Chapter 2 #2
House Fiama is responsible for the safety and security of New Manhattan within our borders and manages the city’s internal police force, known simply as the Patrol.
My father believes that the greatest enemy to Society is “fear.” Fear of those who refuse to obey our laws, thinking only of themselves rather than the greater good.
Before my father took over as scion nine years ago, constant rioting and looting nearly turned the city into a boiling pot.
But he triumphed where his predecessor failed by implementing dozens of security measures, including strict curfews, increased foot patrols, and security cameras on every corner.
As my father continues reading the news, the groove between his brows deepens. He mutters something about Cameron Jenkins being on his ass while he aggressively sips his coffee.
“Are you all ready? Excited?” my mother, Sariah Graves, asks.
Her black hair is pulled into a high half-knot and adorned with a single thick band of indigo, with the rest falling in a tumble of curls.
Black kohl rings her eyes, burgundy blush warms her medium-brown skin, and the loose orange dress and gold sandals look effortless on her. As usual, she’s stunning.
“Sure,” I say as I sip my black coffee. I am excited. And nervous. And scared. Toss a dart at a list of emotions, and I’d probably be feeling anything it hits. I can’t wait for the parties and the friendships. The fun and even the hard work.
At that, my father looks up from his screen, and I resist the urge to flinch. Grady Graves is a formidable man, whose single look makes my insides turn liquid with apprehension.
“How about a little more enthusiasm?” he asks. His wavy black hair is slicked back from his pale, angular face, offering a clear view of his bright green eyes. He doesn’t go in for nonsense like hair trends. His words, not mine.
He wears a crisp white button-up and pressed gray slacks. His role as scion is an endless series of duties and tasks that keeps him busy and stressed at least ninety percent of the time.
Maybe if I were allowed to become a Storm Breaker . . .
I think it. I can’t bring myself to say it.
So, I flash a toothy smile that has his eyes narrowing.
He keeps his gaze pinned on me as he reaches for his fork and spears a piece of sausage off his plate.
“Poet,” he says, and I know that tone. The one where he’s about to tell me he’s disappointed in me. Or remind me what’s expected of me. As if I could ever forget.
He chews the meat, holding my gaze, while I wait until it’s my turn to speak.
“I graduated at the top of my class,” he eventually says, repeating this mantra for at least the thousandth time. “I was the student leader of House Fiama. They still keep my academic awards in the school’s front hall.”
I inhale a slow, fortifying breath.
“Yes,” I answer, though that’s not really an answer at all.
“I expect you to do the Graves name proud,” he continues. “You’ll only have three years. Three years, and then you’ll marry Knox and join the other Society wives. Without a son, it’ll be up to you to carry on our family lineage.”
My teeth grind as he stares at me. He had a son. Someone else to carry on the proud Graves line. My brother, Raine, was twenty-two when a roving band of Solitudes killed him three years ago while he was manning a Storm Tower.
Solitudes live in the uninhabitable wilderness and marshlands known as the Wastes.
They’re forbidden from entering the city, though they often attempt to breach our borders to steal supplies and sow disharmony.
Along with protecting us from Spark, Storm Breakers and the rest of the Storm Guard are also responsible for stopping Solitudes from entering New Manhattan.
My brother was a Breaker, though technically, Raine was my cousin. His mom was my dad’s sister, and she fell in love with a Solitude who then killed her, too, leaving my parents to raise her son. But he was my brother in every way that mattered.
I’d like to think my father’s reluctance to let me join the Storm Guard is because he’s worried I’ll meet the same fate as Raine. That might be partly the case, but I know it has far more to do with controlling me.
Raine’s departure left a gaping hole in our family that has never healed. I glance at my mother, whose expression remains neutral. Slowly, she turns to me, lays a gentle hand on my wrist, and squeezes.
“Your father only wants what’s best for you,” she says, and my heart crumples. I wasn’t expecting her to stand up for me, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less disappointing that she never does.
“Dad, if only I could—” I start, but he raises a hand for silence, already anticipating my question.
“Poet,” he says, a warning in his voice, causing me to go still. I set a piece of toast back on my plate and shove both hands under my thighs, trying to hide the way they shake. But he misses nothing, and his gaze narrows as a corner of his mouth tugs down in a sneer.
I take a deep breath, then force myself to eat again, trying to pretend that he doesn’t scare me. But each bite is like tasting wet cardboard. There’s nothing my father hates more than weakness, and I’m always weak around him.
Neither one of us speaks.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the room are my father’s fork scraping against his plate and my mother’s soft sips of coffee. I chew faster, reminding myself that maybe if I work my ass off and become a good House Fiama pledge, I might even prove to him that I’m meant for life as a Breaker.
Only Society members are eligible to join the Storm Guard, so technically, he can’t stop me from enrolling in cadet training. I’ll just have to find a way to keep it from him until it’s too late to do anything about it.
It’s not a great plan, but it’s all I have for now.
Satisfied, he gives me a nod and then swipes the screen on his tablet again.
I nibble at a piece of fruit as my gaze wanders out the window.
From this high up, I can see for miles. The waterways surrounding our island stretch over flat land, where a maze of boardwalks elevates hundreds of businesses and houses belonging to the city’s service workers, known as cogs, who run many of the city’s shops or perform jobs like mechanics, maids, cooks, and lower-ranking Patrol members.
I check my watch and excuse myself from the table.
“Trinity will be here to pick me up soon,” I announce. My mom looks at me, her big, dark eyes shining with the threat of tears. My parents claimed they were too busy to see me to the academy today, and I’m trying not to let that hurt.
“I’ll miss you so much,” she says, taking my hand. “Promise me you’ll call? And visit us sometimes?”
“Yeah, Mom, of course.” I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, catching her familiar scent of honey and mint.
I push my chair in and nod at my father.
“Sir,” I say as he offers me another once-over.
“Before you go, remember that I’m counting on you,” he says. “And I expect your reputation to remain intact before your wedding. I don’t want any rumors circulating about you.”
My brows furrow as I attempt to parse out his meaning.
“Poet,” my father says. “You will keep yourself for Knox.”
Keep myself? I almost choke on my tongue as his intentions become clear.
“Excuse me? He’s the one walking around fucking anything wi—”
A loud crash cuts through my words as my father slams his hand on the table so hard, the glasses rattle. I flinch, and my mother jumps as my heart pounds in my chest. A mug falls over and smashes on the tile with an explosion that echoes through the room like the threat it is.
I see those hands in my nightmares.
Hear the sound of his footsteps in the dark.
“Language,” my father bites out with such trembling fury that a lock of his dark hair falls over his eye.
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I slowly nod.
“Are we understood?” he asks.
No, we’re fucking not.
When I was younger, I idolized Knox. I thought he was beautiful and couldn’t believe how lucky I was. But as we grew up, he became arrogant and selfish, and he lost my respect. Maybe it happened when he discovered how much he loves his dick.
But I swallow my indignation and say, “Yes.”
My father’s eyes flash with satisfaction, and a non-zero part of me wants to walk over and punch him in the throat. I glance at my mother, who watches our exchange with wide-eyed worry. I blame her for this, too. If only she would stand up to him.
A knock sounds at the door, and I silently thank Trinity for her impeccable timing.
“Then have a good time,” my father says, sitting back and crossing an ankle over his knee. “But not too good.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer and walk away, reminding myself that soon I’ll enjoy some distance from his constant scrutiny.
Soon, I’ll be out of here.
Soon, I’ll be free of him.
Or so I hope.
Because something in my gut tells me that my father will always find a way to control me, no matter how far I run.