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“Dorian, what the fuck?” Bru shot, checking Thatcher, and the dude was in his motherfucking bed clothes. He had lounge pants and a Windsor Prep T-shirt on. All of it was too big, and I was pretty freaking sure both belonged to my buddy who was currently working his arm. Bru looked up from Thatcher. “Have you lost your mind?”
I hadn’t.
But I was about to.
I forced both of them out of the way and went into that room. If Bruno Sloane was here, his sister wasn’t far behind.
His sister…
She was that to him. That’d never leave, and no one expected it to. Least of all me. I understood that love and care for someone who wasn’t necessarily biologically related to you.
She wasn’t here.
The room was empty, bed messy and food boxes on it. There was also a game controller there too. It’d been left idle, and the television said game over on the screen above the fireplace. Someone was clearly living in here, staying here.
I headed toward the next room.
Some of these older rooms had connected suites and were typically only used when the nicer ones downstairs were filled. My buddies and I (like a lot of the Court) stayed at Windsor House quite often. Sometimes, a guy or girl just didn’t feel like going fucking home, like I typically didn’t after ragers when I was high off my ass and didn’t want to run into my parents.
I charged into the hallway that connected the rooms, faintly hearing words called to me. I was pretty sure they were Bruno’s and Thatcher’s, but I didn’t fucking care.
“She’s not here,” I heard Bru say as I hit the other end of the hall. I threw open the door, and my heart fucking stopped.
It was the easel.
It had a step stool in front of it and paints at the feet of it. The whole setup was positioned to face the balcony, but the doors were closed, and the shades were drawn.
That hadn’t stopped the person from painting though, her from painting. The easel held a canvas that had a partial rendering of Windsor House’s back gardens on it, pastel colors.
Soft.
I stared at it, and a peek through the curtains definitely let me know those back gardens could be seen from this room.
This was her.
I picked it up, and the bag Thatcher brought had been left by the easel. It was unopened, and the bed in the room was made. In fact, everything in this room was pristine unlike the last. There was no trash or anything, but she’d been here.
I could smell her.
Her light aroma suffocated this room, drowning me, and the painting’s existence only proved the point. I put it down the same time steps hit the room behind me, and when I whipped around, both Bru and Thatcher were fighting their way into the room.
“I told you she’s not here,” Bru stated, breathy as shit. I must have been going pretty fast, and Bruno had obviously not been on the field in a while. “I called her. She’s not coming back.”
“The fuck do you mean?” I crossed the room in two, maybe three strides.
Bru hit the wall on the fourth.
I pinned him to it, and I had to give it to the kid.
He put off he wasn’t scared.
On the football field, I often saw fear, and more than my fair share, when others came across me or any of my boys in the halls at school. People knew Legacy could do anything we wanted, take anything. Fucking with us wasn’t a good idea.
And Bruno Sloane was fucking with me.
“Dorian.” Thatcher’s warning came from my side, but I noticed he didn’t act. He stayed in place. He had no right to intercede here.
I mean, he was obviously a part of whatever this was.
