9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Dacre
“I heard you were having a good time at Luxxia House last night.” Luther nudges me, taking a sirloin and placing it on the countertop.
It’s only noon, and it’s already been a long day.
Luther’s specialty is butchering and meat prep, so he always has animal blood on his coat and in his hair. Right now, it’s bringing bile to my throat.
“All in good fun.”
“You don’t have fun, but I think it’s a great idea for you to take the load off.”
Oh, he’d love that.
You can’t trust anyone at Doxlothia and especially not the people I’m forced to hang around. But Luther being the vice president of the culinary club has to be some cosmic torment. What did I do in a past life to deserve to have to fight the urge to stab this fucker in the arm every day?
The worst is that he has real talent, and I have to actually keep up with him. He’s almost beaten me a few times in cook-offs. He’s got the passion and drive that’s slowly leaking out of me every day I’m forced to be here.
“I don’t need days off,” I grumble.
“You’re just pissed because your executioner is coming today.”
I need to check the whole culinary club kitchen to make sure it’s spotless. He’s always fucking early.
Emma’s presence stops the insult on my tongue.
The only thing that can make this day worse is her blinding scent in my nose as she comes from the lounge and into the kitchen.
That smile could convince any man to hang the moon, and it falls as soon as she spots me.
Verity is giving her a tour. Emma takes it all in with her lips firmly pressed together and her eyes filled with energy.
They walk past the stainless steel stations where Luther has already got everyone working on something for today.
Despite her obvious excitement, she can’t stop herself from continually giving me pointed glares from across the room.
How am I supposed to focus with Emma walking around, touching everything?
I pretend to do my kitchen inspection as far away from her as possible.
It’s hard to mind my own business because everything about Emma is loud.
The way she dresses, the way she talks, her fucking scent.
I take a rag and some bleach and start wiping the counters.
You’d think the smell of food would drown it out, but no.
Focus, for fuck’s sake. I can’t have her presence throw me off every time we’re in the same room. If my grandfather finds even a speck of dirt in this place, I’m going to get it.
“Dacre. You’ve met Emma Osborne.” Verity sends a shit-eating grin my way. She’s a viper of a woman who feeds on the suffering of anyone she considers beneath her. Nice for her. Annoying for me.
Verity’s gaze shoots to my cleaning rag, and her brow lifts.
“The cleaning not to your liking?”
“No. It’s not. It’s shit.” I wipe my hands and stand straight, doing my best attempt to be civil. “Good afternoon, Emma.”
Emma’s jaw flexes. “Yes, afternoon. Thank you again for graciously backing my nomination. I came over as soon as everything was finalized for my tour.”
Of course, she did. She couldn’t stay away for even one day.
Verity raises an eyebrow curiously, then sighs.
“Dacre, I really need to start working on my lesson plans. Will you make sure she gets a good look at the ingredient cabinet and anything else you want her to see?”
Verity is technically my subordinate, but she never does any of the shit I tell her to do.
I’m about to say, “fuck no,” when I remember the last time I tried to fight her on something and how it ruined my entire day because she wouldn’t stop arguing.
She can talk her way out of anything, and this back-and-forth is only going to make this longer than it needs to.
“I think I can manage.”
Emma crosses her arms as Verity disappears to her station. “Well, I guess it was nice while it lasted.”
“My only request is that you keep your hands to yourself. I don’t need my stuff going missing.”
She scoffs. “It was one time! Why won’t you let it go?”
“Why won’t you just own up to it and stop making excuses?”
Is her stealing a notebook from the culinary lounge a deplorable offense? No. But it gets under her skin. So I push.
“I’m not.”
“Yeah? Keep telling yourself that, thief.”
“Fine. I did it on a dare. Yes, I stole it, and no, I don’t regret it.”
I lean against the countertop so I can stare directly into her eyes. “See, now we’re finally getting somewhere. Doesn’t it feel good to be honest instead of pretending? You were invited to the lounge as a gift, a favor from a friend, and then spat in the face of that generosity.”
Her mouth falls open. “I already apologized to Zant for that.”
It’s working. Her pulse is rising.
“Tell me, what will you do when the culinary club is nothing like what you imagined? Will you cry like you do at the breakfast rush?”
“How do you know about that?” Her shoulders drop, and she blinks, her voice hitting an octave higher.
As if I don’t know everywhere she goes, the people she talks to. She has no idea how entangled I am.
It’s not all softness in her voice, though. Her eyes squint as if she’s still assessing the danger of my proximity, physically, mentally, and emotionally.
It takes a full ten seconds before I’m able to take my hand off the edge of the counter to stop myself from getting closer to her. Only then do the edges of my lips tug into a smirk.
“Mr. Everhart. Your grandfather is here. He’d like to speak with you.” The voice of my grandfather’s assistant accompanies the sound of the door.
I smile. “Rain check, thief?”
“Fine. Stalker.”
There’s a strange exhilaration as I part from her. I have to dampen my smile before entering my grandfather’s office.
I’ve spent hours here, but I’ve never gotten used to the smell of the leather polish.
My grandfather loves gold, and it’s apparent in every detail on the cabinet under his desk and the accents lining his table.
It’s not even the family color, which is present in the ruby-colored pocket square in his jacket.
“Rough night?” He smiles as I sit across from him.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
There’s a long pause. My grandfather only pauses when he’s got something important to say, as if he needs to chew on the words for a few minutes.
There’s a statue of a dog behind his chair. I stare into its ruby eyes while I wait. As a child, I used to think it was scary.
“Do you remember when I said there would come a day when I would need you to do something for the good of the family?”
How could I forget? That memory has been seared into my brain since I was ten. It was the first time I’d seen my grandfather turn from the sweet man whose lap I used to sit on while we cooked to the stern businessman I know today.
He was always that man. I just never saw it.
“Yes, sir.”
He nods, still studying me. I swallow as the unease melts into my limbs, and I adjust in the leather chair. The squeak lingers in the silence like broken glass falling at a funeral.
“Then why is it that I’m told you did not invite Emma Osborne to the culinary club as quickly as we had discussed?”
I’ve been waiting for him to ask, and that’s why I already have my answer planned.
“I extended an invitation, but our wires got crossed. But no need to worry. She’s here right now, taking a tour.”
Easy to understand. Nothing to look into.
He nods. “Good. Her father’s time with the board of directors was . . . eventful, and now that he’s back, he’s been increasingly vocal about his disdain for the Donor Program. It’s an issue.”
My grandfather is the chairman, one of the highest-ranking seats in the entire Donor Program, which he received shortly after securing an arranged marriage to my grandmother.
There’s nothing he takes more seriously, and it has nothing to do with “uniting worlds” like the Doxlothia plaque above the gated drive states.
He used to share the same passion I did for cooking, but I think somewhere in his mad dash to prove himself in our family tree, he lost that love entirely.
All he talks about anymore is the Donor Program.
“I haven’t heard much talk of it on the council,” I say.
“I’ve done my best to squash it, but I’m afraid he knows a little about my past dealings.”
“What does this have to do with the girl?”
“I’ve heard his daughter has a special interest in the culinary club. So much, in fact, that all my administrators seem to remember her name coming up in emails and conversations.”
The room goes silent as he stares at me.
I swallow. Waiting.
“Emma Osborne provides an interesting opportunity for us. Imagine, for a minute, if she were to endorse the Donor Program. She’s the perfect prospect for the gala coming on the autumn solstice.”
My back hits my chair. I can’t form words. Fuck. Fuck.
You have to be kidding me. Of all the people he could choose, why her?
I should have seen this coming. Of course he would want to use her at the Donor Program Gala. She’s the perfect candidate. Every autumn, the program holds its biggest gala of the year. They auction off items and blood for charity. It’s all arranged via contract marriage.
Gala donors will pay just about anything for good blood for their family lines, especially when it makes them look good by “donating to charity.”
He continues. “I’ve been looking for a suitable prospect for some time. The Osborne name has achieved fame that even money can’t buy, so I found myself looking at all the sisters recently. Emma is undoubtedly the best candidate to provide the leverage I need to win over her father.”
“She . . .” I run my hands over my face. “They won’t agree to an arranged marriage. That, I’m sure of. They aren’t that type of family.” Like mine. The fucked-up shove-your-children-off-against-their-will-to-make-business-deals type.
“Make her feel at home in the culinary club. Butter her up. Do anything and everything to gain her trust, and I’ll do the rest. Then, when the time comes, she can be used as the face of human and vampire cooperation at the gala.”
Use her. My fingernails indent the wood of the chair.
“Dacre, you’ve done so well, even as you matured in the last few years and lost some discipline. Your talent has made me very proud. You’ve always been a worthy heir.”
That’s the only reason I’ve held on this long, knowing there is a light at the end of this tunnel.
My grandfather won’t live forever, and then at least I’ll have something to show for all this shit.
That’s been the plan as long as I could understand.
No one else in the family has lived up to his high standards.
Not even my father, who dedicated his whole life to the business side of our family.
“Although the business with your sister has caused me to doubt you at times.”
“Doubt?” I bite back the venom.
As if I haven’t been tested enough? Prodded. Pruned. “I won’t apologize for taking care of my little sister.”
He nods, and the edges of his lips curl into an unexpected smile. “Do you know why I picked you as the heir?”
Oh, I’ve wondered. My brothers, though not skilled in the culinary world, are equally capable and perhaps buckets more loyal.
“You’re levelheaded enough to know when to lean into your instincts and when to let logic take the lead.
That’s something your brothers never had.
I can respect you wanting to protect Florence.
That’s why I thought asking this of you would be .
. . reasonable. Unless there is a reason you’d like to object? This is your one chance to tell me.”
There was never another option once the words passed his lips. I should be worrying about my own tragedy, but for some reason, I’m thinking of Emma.
She should never have come to Doxlothia. This place isn’t for people like her and her family. Why do I care? Shouldn’t this be an easy request?
It’s the perfect time to come clean about Emma and me being scent-matches and eliminate any remaining secrets between us. I imagine the smile stretching across my grandfather’s face as I give him yet another thing to twist and manipulate in his grand scheme. But I can’t get myself to say it.
I’m going to accept.
Because I always accept.
Because there is no other choice. My grandfather’s will is law.
And when I accept, there is no going back because I will make it happen. This is what I’m good at. Skill has nothing to do with it. It’s a force of will to stay on my grandfather’s good side through every test, and I’ve never said no. I have people I need to protect.
“No objections.”