Chapter 14
Indie
cobra (rock remix) - megan thee stallion ft spiritbox
My glare is fixated on the wrought-iron bars of the Kensington estate, creeping open inch by inch, feeling like the gate has an invisible tie to my heart. It’s yanking it from my chest, dragging it towards hell on earth, and it’s hard to breathe.
“Relax, darling.”
I break my stare, following the low rumble of Saint’s voice. His eyes ground me the moment I lock with the steel-coloured irises, his palm kneading my thigh.
I nod, turning back to stare out into the gravel driveway. It took us over eight hours to get here; we stopped halfway to let everyone get a break. I’d even offered to drive the rest of the way, but Saint wouldn’t let me, and I’m kind of glad.
I felt a weird sense of calm up until an hour ago; now my body vibrates like turbulence, my nerve endings are on fire, and there’s a constant presence lurking at the back of my neck, gripping it every so often.
Saint, on the other hand, is a Google image search of a man unbothered.
He’s dressed in dark ripped jeans and a white hoodie, slouched back against the seat with his cigarette hanging out the window.
The people beyond those gigantic wooden doors want to kill him. Quite literally, would happily torture him.
They know his name, have his face, and he hasn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, my heart feels like it’s freefalling out of my ass.
The car groans to a stop, and my sweaty hands rub down my own jeans. I tug at the black knitted sweater, the material feeling too thick and itchy against my neck, and it’s suffocating.
The smell of tobacco slinks through the car, the vapour dancing in a haze as I turn to look at Saint. “You want one of these before you go in?”
I shake my head. With the way I’m about to hyperventilate, I might accidentally inhale the whole stick and choke to death. Probably doing everyone inside a damn favour.
He steps out of the car, rounding it as he reaches my door and opens it.
This is it.
This is where I find out whether my sister has plotted my demise.
“Look at me.”
My eyes cast upwards, and fuck. Trust Saint to be standing there like a God damn model with a permanent smoulder; he’s even got a cap on backwards that sends somersaults through my chest. The cigarette hangs loosely between his lips, one hand leaning atop of the door whilst the other cages me in against the frame. “Breathe.”
“How can you be so calm at a time like this!” I grind out, an urge to swat the damn cap off his head.
His gaze shoots from me over the roof of the car, scanning the entire front of the house. This is all Barry’s money; the Georgian-style mansion has an eyewatering price tag, and whilst my blood money could offer me a life of luxury, this is a net worth I’ll never see in one lifetime.
But the marks on his bills are dirtier than mine.
“You wanna go in the back seat?” Saint eyes the back, raising a suggestive brow at me before stepping between my thighs.
For fuck’s sake.
A nervous laugh pushes past my lips. “Absolutely not. Again, how the fuck are you so relaxed?”
He pushes off the door frame, that knee-jerking smirk lacing his lips. “This is fucking playtime, Indie. Now, let’s go.”
He holds his hand out for me, and I take it, steadying me as my boots crunch into the pristine white gravel.
It’s a mockery, if I’m honest.
There’s nothing pure about the people who own this land.
Saint flicks the cigarette sideways and wraps me in his arms, and I freeze when my hand runs over the gun’s grip tucked into his waistband.
A palm ghosts against my cheek as he leans into my face, his other hand finding its way to my ear as he presses something inside it. “Clear?”
“Loud and clear, boss,” Rex crackles through my earpiece.
I fluff up my loose hair when he pulls away, relaxing my shoulders a little. That makes me feel slightly more at ease that we’ll have ears beyond the doors. I had images of everything going to shit, and it being too late to call them in.
“Where’s yours?” I ask, noticing he isn’t putting one in.
He shakes his head. “You’re my priority.”
A familiar, airy voice sounds from the distance, its warmth travelling in the wind as it whips around my hair. “Indie!”
My heart clenches when I see her.
Mom comes walking down the stairs, her short dark hair swishing around her shoulders, dressed in a knitted dress, tights and knee-high boots. My mom is almost fifty, but I swear she could pass as my sister.
The tightness on my shoulders wavers a fraction, hoping her presence means they wouldn’t do anything foolish in front of Mom. “Hi, Mom,” I whisper, leaning into her embrace.
It steals my breath momentarily, the perfume she’s worn for my entire life slinking around me as she squeezes. When she pulls away, it feels too soon.
The minute she wrapped her arms around me, I felt safe. Then I catch her eyes melting the moment she notices the mountain behind me.
Saint’s deep and velvety voice caresses the back of my neck. “Mrs Kent.”
A wry smile forms on her lips, and she shakes her head. “Saint Blackwood, the formalities haven’t changed over the years, young man.” She beckons him with a flick of both hands. “Come here.”
Saint practically engulfs her in a hug, and the image of the two of them shudders off a layer of dust on my heart.
My mom loved Saint; she treated him like he was her own son. When we broke up, I think she was as heartbroken as I was. After my assault, I would hear her calling him late at night to give him updates on how I was doing, how he was doing.
Our time apart affected her too.
Her light laugh fills the air as she throws her head back. “Good God, what have you been eating!”
Suddenly, my smile doesn’t feel as forced watching them interact, and it’s managed to tame my anxiety into a subtle hum as they conversate, all three of us walking up the stairs.
“How was your Thanksgiving? I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop by,” I say to Mom, side-eyeing her as we reach the open door.
She wafts a hand at me. “Oh no need for that, sweetie. I would rather you were out living your life…It was great! We had a blast.” She leans in as we walk through the foyer, dropping her voice to a low murmur. “Morgan’s here.”
It’s obviously not quiet enough for Saint to ask, “Morgan?”
“My mom’s boyfrie—”
“Indie!” Her mirror-blue eyes widen, darting to the archway to the dining room, then back to me.
I shrug. “What? You’re not too old for a boyfriend, Mom.”
She glances at Saint, plastering the politest smile at him, one that used to be reserved for when Regina, Jenna and I would return home drunk off our asses, waking up the neighbours. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends,” I mock, earning me a flick on the ear, dangerously close to the earpiece nestled between my loose waves.
“I still have the power to ground you, y’know.”
I roll my eyes with a smile on my face, until I notice a shadow round the corner. I’m instantly on alert when I clock the masculine figure, uncoiling slightly when I see it’s Morgan.
He’s a couple years older than my mom, light brown hair and fair skin, a good few inches shorter than Saint, but has this leisurely way of holding himself, like he’s never in a rush to be anywhere, always swaying in the wind when he walks.
He gives me a kiss on the cheek as Mom introduces him to Saint, and I don’t miss the step backwards he takes to get his full frame in eyesight.
The two of them chat back and forth as I scan the foyer. It’s been years since I was last here. The floor is so pale, you can see your reflection in it.
Marble.
A red-hot huff breathes past my lips, taking me back to my thoughts when I killed Clarke. The signs have always been here; I was just too ignorant, never expecting my own family to be capable.
“Louisa, look who’s here!”
The moment I’ve been dreading, but undoubtedly knew I would face sooner or later, almost impales me into the wall when Mom calls out.
My ears draw back as I hear Louisa before I see her, the clack of her heels growing louder as she stalks across the foyer, dressed to kill.
Fitted in her signature suit, all sharp edges and ponytail scraped back as the free hair swishes behind her like a whip.
“Still have questionable fashion choices I see.”
My jaw wants to wire shut, sealing in what my heart is screaming to say. But the brush of Saint’s hand against my lower back secures the mask. “I see you’ve still got a stick up your ass.”
She hugs me despite my insult, and I fight to yield my muscles into relaxation, stiffening instead. Hers pull taut beneath my hold, and my breath gets lodged in my throat.
“Louisa.” Saint’s voice rumbles against my spine, and I feel the heat of his glare without even needing to turn and witness it.
“Saint…nice to see you again.”
Sarcasm drips from his tone as he snickers. “And you.”
She untangles herself from me, warily fixating over my shoulder, her hands flattening her already straight designer suit.
Me before the revelation would tease her for wearing work attire after office hours, ask her if she owns anything that doesn’t scream big time corporation.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, dangling on the edge to come out.
Instead, I obliterate it.
My sister isn’t who I thought she was; she’s hurt me more than anyone ever has in my entire existence. “Where’s Barry?” I ask boredly, glancing at the archway and catching a glimpse of someone walking by.
“Oh…he should be here soon, he got held up at work this morning,” she answers, turning on her heels to lead us to the dining table. Saint catches my eye as Mom and Morgan walk with Louisa, his hand reaching for my neck to undo the tension in it; it’s clearly as visible as it feels.
Saint pulls my seat out as I’m seated next to Mom, Morgan across from her, and Louisa directly in front of me.
Great.