Chapter 25 #2
But prayer had never done him much good, and he knew better than to think it would start now. With a sense of grim inevitability, he set down the picnic basket and reached for the envelope.
The paper was expensive. Of course it was. Silas had always appreciated the finer things, had always made sure everyone around him knew exactly how refined his tastes were.
Inside, the message was brief, not much longer than the text he'd already received.
Brother—
I'll be arriving Tuesday afternoon. We have matters to discuss regarding the family holdings. Please ensure you're available.
— S.
No greeting. No pleasantries. No acknowledgment that they hadn't spoken in nearly two years, or that their last conversation had ended with him telling his brother exactly where he could shove his "family concerns."
Just an announcement. An expectation. At least he'd actually told him when he was coming.
*Please ensure you're available.*
As if he were an appointment to be scheduled. A problem to be managed. A loose end that needed tying up. He crumpled the letter in his fist, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached.
Silas was coming.
After two years of blessed silence, after he had finally started building something good—something real—his brother was going to waltz back into his life with his polished manners and his cutting remarks and his endless, suffocating expectations.
Tuesday.
That was two days from now. Two days to prepare himself for whatever game Silas was playing this time. Two days to shore up the defenses he'd let slip in Marigold's presence, to remember all the reasons he'd cut contact in the first place.
Two days to figure out how to keep his brother away from the one good thing that had happened to him in longer than he wanted to admit.
Because Silas had a talent for finding weaknesses. For identifying the things that mattered most and using them as leverage. He'd done it with their parents, with their extended family, with every business partner and social connection unfortunate enough to cross his path.
And if he got anywhere near Marigold…
His hand clenched tighter around the crushed paper.
Not her. Anyone but her.
He tossed the ruined letter onto the kitchen table and began pacing the length of the cabin, his hooves striking the wooden floor with sharp, agitated taps. The peaceful contentment of the afternoon had vanished completely, replaced by a coiled tension that made his skin feel too tight.
He should warn her. He should tell her about Silas before they met and explain the complicated history between them so she wasn't caught off guard.
But what would he say? *My brother is a manipulative snake who's spent his entire life trying to undermine me, and I'm terrified he'll do the same to you?*
It sounded paranoid. Overblown. Like the ramblings of someone who couldn't let go of ancient grudges. Except it wasn't paranoid. He had the scars—emotional if not physical—to prove it.
He stopped at the window, staring out at the vineyard without really seeing it.
The sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon, turning the horizon lavender.
In a few hours, he was supposed to meet Marigold in the grove.
She'd be waiting for him, soft and warm and trusting, expecting the same man who'd held her through the night.
Not this version. Not the one with his brother's shadow looming over him.
*Get it together,* he told himself harshly. *I'm not that person anymore. I've built a life here. A real life. He can't take that from me.*
But even as he thought it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his certainty.
Silas had always been better at everything—smoother, more polished, more effortlessly successful.
Where Thallos stumbled, Silas glided. Where Thallos made enemies, Silas made allies.
Their parents had made no secret of which son they preferred, which one they saw as the true heir to the family legacy.
Not that Thallos had wanted that legacy. He'd fled from it gladly, trading the stifling expectations of high society for this vineyard, this town, this quiet corner of the world where no one cared about bloodlines or political maneuvering.
But Silas had never forgiven him for leaving. He had seen it as an insult, a rejection, a statement that Thallos considered himself above the duties their birth demanded.
And now he was coming here.
To Harmony Glen.
To Thallos's territory.
Why now?
The question circled through his mind, sharp-edged and insistent. Silas didn't do anything without a reason. Every action was calculated, every word chosen for maximum effect. If he was making the journey here after two years of silence, it meant he wanted something.
The "family holdings" mentioned in the letter could be anything. An inheritance dispute. A business matter. Some new scheme that required Thallos's cooperation—or more likely, his capitulation.
Whatever it was, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He wasn't going to let Silas anywhere near Marigold.
She'd had enough of manipulation. Enough of people who used charm as a weapon and affection as a bargaining chip. The last thing she needed was his brother's brand of poison seeping into the life she was finally starting to build.
*I'll handle it,* he decided. *Meet with Silas, find out what he wants, get him out of town as quickly as possible.*
It was a good plan. A solid plan. So why did it feel so woefully inadequate?
He turned away from the window and grabbed the crumpled letter, smoothing it out enough to read the words one more time.
Tuesday afternoon. That gave him tomorrow to prepare, to steel himself, to remember all the techniques he'd developed over the years for surviving his brother's company without losing his mind.
And tonight—tonight, he had Marigold.
The grove. The sunset. The weight of her in his arms and the taste of her on his tongue.
*Focus on that,* he told himself. *Tomorrow's problems are tomorrow's problems. Right now, I have her.*
It wasn't a solution. But it was something. And after all these years of making do with scraps and half-measures, he had learned to take what he could get.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Three hours until sunset. Three hours to pull himself together, to bury the anxiety and resentment that his brother's letter had stirred up, to become once again the man Marigold had chosen to trust.
She deserved that man. Not this one—the one still haunted by old wounds and older fears. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into a drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind.
At least for tonight.