Chapter 14
Electra
“I’m here,” I call out as I barge into Malachi’s home, my insides tied into a thousand knots from whatever the hell happened between Cillian and me in the speakeasy. “Don’t know why I’m here, though.”
I look between Mom, who’s setting down a porcelain cup of tea in its saucer, and Malachi, who’s leaning against the stovetop, arms crossed in front of his white button-down.
“Come sit.” She pats the wooden counter stool beside her.
The knots inside my stomach form new knots. “Why?”
“Because we need to talk,” she says.
“If it’s about Cillian…”
Malachi’s lips squeeze. “We’re not here to discuss your boyfriend, Elle.”
“We’re here to discuss your father,” Mom says just as I pull out the chair next to hers.
The wash of adrenaline that gushes through me is so powerful that it sweeps away the stress knots from my almost-first kiss. “Something happened to Dad! That’s why you’re here, and he’s not!”
Mom toys with her cup, spinning it on the saucer. “No. Yosef’s fine, sweetie.”
“Then…” The adrenaline drains from my system as dizzyingly fast as it poured in. “Then why do you want to discuss—You’re not separating, are you?”
“Why in the world would you assume that?”
“Because of your mood. And expression.”
My mother exhales. “Sorry. I should’ve been clearer. We’re here to discuss your biological father.”
I clamp my hand around the back of the chair. “You found him?”
When Mom looks at Malachi and keeps looking his way, horror assails me. No…
My stomach seizes with the need to hurl. Dots dance before my eyes. I try to sprint to the sink, but my feet won’t move. Just like my ears won’t clutch sound. They merely echo the thudding behind my ribs.
Malachi Hadez is my father?
No.
I blink so hard that moisture drips from the corners of my eyes.
Mom stands and closes her fingers around my biceps and rubs as though to soothe me. But how can one soothe absolute disgust? I’ve had a crush on my father.
My.
Father.
This time, the bile makes it into my throat. I wrench my arms free and run to the deep black sink. My whole dinner comes up.
A hand strokes the length of my hunched spine. When I notice it’s Malachi’s, another wave of vomit hits the basin.
He flicks on the tap. I wait a full minute for the spasms to subside before scooping water into my hands and splashing my face.
No wonder he found me.
No wonder he wanted to bring me home.
How long was he with my mother? And how old was he when he got with her? Fifteen? She was twenty-five when she had me. How revolting. Though is it any more revolting than having a crush on one’s dad?
Another sour wave floods my palate.
Malachi hands me a dish towel that’s black like the rest of his kitchen. “Can’t wait to tell Ines about your reaction.”
Why? Because she knows I have the hots for Malachi? Sorry, had. Disgust roils through me once more.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I ask, scouring Malachi’s face for features we might have in common. I find none.
Mom, who must’ve gotten up during my vomit-fest, picks up one of my hands and laces our fingers. “Because Ines said he didn’t know about you. But then he saw you at the gala and spotted your resemblance to his son.”
“Wait. Rewind.” I wipe my mouth on the dishrag again. “Who’s he?”
“Gael Monta is your…” Mom sucks in her lips as though she’s bitten into something bitter. “Your genitor.”
I look between her and Malachi. “Monta?”
She nods. “His last affair—the one that produced Alexander—is what finally drove Ines away,” Mom says, while my synapses’ firing becomes absolute warfare.
Gael Monta—Ines’s husband—is my…my…
It’s so preposterous I can’t even finish the thought.
My skin overheats as my brain spins and spins, like I’ve just climbed into a dryer that’s tumbling me around on its highest setting.
Gael Monta cannot be my father…
That’s—that’s…
“Gael Monta—Ines’s husband—is my bio dad?” My voice cracks loudly this time.
Confusion tills Mom’s forehead. “Sweetheart, have you been drinking?”
My mind is too busy combusting to tell her that alcohol isn’t to blame for my meltdown.
“She did go to a club,” Malachi says.
Even though I should probably be wholly focused on my discovery, or the fact that Malachi isn’t my father—thank every enchanted stone in the mine—I whirl toward him and ask, “Did you follow me?”
“You’re dating a homeless stranger. Of course I’m going to keep track of where he takes you.”
“Homeless?” Mom asks.
“Cillian Lowry’s a high school dropout who lives in his car and gives classes at a gym he’s not even employed at. He has no bank account, no credit score—”
“He doesn’t have a work contract with his gym by choice,” I say sharply. “And yes, he might not be rolling in it and lives in his car, but at least he’s trying to make an honest living. I’d appreciate it if you stopped demonizing him, Mal. He’s a good guy.”
“You’ve known him for all of a second,” he mutters.
“Lisa and Fiona say he’s a sweet boy.” Mom gives my fingers a squeeze in solidarity.
Malachi harrumphs, clearly unconvinced. Could he be objecting to Cillian because he’s jealous?
“Text him, Elle,” Mom insists. “I want to meet him tomorrow to make up my own mind. I’ll take any time slot he has.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “As I told you, it’s really not that serious.”
“Still want to meet him. If you prefer I ask Fiona for an introduction—”
“No. Fine. I’ll text him on our way home.” After a beat, I ask, “Since when have you known?”
“Known about what, sweetie?” Mom asks.
“That Gael Monta was…is my father?” The term tastes off. Yosef Serran is my father.
Mom presses her lips together. Although not overly thick to begin with, they become as thin as a scalpel. “We’ve known since we found you.”
I turn toward Malachi. “How many people are part of this we? Besides Ines and Dad, and I’m assuming, you and Dorian?”
Malachi folds the towel I left by his sink into thinner and thinner rectangles. “Diego and Tarian. And recently, Callie.”
Hurt sears my chest. “Callie knows?” I ask, even though the question is as senseless as my hurt.
Calanthe and Tarian share everything. Of course he would’ve told her.
Silence descends upon the mahogany kitchen as Mom watches me, Malachi watches the towel he’s finally finished folding, and I watch the metal dome pendant hung over the island, trailing its beam to Mom’s green tea.
“Why did we meet here?” I finally ask.
“Because Gael is at the apartment with Dorian and Ines. He made it past your doorman using compulsion.” Mom sighs. “We told him that you’d initiate contact, and not the other way around.” After a brief pause, she asks, “Do you feel like seeing him?”
Her pupils are tiny and pulsing. I can’t tell if it’s concern or trepidation. I can tell she’d prefer I don’t want to meet him. But…why? Because she worries I’ll stop considering her and Dad like my parents? Or because Monta isn’t a good man?
To think that my greatest concern an hour ago was what to do about my growing attraction to my fake boyfriend. “I’d like to meet him.”
Worry greens Mom’s eyes. She would’ve preferred resistance from me. Or a staunch refusal.
Before she can mistake my consent for anticipation, I say, “Would he stop seeking me out?”
“No.” Her reply is as soft as the sigh it precedes.
I rake my fingers through my hair, pushing my short locks out of my face. My hands, normally warm, feel carved out of ice. “Arrange a meeting tomorrow. With you and Dorian.”
“I’ll be there, too,” Malachi says.
“If you come, then Callie’ll want to be there. And possibly Diego and Tarian.”
“And…?” Malachi asks.
“And then it becomes a party,” I deadpan. “Look, I appreciate everyone’s protectiveness, but I’d prefer to meet with him semi-privately the first time.”
Malachi works his jaw, evidently displeased that I don’t want him at the meet-and-greet. I’m aware he’s always looked out for me, but this is a family thing. And for all my affection for him, Malachi Hadez is not family. Not like Dorian and Mom are.
Does he want to be? a little voice in my head murmurs before gaining traction and rehashing one of my conversations with Cillian.
I never looked at my sister like he looks at you.
You’re imagining things, Cillian.
I’m not.
Just because you want to fuck me doesn’t mean anyone else does.
To think he tossed those words back at me on the dance floor.
To think my body was inclined to do just that.
My skin warms from the memory of Cillian’s callused hands and grazing breaths. From the sensation of his nose plowing across my cheek to deliver heady whispers into my ears.
Your body. It’s my fucking kryptonite.
The effect Cillian had on me feels impossible and surreal, incapacitating, as though he were using magic to seduce me.
I’d never been as turned on, not even while reading erotica—and I’d read my fair share of scorching hot scenes since discovering the genre at the ripe old age of thirteen, after having bought a book with a cowboy hat and a flower on the cover.
I thought I was in for a Western meet-cute, not a raunchy rodeo where the heroine did most of the riding—none of it, on bucking horses.
My fingers itch to slide my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and write him a message, but what would I say: Come over? My mother is sleeping at the Penthouse.
I could head to his gym’s parking lot. But then, what?
“Sweetheart.” Mom presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking very feverish.”
I duck out of her reach and away from Malachi’s probing gaze before either can realize the actual source of my fever. “Can we go home, or is he still there?”
Mom calls Dorian on speakerphone. When he tells us the coast is clear, Malachi offers to drive us home. I sit in the backseat and take out my phone to write Cillian an apology for running off, but get sidetracked by the messages he sent me.