Chapter 27 Mara
TWENTY-SEVEN
MARA
Ipush roasted Brussels sprouts around my plate, watching the golden-brown glaze smear across the fine china.
Dad is talking again about the upcoming campaign events, his voice a low drone that blends with the clink of silverware.
Three weeks from the election and every dinner has turned into a strategy session.
Across from me, Mom nods along politely as he lists off fundraisers and town halls. Milo sits to my right, scrolling on his phone under the table until Dad clears his throat pointedly. My brother rolls his eyes and puts the phone away.
“… and the meet and greet is at the governor’s mansion on Tuesday,” Dad says. He’s barely touched his steak. The campaign diet must be getting to him—he’s slimmer than he was a month ago, the lines around his eyes deeper. “We’ll need the whole family there for a united front.”
United front. I stab the sprout with my fork. He means smiling. Smiling and standing perfectly still behind him like props while flashbulbs go off in our faces. It’s what we always do—who we always are.
Mara, the dutiful daughter.
I used to take pride in that role, but right now I can’t muster any enthusiasm. Not with everything else swirling in my mind.
Mom turns to me with a gentle smile. “Your father’s right. The public loves seeing the family together. Mara, I was thinking you could wear that champagne-colored dress for the debate night. It brings out your eyes.”
I force a thin smile. “Sure, Mom.” Another event, another dress, another night playing perfect.
Normally, I’d nod and go along, but a spark of frustration flares in me.
They’re acting like everything is normal, like my life hasn’t been completely derailed.
Like I’m not effectively grounded here, under guard.
Dad checks something on his tablet, then looks at me, brow creasing. “And, Mara, you’ll have to miss classes a bit longer. I know you’re eager to get back to AGU, but it’s just not safe yet.”
My chest tightens. Here we go again. “Dad,” I interject, my tone sharper than I intend. “I’ve already been home for a week. I’m behind on coursework and—”
He holds up a hand to stop me. “We can arrange tutors. Your safety is more important than a few lectures.”
Across the table, Milo shoots me a sidelong glance, silently warning me not to push. But I can’t let it drop this time. I set down my fork, appetite gone. “Is it really about my safety? Or about optics for the election?”
Dad’s eyes snap up. The room falls quiet except for the soft clink as Mom sets down her water glass. “Mara, you know why you’re home,” he says evenly. “After what happened to those students on campus—”
“Those students were murdered,” I cut in, lowering my voice but unable to hide the tremor. “People are saying the Syndicate was behind it,” I continue. “That the Syndicate is hunting people down and—”
Dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
“The Syndicate is not murdering anyone, Mara. That’s nonsense.
” He leans forward, voice softening in an attempt to placate me.
“I promise you, the Syndicate isn’t involved.
In fact, they’re helping to find whoever is responsible for those killings. We have some of the best people on it.”
Best people. If the Syndicate is so trustworthy, why do I feel a chill at the mention of them?
I swallow hard. “If that’s true, if the Syndicate’s helping… then it should be safe for me to go back, right? Let me return to AGU. I—I miss my friends. I don’t want to fall behind in classes, either.”
What I don’t say: I miss feeling like a normal college student and not a prisoner in this house. What I don’t say: I miss…
My thoughts falter, a familiar heat prickling through me as an image of Dredyn flashes in my mind. I shove it away quickly.
Dad’s face softens a fraction, but he shakes his head. “Not yet. Not until we know who’s behind those murders and they’re in custody. You’re a target, whether you want to admit it or not. As my daughter—especially if I win this election—”
“When you win,” Mom corrects gently, reaching over to squeeze his hand. She gives him an encouraging smile, then looks at me. “Sweetheart, just be patient a little longer, okay? Your father only wants you safe.”
Safe. Right. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting blood.
They have no idea how unsafe I feel, trapped here with my questions and fears.
How exposed I felt even before Dad dragged me home.
How the danger was right under our noses and none of them even realized.
I lower my eyes and nod tightly. Arguing more won’t help; Dad’s word is final. It always is.
Dad clears his throat, clearly eager to steer the dinner back to lighter topics. “We’ll revisit it soon. In the meantime, your mother’s right—just a bit longer, okay? Now, let’s finish up. Milo, weren’t you heading to the club tonight? Don’t let us old folks keep you.”
Milo perks up, clearly relieved at the possibility of escaping. “Yeah, meeting some friends.” He’s already folding his napkin. My brother stands and leans down to brush a kiss on Mom’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.”
Dad waves him off with a small smile. “Be back by midnight. And take Jason with you.” At that, I notice one of the ever-present security men hovering by the dining room doorway nod once. Milo sighs dramatically.
“Yes, Dad,” he drawls, shooting me a look of commiseration. Then he saunters out, twirling his keys around his finger.
I sit quietly through the last few minutes of dinner, barely hearing Mom and Dad’s continued chatter about poll numbers and speech drafts.
My mind is elsewhere, churning with frustration.
By the time Dad finally dabs his mouth with a monogrammed napkin and declares dinner’s over, I’m holding myself together by a thread.
“May I be excused?” I ask curtly, already halfway up from my chair.
Mom frowns slightly. “Don’t you want dessert, honey? Rosa made tiramisu…”
“I’m okay. Just tired,” I say. It’s not a lie; I’m exhausted, but not from anything physical. It’s the mental strain of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. “Good night.”
Without waiting for further protest, I slip away from the table. I hear Mom quietly say, “Let her go, dear,” as I stride out. My cheeks burn, partly from anger, partly from the prickle of guilt at my rudeness, but I need to be alone.
I climb the sweeping staircase to the second floor two steps at a time, heels clicking on polished marble. The moment I reach my bedroom, I shut the door firmly and flick the lock. Safe, in the only way I can be right now—away from prying eyes.
My room in my parents’ house is a picture of luxury: all creamy white furniture, silk drapes, and a crystal chandelier.
It’s beautiful and completely suffocating.
I toe off my heels and rip out the pins holding my hair in that prim twist Mom styled for dinner.
With a groan, I flop backward onto the king-sized canopy bed.
The ceiling above me is painted with little, gold constellations, leftover from when I was a starry-eyed kid obsessed with space. Now, I just feel small beneath them. I lie there in my stocking-covered feet and cocktail dress, trying to calm the storm of frustration in my chest.
Dad’s words keep echoing in my head. “You’re a target.
” I press my palms over my face. God, how did my life turn into this?
A few weeks ago, I was worrying about midterms and dorm gossip, not murderers and secret organizations.
Not being locked down, under guard, because someone out there might want to hurt me to get at my father.
I’m scared—more than I let on at dinner—but I’m also angry. Angry that Dad refuses to tell me more about what’s going on. Angry that I’m being kept in the dark “for my own good.” And angry… that beneath all that fear and anger, something else is simmering. Someone else.
Dredyn. The memory of his hands on me sends a hot shiver through my body that I have no right feeling. It’s like my traitorous brain has the scene on replay—the press of his body, the rough scrape of his fingers along my thigh, his breath hot at my ear as he growls things that make my knees weak.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as if I could block it out, but it’s no use. I can practically feel the ghost of his touch on my skin right now. My breathing hitches, heart thumping dully against my ribs.
Stop it. Don’t think about them. I roll onto my side, curling inward, trying to will away the heat pooling in my belly. I hate that I want more. Dredyn, Talon, Jasper . . . all of them. They crashed into my life at AGU like a thunderstorm, and I swore I wouldn’t get swept up.
Yet, here I am, the memory of their touches and taunts creeping into my most private thoughts, making my body respond in ways I wish it wouldn’t. A frustrated groan escapes my throat. I’m so damn weak.
I sit up abruptly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My pulse is skittering as if I’ve run miles, but I’m just lying here, drowning in longing.
My hand moves before my mind has fully caught up. I snatch my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up, illuminating my shaky fingers.
I bite my lip, hovering over Zane’s name. If I text him—if I do this—there’s no going back.
Me:
Tell Dredyn I’ll be there in 30 minutes.
I jump to my feet and hurry to my closet, stripping off the restrictive dinner dress. In its place, I yank on a pair of black jeans and a simple gray sweater, hands trembling with urgency. Sneakers instead of heels. If I’m sneaking out, I need to blend in with the night.
Sneaking out… A hysterical little laugh bubbles in my throat. The daughter of a would-be president, climbing out of her bedroom window like a rebellious teenager? Except, I’m not a kid. I’m a twenty-one-year-old woman and I refuse to be caged.