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You’d think by now, I’d be used to Syn’s mood swings, but all I’m used to is their unpredictability. If there was ever a day when Syn would smile and enjoy himself, it was going to be his birthday.
He’s spent the whole day looking like he wants to murder someone.
But when he finally lets go and turns to look at me, I don’t see anger anymore. He actually seems almost distressed.
When I went to get the champagne, Royal told me that the guy Syn was just talking to was JP’s best friend, Preston du Pont. Syn’s reaction seems strange and has me wondering what Preston said to upset him.
I don’t ask him if he’s okay, or if he wants to talk about it. Even if I cared—which I don’t—I know Syn wouldn’t tell me anything. Instead, I walk to the driver’s seat of the golf cart and get in, starting it up as Syn sits beside me.
The few drinks I’ve had this evening aren’t enough to give me a decent buzz, and the openness of the golf cart has me shivering before we’ve even left the church. I had come wearing a coat, but I doubt Syn will let me go back in and get it.
The suit jacket he’s wearing offers more protection than the spaghetti straps of the short cocktail dress he provided me with this evening, but he still sits there like the snow and arctic breeze doesn’t affect him.
Then again, if you’ve got a lump of ice where your heart should be, you probably wouldn’t be affected by the cold temperatures either.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask as I drive us down the hill.
“Home,” he mutters.
The journey only takes about ten minutes, but by the time I’m parking up at the side of the house, I’m sure there’s a blue tinge to my fingers and toes. Syn doesn’t wait for me as he walks into the house, but as I hurry around the side of the building, rubbing my hands over my arms, I realize he’s left the front door open rather than making me walk all the way around to the back of the house.
Then again, it’s after what would be my curfew, so the back door is probably locked anyway.
Inside, I’m greeted by warmth that has my skin prickling as it turns bright red, but my body is still icy cold to the touch. More than anything, I want to head to my room and curl up in my bed to warm up, but I wait at the bottom of the stairs, watching Syn as he heads up.
It’s only when I hear his bedroom door close that I pull my strappy heels off and then run up to my room. I pull on thick socks, but before I can get changed into my pajamas, I decide to throw on a hoodie and go to run a bath.
As I reach my bathroom, my bedroom door opens, and Syn walks in. “Did I say you were dismissed? Go get me a drink.”
At least I managed to get an extra layer on…
I hurry back downstairs to the kitchen, heading straight for one of the cupboards in the house that contains the alcohol. Knowing Syn likes the Japanese whiskey, I grab the bottle of Yamazaki and a glass.
As I drop one of the large ice spheres Syn likes into a glass, I take a quick mouthful from the bottle. I’m not a fan of whiskey—even expensive stuff like this—but I can feel the burn of the amber liquid as it goes down my throat and into my stomach. Although I have to bite back a sputter, the effect is enough to take the edge off my chill.
After pouring a glass for Syn, I take it and the bottle, back upstairs. I knock on Syn’s door and then gently push it open. His room is empty. Frowning, I head back to mine, finding him at my window.
He doesn’t turn as I walk over to him, just takes the glass from me.
Although he doesn’t dismiss me, he also doesn’t make any move to leave my room. After a moment’s hesitation, I move over to my desk and set the bottle of Yamazaki down. “Do you need anything else, sir?”
“My brother.”
If I had a magic wand that could change everything, I’d use it in a heartbeat. Much as I don’t want my brother in prison, I also don’t want Syn without his either. Of course, I don’t tell him that. He’s so volatile, that I’m not sure there’s anything I could say that he’d believe anyway.
“Revenge.” He turns to look at me, but while his expression is guarded, he doesn’t seem like he’s about to explode…
But with him especially, looks can be deceptive.
“I want someone to feel the same pain and emptiness that I feel every fucking day.” Syn lifts the glass to his lips and pours the liquid down his throat.
I open my mouth, but at the last moment, stop myself from telling him that I understand.
Syn snorts. “You?” he says, as though I had spoken. “How is it even close to the same? My brother is dead. Yours isn’t even on death row.”
“Empathy,” I tell him. “My brother is alive, yes, but he’s been taken from my life. And of course, that’s not the same, but I know how much I miss him, so I can imagine how you feel.”
Eyes narrowing, Syn marches over, stopping in front of me. As I brace myself, he discards his glass on the desk beside me and snatches up the whiskey bottle. He yanks the top off, tossing it to the side, and then takes several large gulps directly from the bottle. “Go on then, Victoria Anderson. Tell me how it feels. Tell me how I feel when the sister of the man who murdered my brother is standing directly in front of me. Tell me how I feel when I have an opportunity to make him feel the pain I’m feeling, but instead, I’m being ordered to make you disappear.”
