Chapter 6 Sutton #2
“We have a record-high number of nonresidents of Fury Hill attending this year,” he tells her. “I think it’s a possibility. Or perhaps it would be more beneficial if we had Beckett reside in Sutton’s faculty quarters instead? Lowers the risk of him running into people who know his last name.”
“It would also be much easier to keep tabs on him,” Mother says.
“Fine,” I reply. “Otherwise, our interactions will remain at a minimum outside the apartment.”
Beckett grits his teeth. “Sounds like another way for Mr. Goody Two-Shoes to exert his authority on campus by pretending I’m some troublemaker.”
I level him with a look. “Need I remind you of the reason we’re here at all and why you need looking after?”
“We’re going to ignore the fact that I was attacked by another student?” he retorts. “Who, by the way, I notice is absent. What’re the chances he’s also being treated like a ticking time bomb?”
“Beckett, darling, you kidnapped a student.” Mother pinches the bridge of her nose, turning her angular face away. “I’m not sure you have the grounds to be offended here.”
“Officially, though, the school says nothing even happened. They’ve covered everything up, so why are we still acting like I’m a convicted criminal when the crime, on paper, doesn’t exist?”
A fair question. His antics ended with kidnapping, breaking and entering, and the deaths of three other students.
But since the Curators have the dean’s personal approval and are so intricately woven into the fabric of the university, everything was covered up, and Beckett was merely deemed too unstable for leadership.
They stripped his title while he bled outside the caves, having been beaten badly by one of the students who came to the kidnappee’s rescue.
I’m still not entirely sure why he did it. The curse, some amorphous ramblings about how one founder’s misdeeds will apparently bring destruction in the form of his descendants, needed three Andersons on campus at once to even be valid. Last semester, there were only two.
Though I suppose when you crave your father’s approval the way he always has, you might do whatever you can to get it. Even if it means following ridiculous orders.
Jean-Louis’s absence doesn’t exactly bode well on that front.
Dean Bauer’s face pales, and more sweat seems to accumulate on his forehead and beneath his beady eyes. “Despite the efforts Avernia College goes to in ensuring the safety of its students—”
Beckett snorts.
“—there are still examples to be had. There were too many whispers, especially on that damn school forum, about what happened for us to let you go unpunished. Frankly, Mr. Dupont, I think you’re getting off easy.”
“You’re only letting me attend under the condition that my brother be my babysitter,” he replies. “I can’t go to official Curator functions because I was kicked out, everyone will probably steer clear of me, and I have to report to Sutton. How is that easy?”
“Well, the alternative was that you didn’t return, period. You should be grateful to be coming back at all. What would your ancestors, the co-founders of this great town, think of your actions?”
If they believed the curse, I imagine they’d be fine with them. All except one, at least.
“Dean Bauer,” Mother interjects, sloshing her drink around. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to intimidate my sons. Lest I remind you of the other child I left in your care who did not return to me.”
Her remark is the end of the discussion; a few moments later, the dean excuses himself.
Mother walks him to the manor’s foyer, silently bidding him adieu, and when she reenters the room, she reaches for Beckett’s face, giving him two kisses on each cheek.
She repeats the gesture with me, pinching my skin as she half drags me off the couch.
If she notices the way I flinch at her touch, she doesn’t let on.
She never has.
“I expect to hear nothing but good anecdotes about your semester,” Mother says, eyeing both of us. “Beckett, darling, please understand the gift you’ve been given here. This kind of proximity to a prodigy like your brother is an opportunity some would kill for.”
That makes my face screw up. It isn’t true—I’m no prodigy.
My love for the theater was just one of the few things my parents accepted growing up, so I poured all my time and energy into studying it.
The only reason I’m teaching now is because Avernia offered a dual degree program in which a bachelor’s and master’s could be earned simultaneously, giving me the option to graduate with both in less time than my peers.
After that, I spent some time in London and LA working for different theater companies and studying, before a position opened up here. Since Jean-Louis is on the board of trustees, they hired me without an interview, and I’ve been killing myself to be good ever since.
Which translates into tough courses, harsh grading scales, and constant work. I want my students to understand the texts they’re acting out. To know why they’re important so they can bring that to the stage.
Anything less is irrelevant. Not enough.
Mother, of course, believes the rigidity of my teaching style means I’m especially talented. Or maybe she just wants to believe one of her kids is destined for greatness rather than the suffering everyone in Fury Hill seems to eventually succumb to.
“Gift.” Beckett scoffs. “He teaches acting classes, Mother. A monkey could likely do it just as well as Sutton.”
“Shall I put you in charge on the first day then?” I ask.
He makes a sound with his teeth, then scrambles up from the sofa, heading for the arched doorway that leads to the foyer and main staircase. “Whatever. I have shit to do.”
“Beckett,” Mother whispers fiercely as he stalks away.
The embroidered poppy and theta design on his blazer—the Curators’ emblem—is the last thing I see before he disappears around the corner.
His footsteps echo through the house as he shuffles down the upstairs hall, and then a door slams shut, and silence befalls us once more.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. A decade ago, laughter and music disturbed the gold-framed art and photographs decorating the walls. Now, only the dust of sound remains.
“I’m concerned about him,” Mother says. “I don’t think Beckett’s been right since the night in those caves.”
“He took quite the beating, Mother. We should probably just be glad he’s able to speak or see at all.”
We should be grateful he’s alive.
“Still.” She casts a nervous glance past me, biting the inside of her cheek. “The reason I paid Dean Bauer to have him reenrolled was to get him out of this house. I don’t think he should be around Jean-Louis.”
“You bribed the dean?”
She scoffs. “Well, I’m hardly the first Dupont to do so, but that isn’t the point.
” Something flickers in her gaze as she settles back on the sofa beside me.
“Jean-Louis’s mind isn’t what it used to be.
He’s…very angry and confused these days.
His illness is only exacerbating those qualities, I’m afraid. ”
Not that he was ever a pleasant man to begin with.
“He suffers these delusions of power imbalances and losing control over the city. Considering what that led to a few weeks ago, I just don’t think it’s wise to allow Beckett to live in such close quarters. Your brother is very impressionable, and while I’ve always admired that…”
“It also gets him into trouble,” I finish, nodding. “I know.”
“I swear, he reminds me so much of Bellamy. They both took Jean-Louis’s word as gospel, even if she was a tad more rebellious in nature than Beckett is.
Maybe I should’ve encouraged them to interact more—perhaps she could’ve rubbed off on him.
” She casts me a sideways look. “Though that didn’t happen with you, and the two of you were practically joined at the hip. ”
“We were twins,” I reply, voice tight. “It was only natural we be close.”
She slides one hand over mine, hers warm against my chilled fingers. “Your sister would be so proud of you, Sutton.”
“Can we not do this?” My heart twists, and I pull my hand away. Talking about Bellamy here feels wrong. Too soon somehow. “Staff apartments are cramped, you know. Beckett takes up a lot of room.”
“These are extenuating circumstances,” she says. “I’m sure you can make it work.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
She narrows her eyes.
Clenching my jaw, I exhale with a shake of my head. “I’ll figure it out.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I nod, because of course I do. Of course I’ll take the responsibility of another’s safety and well-being, even though I’m not actually good at it.
But this is my lot in life.
Caring even when I desperately wish to stop.
A pair of hazel eyes flash in my mind, temporarily pulling me from the moment. Like some parasite that infected me without my knowing.
Given that it’s been years since anyone interested me at all, I’m beginning to think the woman really was some sort of viper sent to tempt and torture. Who knows what would have happened if I’d let her fuck me the way she was silently begging to?
But just because I didn’t allow things to go further doesn’t mean I didn’t ache for it. That now, an hour or so later, I’m not still replaying the divine sensation of her cunt wrapped snug around my dick or the little noises she uttered when I was making her come.
Putting an end to things was the correct decision. I’m not used to desire. Normally, I don’t want to be touched at all.
But stopping doesn’t keep the soul from yearning. Not when someone leaves their fingerprints all over it.
I walk to the foyer, shrugging into my coat. Mother trails behind, babbling on about council meetings and concerns among the other founding matriarchs that I’m not attending enough in Jean-Louis’s stead.
Pressure explodes in my temple, the feeling of being watched causing pain to ricochet up the side of my skull.
When I glance backward, I spot Jean-Louis leaning against the upstairs balcony that splits the level into several wings. The lit end of a cigar hanging from his mouth burns bright orange among the shadows.
Of course he’s watching. I wonder if he was actually too sick to come down.
It’s likely he orchestrated the entire thing to get Beckett back on campus, where he thinks he’ll be able to play puppeteer once more. All my life, he’s been the manipulator behind the family, pulling strings by planting ideas in our minds and letting us think we were the masters of our own fates.
But the truth is we’re as bound to that damn Fury Hill curse as its supposed subjects. As linked to destruction as Cronus Anderson’s descendants.
Just a different kind. One that destroys from within.
“Sutton?” Mother reaches up, pressing a palm to my face. “Are you all right? You’re suddenly flushed and very warm. Should I call for a nurse?”
Tearing my gaze away from his, I give her a small smile and swat at her hands, needing the space. “I’m fine, Mother. You don’t need to worry about me.”