Chapter 11 Raoul #3
“I look forward to it.” Her nod is a dismissal—permission for me to leave her presence.
My face flames as I head inside and hurry to my suite. On the second floor of the house, I have a bedroom, a bathroom, and a giant walk-in closet all to myself. It’s a privilege and a prison.
I’m not living at home by choice. I was recalled after college because our father’s health was declining.
After his death, I stayed because Philippa claimed to need my support as she took on our father’s role and responsibilities.
After that, she kept inventing reasons for me to stay until at last, we came to the crux of the matter—she wants to control me.
I’m expected to be grateful for the freedom Philippa allows me, like the privilege of producing my musical at the New Orpheum Theater.
But I know she’s letting me have this just so she can hold something else of mine in the palm of her hand, ready to be crushed by her ruthless fingers if she decides I don’t deserve it.
I can’t disobey a direct verbal order from her when I’m in her presence, so I try to avoid being around her as much as possible.
Her commands hold sway over me as long as I’m on our family’s home property, so technically I should be able to do as I please once I leave the gates—but Philippa rules more than this family.
Her influence and her spies are everywhere, a sprawling net over this city.
And I’m linked to her by a deeper chain, too—one that’s fused with my bones and twisted around my veins.
A blood loyalty that was imprinted on me ruthlessly since before I could speak.
Defying her over a family meal is out of the question.
But I come to dinner wearing a blazer over a band T-shirt and black jeans as a slight form of rebellion.
Philippa doesn’t comment, partly because she’s immersed in low conversation with her fiancé, Conri.
Theirs is a match of bloodlines, not love.
Still, they seem happy enough when they’re discussing business ventures or the latest gossip from the families.
Sometimes, our evening meals involve a few dozen people.
Tonight, only a handful of guests are seated along the polished length of the dinner table—two second cousins, my long-dead mother’s younger sister, and a couple of other distant relatives by marriage.
There’s someone at the far end of the table whom I don’t recognize.
Philippa introduces him briefly as Lloyd-Henry Woodson, an out-of-town guest looking for sanctuary with the Collective.
I couldn’t care less who he is or why he’s here. I just want to get out of this house.
Our maid, Nadezhda, brings us the food in silence. When I pick up my fork, Philippa says sharply, “The prayer, Raoul.”
I let the fork clatter back onto the plate.
My sister’s eyes flare brighter for a moment. “Say it.”
A command. I struggle to resist, but it’s like an ant trying to hold a boot at bay to keep from being crushed. The words are already leaking from my mouth.
“To the ancestors, we give praise. To the gods, we give thanks. From the Morrigan, we ask a blessing, that the line of Gévaudan may thrive. To this end, we receive our sustenance.”
“So we do,” says Philippa, and the others echo the phrase.
The guests chatter among themselves while I’m unlucky enough to be sitting on Philippa’s left-hand side, too far away from the others to join their conversation. Not that I’m particularly interested, but it would be better than enduring her never-ending critiques.
As I begin to eat, I feel her watching me. Every bite of the steak falls into my stomach like a blob of hot lead until I’m sure I’m going to be sick.
The worst part of being around her is waiting for the commands, never knowing when she’ll decide to give one or what it will be. Whether it will destroy my life.
“You need a haircut, Raoul,” Philippa says, delicately spearing two green beans with her fork. “You’re beginning to look rather beastly.”
Conri snickers.
Philippa takes the bite, chews and swallows, then says, “Have you been practicing?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Don’t try to deceive me. You know I can tell.” She frowns, long fingernails tapping her water glass. “You’re supposing to be doing your exercises every day, like Papa taught you, or you won’t make any progress.”
“I know.”
“It’s for your own good. Papa was too easy on you, and I need to set you straight.”
I almost snort when she says Papa was easy on me.
He’d lock me out of the house all night in January, shut me into the little room under the stairs for several hours at a time, force me to eat my meat raw, and try all sorts of exposure therapies, most of which involved either physical pain or endless barrages of cruel words.
All for the purpose of making me into something I might never be.
Philippa sets down her glass hard and leans close to me, lowering her voice so our guests can’t hear.
“Do you know what the others are muttering behind your back, little brother? That you’re broken.
Faulty. A backward step in the evolution of our species.
Useless except as a stud, a sperm donor, and maybe not even then.
What if you pass this flaw of yours to your children? What then?”
I stare at my plate, lips pressed tight. I want to talk back to her, but I’ve learned that’s unwise when she’s in this mood.
“When they say these things, I defend you,” she continues. “I tell them you’ll get it eventually. That you’re still a worthwhile member of the Collective. But I can’t arrange a mate for you until you have some kind of breakthrough. Do I need to call Jean-Luc to do a session with you again?”
“No!” The word jerks out of me, torn by terror. My experience with Jean-Luc was the most traumatizing event of my life. Rather than fixing me, I think it broke something in my soul, created a wound I’ve barely managed to stitch shut with my music. I can’t go through that again, or I’ll go mad.
“Jean-Luc thinks you lack the correct stimulus,” Philippa says. “If he can find the right trigger—”
“No, Philippa…please.” My nails dig into my palms beneath the edge of the tablecloth. “I swear I’m working on it.”
“If this musical of yours is distracting you from what really matters—”
“It’s not. I promise.”
“I’ll give you two more months. If you still can’t show me results, I’m calling Jean-Luc again. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll need to take a serious look at your priorities and whether your musical obsessions may be blocking your true instincts.”
My mouth is so dry, I think I’ll choke if I try to take another bite. “May I go?”
She sighs as if I’m an exasperation, a burden, an endless weight on her mind. “Fine.”
I want to run out of the room, but if I’m too visibly eager to leave, she’ll call me back, so I rise deliberately, place my napkin on the table, and say a polite “good night” to the guests and Conri.
Bursting out of the beautiful house into the night air feels like an escape from hell. I run to my truck, leap in, and drive it through the open gate, windows down, sucking in lungfuls of the chilly autumn air.
Failure. Disappointment. Useless. Broken.
It’s only a matter of time before Philippa takes away everything that matters to me. And if she does—if I can’t break free from her—I may as well die.
I turn up the radio, letting the beat pummel my sister’s words to the back of my brain where they don’t hurt so much.
For tonight, I won’t think about my family, my sister, or the Collective. I’ll focus on Christine. I’ll soothe her anxiety and show her how much fun performing can be.
If I can’t find the strength to save myself, maybe I can set her free.