20. Harper
TWENTY
HARPER
I could hear my own heart beating in my chest. A loud, steady thump that pulsated against the silence of the room. Had I crossed the line in asking Wyatt about being physical with… her ?
It was difficult to think her name, much less say it out loud. How the hell was I going to handle living under the same roof as Valentina?
He shook his head. “It isn’t like that between Valentina and me,” he said after what felt like an eternity. “We have a…” He looked up at the ceiling and sighed, “complicated relationship, but it’s strictly business. As difficult as Valentina may be, she’s a brilliant VP and an important ally.”
It was hard to hear Wyatt call the woman who had poisoned me brilliant, and my cringe didn’t go unnoticed. He ran his fingers through my hair, twirling the ends. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“So that’s a no?”
“I promise you, I’ve never made love to that woman.”
I searched his eyes for any hint of a lie, but his gaze remained locked on mine and I exhaled in relief. It was bad enough that Valentina and the South Americans were going to be staying here. I wasn’t sure I could also handle being around someone Wyatt had been intimate with, especially when that someone looked like an exotic supermodel.
Wyatt pulled me tighter against his chest, but continued stroking my hair. “Can we please let this go?” he murmured, his eyes giving into sleep.
“Mm-hmm,” I whispered, closing my eyes to match his. I tried to focus on my breath, but inside, my stomach was churning, and my mind going a million miles a minute as I worried about all the things that could go wrong in coming days.
“Pass the potatoes,” Tank grunted.
It was our first family dinner in the mansion. It felt weird to be sitting at the long dining table, the only human, other than Gloria flitting in and out of the kitchen.
To an outsider, it looked like a fancy dinner party with the who’s who of Seattle feasting on a five-course meal, drinking bottles of Sassicaia. I couldn’t believe I was drinking a two hundred and fifty dollar bottle of red wine on a Thursday night. Then again, not much surprised me anymore.
I shoved the potato casserole across the table toward Tank, who I’d purposely chosen to sit as far away from as possible, sitting next to Fiona. Wyatt sat on my other side, at the head of the table. He seemed quieter than usual, a sullen expression on his face as he twirled the stem of his wine glass. He gazed into the deep burgundy liquid as if it held all the answers.
Across from me, Atticus was sitting beside a tall blond woman I’d never seen before. They nuzzled together, whispering conspiratorially, as if they were the only two in the room. At the other end of the table, Tank and the security guards, plus a few men I’d never seen before, hunkered over their plates with their elbows on the table. They chomped loudly on giant legs of meat, and shoved forkfuls of lasagna into their mouths. It was a boisterous, rowdy energy in comparison to our subdued end of the table. It felt like lines were already being drawn, in advance of the South American arrivals.
I missed the intimacy of my old apartment, and laughed at the thought of this many people gathered in our small kitchen, where we would be squished together like sardines. Picturing Wyatt’s crew crammed into our tiny wooden chairs made me grin.
“There’s a smile,” Fiona whispered, nudging me with her elbow.
“Sorry. I’m a little lost in thought tonight.”
“I don’t blame you. This isn’t my idea of fun either,” she sighed.
Her honesty surprised me. “Where would you be right now if you could choose?”
She grinned, the smile stretching ear to ear. “Probably in my garden, picking some fresh vegetables for dinner.”
My brow raised. “Vegetables?”
She laughed. “We’re not all the same, you know.” She gestured to her plate, which I noticed contained a mishmash of broccoli and potatoes. “I’m vegetarian,” she whispered. “And they can’t stand it.” Her eyes shot across the table to Atticus and the blond woman. “That’s Phoebe, Atticus’s partner. We were born a few months apart, but we couldn’t be more different. She’s tried so many times to get me to eat meat. They all have, but it’s just not for me,” she sighed. “I guess what I’m saying is, I understand what it’s like to feel different.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
She nodded and turned back to her plate, shoving a forkful of broccoli into her mouth.
“What’s up with Wyatt tonight?” I asked hesitantly, unsure if I was crossing boundaries.
Fiona continued chewing, and let out a little burp. “Whoops, sorry.” She glanced to Wyatt, who looked morose sitting alone at the head of the table. “I think he misses Jax. We all do. These dinners aren’t the same without him. He always knew how to keep the mood light, and the energy high.”
I smiled. “I didn’t get the chance to know him very well, but he seemed like a good, uh…” I paused, unsure how to refer to their kind.
Fiona grunted. At least, I thought it was a grunt. My brow creased as she repeated the same grunt. Only that time, I could swear I heard different tones and octaves mixed into it, almost like a song. “A melody,” I whispered under my breath in awe.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Humans don’t normally pick up on the musicality of our language. You have a good ear.”
I reddened at the compliment. “Was that…”
“It’s what we call ourselves. Much better than Bigfoot or sasquatch, don’t you think?” She winked. “At least we have it better than the damn Yeti. I’d rather be thought of as a gross, hairy ape, than an abominable snowman. I hate the cold.” Her laugh came out as more of a roar, and a few pairs of eyes darted in our direction, before returning to their conversations.
Wyatt cleared his throat, a low, growly sound, and all chatter suddenly seized. The room was bathed in silence as he rose from his seat, clanking his knife against his wine glass. “A toast. While we’re all together, before our…” his eyes shot to mine, as if in apology, “South American friends join us in the morning.”
Cheers and hollers rose from the far end of the table. Tank held his glass up high, growling, “Here, here.”
Not wanting to be left out, I raised my glass and clinked with the others, not making eye contact.
Wyatt took a sip of wine before setting his glass down in front of him. He continued to stand, his shadow darkening the table under the warm glow of the chandelier. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it,” he said. “We have a big fight ahead of us.”
A low murmuring rose around the table. The air felt palpable with tension, and I caught a few scowls directed my way.
“And we’ll need all the help we can get,” he continued. “Our South American friends will be an advantage, but until we know what we’re up against…” He paused, and I realized I was holding my breath. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m asking the Dakota wolves to be on standby, in case we need them to join our fight.”
A wave of gasps echoed through the room. One of the men pounded his fist on the mahogany table, causing it to shake. Across from me, Phoebe’s glass slipped from her hand. Hundreds of glass fragments scattered across the floor.
“Chill, Phoebs,” Atticus hissed.
Her lower lip trembled. “S-sorry.”
One of the security guards rose and shoved his napkin forcefully onto the table. “What the fuck,” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “This is bullshit. I’m not sitting through another second of this.”
“ENOUGH.” Wyatt’s voice thundered through the mansion. The crystal chandelier swung back and forth as all eyes turned to Wyatt, the room coming to a standstill, other than the swinging light fixture.
Wyatt and the security guard continue to glare at each other, as if in a standoff, neither side wanting to make the first move.
“SIT. THE. FUCK. DOWN,” Wyatt commanded.
The man bowed his head. “Sorry, Boss,” he grumbled as he returned to his seat, staring down at his plate of half-eaten food.
“If anyone has a problem with my leadership, you can take it up with me after we figure out whatever the fuck is going on in Stirling County. Until then, you do as I say. No questions, no grumbling.”
A chorus of “Yes, Sirs” boomed back.
“Now,” he growled. “Enough business talk at the dinner table. We’ll continue this conversation in the parlor after we eat.”
The sound of plates and cutlery began tinkering, the conversations slowly building back up, but an air of tension had permanently settled around us. I sunk lower into my seat, feeling more and more like I didn’t belong.
A hand squeezed my knee. “Eat,” Fiona mouthed.
I nodded and shoved a forkful of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’d lost my appetite with Wyatt’s outburst.
He was in a bad enough mood already. What would happen if he found out I was hiding a secret message from my dad upstairs?