
Her eyes soften, pupils dilating. “When you don’t know who you are, ask yourself how you feel. The answer will tell you who’s in control.”
Everything snaps back to the room.
I can’t move.
“Oh my God…” I whisper, eyes lifting to Asher as the whole room falls to silence. “Emeric is already dead.”
“Yeah.” Asher stares back at me. “I made sure of it.”
I fall backwards, landing on a sofa.
My whole body shakes.
Désamour isn’t in France.
It’s here. It’s been here the whole time. On Veilarath.
I dig my fingers into the upholstery, nails catching on the weave.
This was Emeric’s work. He’d ask me questions, then he’d take the answers back.
He left me the facts because he needed me functional, and he stole the lines between them.
The shape of the thing. The reason three houses mattered.
The reason the families pretended to be separate when they were all just fingers on the same hand.
My stomach lurches.
La Maison du Mal. One machine with three heads.
The Monét line. The Delacroix line. The—God, the crest. Three sigils cut to fit each other, a puzzle I’ve been too stupid to assemble.
My eyes snap to Asher.
He’s still standing there, watching me come apart. The scar across his throat catches the light, a pale rope of healed tissue that I’ve traced with my fingers, with my tongue, never asking the right question, never letting myself wonder why a man who answers to no one wears a mark like that.
The final initiation.
Everything seems miles beneath me, blood thudding in my ears. He let them cut him. He knelt, Asher knelt, and let a blade split his throat open. That was what it cost to become Le Parrain.
Le Parrain.
I look at him. The snowboarder, the brat, the man who fights me and kisses me, and underneath all of it, the head of the French mob. The one Emeric himself was so afraid of—
The dream that triggered all of this opens again in my head, different this time.
Emeric didn’t claim Le Boucher.
I lift my hands in front of me like I’m holding that very same mugshot, only now it’s a full, detailed sketch of a younger Asher.
My hand flies to my mouth to stop myself from spewing.
“I feel sick.”
“Baby…” Asher steps closer and I can’t even find the strength to push him away.
My eyes lift to his. “Liars.”
“Breathe,” Asher says, his voice distant.
I can’t breathe. I can’t stop the flood. Every locked door Emeric planted in my head is swinging open and the light pouring through burns, showing me the architecture of a cage I’ve been living in since I was old enough to hold a blade.
“There was a house that needed to be built, but first, it needed the foundation—” Emeric pointed to Leon, before landing on Luce, “and the walls, they need to be strong enough to keep everyone and everything out.” Then he landed on Punk. “Until it was time to play house.”
They all knew. Every single one of them fucking knew.
My mouth opens. Can I even be bothered arguing?
Betrayal slams into me all at once—every kiss, every fight, every fucking lie. Rage arrives right behind it and my arm is already moving.
I drive my fist into his cheek with a satisfying crack that shudders through my split knuckles.
Pain tears through my side, but I don’t care. My eyes stay on him, the rest of the room dropping away.
He laughs, and my knife clears its sheath before the sound dies. I drag the edge across his chest, drawing a thin line of blood.
“—Ivy!” Luce, I think, but I’m too locked in to care.
Asher’s mouth curves, smug. “Go on. Do it.” Silence. I wish I fucking could. I wish I could just be done with everything.
Sensing my hesitation, his lip twitches. “Camille!”
What the fuck!
My knife swings toward her, and he fills the space where her throat had been, blade tip pressed to his chest again.
My head jerks back. Of all his bullshit, this is what I’m most pissed about?
Who cares… I just am.
“You fucking protect her?” My voice lifts on the end.
“Oh shit…” Leon mumbles. “Someone should stop her.”
“Fuck no! Leave her.” That’s Khloe.
I shove him hard, he stumbles, and we both land on the floor. His laughter turns maniacal.
“You fucking done yet?” He spits blood on the floor, giving me a crimson smirk.
Shoving off him, I press my own fingers to my side, blood pulsing through the gaps.
I stagger upright and head straight for the couch where my other blade dropped.
Blood seeps through my shirt. Each step pulls, but adrenaline keeps me moving. I will not show weakness.
Asher props himself up on one elbow.
His grin spreads, then vanishes the second his eyes hit my side.
“Tell me that’s my blood and not yours?” he sneers. The crazy version of him gone, buried beneath the possessive asshole I know.
The blade flips in my palm like a trick, but Asher moves faster.
One hand catches my wrist and twists it inward. His other locks over the steel, gripping until skin splits. Blood wells between his fingers where the edge bites into his palm.
He wrenches the knife loose and it clatters across the concrete.
I’m about to swing a right hook when his full weight drives me to the ground, knocking all the air out of my lungs.
With one knee jammed into my hip and his bleeding hand pinning my wrist to the floor above my head, he holds me there like he’s afraid I’m going to bolt.
“Since I’m gonna go ahead and say your fucking stitches have torn,” Asher grinds out through his teeth, “and to limit the risk of you actually fucking bleeding out and killing yourself, I’m gonna spill some fucking facts.”
The floor drops out from under me.
His breath catches, but he keeps me still.
“I’m fucking sorry.” Asher shakes his head. “That I lied, that I hid shit from you, and that I’m a fucking disappointment, but mostly? Because he is your father.”
The words spread through my veins like poison.
“You can fucking kill me after for all I care.” His forehead skims mine. “But this time? Do a better fucking job because I can’t live with the fact that you hate me, Venom.”
Before I can punch him again, his fingers close around my wrist, deadlocking me mid-swing.
Asher…
“Let me go.” It hurts. Everything fucking hurts. “Let me the fuck go—” A hiccup cuts in. “I hate you. I fucking hate you—”