7. Remy
“Wes?” Rhea’s confusion clouds the chapel the minute she walks in and looks up to see our guest sandwiched on a hard wooden bench between Dimitri and Michael. The bruise under his eye is already yellowing and the fucker’s wearing one of my suits. I’d have had him come in the blood-stained clothes he was wearing when I took him hostage, if only to prove a point, but I can’t have Rhea asking questions any more than she already will. There’s no sense in stoking a fire that’s dangerously close to burning out of control.
“You’ll have to tell her eventually.” Wes had teased me, delighting in the fact that he could spill the whole unfortunate truth to Rhea with just a few words. Of course, I’d warned him that was ill-advised, but there’s no telling what he will say or do. That’s why Dimitri and Michael aren’t going to let him out of arm’s reach.
Wes turns, his eyes brightening as they lock on my sister. He rises to greet her, and Michael stands with him, slipping a hand in his jacket pocket where it surely wraps over the gun there. Michael has no intention of shooting him in a church full of our distant family, friends, and business partners, but he is good at his job. I have no doubt that if Wes puts so much as a toe out of line, he’ll be dealt with discreetly and efficiently.
“Rhea!” He braces his hands on her shoulders and fixes her with a quick once-over that’s a bit too appreciative given that we all share a mother. “You look incredible.”
Despite her confusion, Rhea’s light is rarely dampened. She smiles brightly and sweeps him into a hug, as if they’re old friends. Over her shoulder, Wes’ gaze catches mine, his eyes glittering at his own private joke—our little secret. “Where’s Claire?” His smirk deepens, stretching his cut lip so that a trickle of blood shows as he says her name, anticipating a response from me.
I give him nothing, so he pulls away to look at Rhea again. “Claire isn’t feeling well.” She explains, shaking her head. “How… why are you here?”
“Me?” Wes laughs. “Oh, I was sent on behalf of my father. They’re business partners. Old friends, really.”
“Oh.” That surprises her. “Who’s your father?”
Michael shifts, a gentle reminder to Wes that we are still in control. “Alexandre Davos.”
Realization dawns on Rhea’s face, her lips forming into an ‘O’. “You’re Ryan’s cousin?”
“Didn’t he mention it?” Wes grins, his hands wrapping around her forearms so that he can command her attention. “Tristan wasn’t able to make it on such short notice, but he sends his regards, of course.”
Rhea nods, suddenly seeming to remember where we are. She looks up at the altar with a sigh, her eyes lingering on the shiny coffin. “You don’t have to go up there.” I tell her, just in case she’s thinking of sitting down instead of climbing the three stairs in her heels.
“Of course, I’m going up there.” She chides. And then she sighs, her eyes turning on me. “Will you come with me, Rem?”
No part of me has any desire to see that man’s face ever again, but I can’t just abandon my sister to face her grief alone. I nod and she nods back like she’s trying to prepare herself.
Wes is the least of my problems as I follow Rhea up the steps, fighting the urge to turn back.
It’s part of the ruse, I tell myself. This is a business move.
A small gasp escapes her as Rhea draws up to the side of the coffin, placing a hand on the polished walnut. She looks like she’s about to faint, her face pale and her eyes distant. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze, steadying her, calming her, maybe. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, just what I’m not supposed to do.
We hadn’t been allowed this process with our mother when she passed. “Her wishes were clear,” My father had said. “She wanted to be cremated.”
Whether or not that was true, I’m still not sure. But I am sure that we’d been told she was gone just moments before men showed up at the door and whisked her away beneath a white sheet. We didn’t see her body, we didn’t get her ashes, and there was no funeral. If I had my way, my father wouldn’t have one either, but I can’t deny that right to my sister.
When I gather the courage to look down at his cold face, it feels like someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Jonathan Boudreaux is, in death, nowhere near as fearsome as I’d found him to be my whole life.
He is, however, still cold, empty, and soulless.