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“Yeah, Nova and Bane went to work, but Silas should be here still. Why?”
She looks at me over her shoulder slowly. “Because there’s a black town car in your driveway.”
32
EVANGELINE
I open the door leading to the mud room, wincing when it creaks. The sound of chatter floods my ears. I pause with my hand on the door handle, one foot inside the house and the other on the cement stair in the garage. Voices float around the house, male and female. My lips twist to the side as I try to discern whose voices they are.
Cora presses into my back, her hand on my shoulder. “Who’s inside your house? Where’s Silas?” she whisper-hisses.
I tilt my head toward her and slink inside the house, my heart hammering against my chest. “I don’t know.”
She keeps pace with me, close enough that I can feel her breathing down my neck. “Well, were you expecting someone?”
“If I was, would I be tiptoeing through the house like this?” I roll my eyes, easing along the wall. I peek around the corner, but the kitchen is empty. I was sort of hoping I’d see Silas sitting at the table.
I can recognize it’s a trauma response well-enough, but that doesn’t stop the anxiety coursing through my veins at warped speed. It doesn’t help me chill out and figure out what to do.
“Well I don’t know the kinky shit you get up to with them,” she huffs in a whisper.
I shake my head, rolling my lips inward. “Shh. Listen.” Both of us pause, our backs to the wall in the kitchen, heads cocked and ears angled toward the sound.
“Is that . . .” she murmurs as the voices get louder. One voice in particular stands out. I’d recognize the disapproving tone anywhere.
I push off the wall, abandoning all pretense of stealth. My intruder anxiety melts away, leaving regular anxiety in its place. Only this time, there’s a ring of rage around it like a fire, and I can’t tell if it’s putting out the anxiety or fueling it like some co-dependent relationship. I stalk toward the front of the house, veering left to stop in the living room toward the four people inside my house.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Oh shit,” Cora murmurs from behind me. Close enough to give me support but a little breathing room too.
“Evangeline.” Virginia Carter stares down her perfect nose at me. Her lips painted in her favorite shade of coral curve into a grin that’s too malicious to be anything but a warning.
“What are you doing inside my house?”
Mom wraps one arm around her torso and uses it to prop up her other arm by the elbow. Her nails tap against her chin, the blood-red color stark against her perfectly porcelain skin tone. My mother would never be caught dead with something as common as a freckle. Or god forbid, a sun spot.
She arches a brow, cruelty lining every inch of her presence. “Your house? I don’t think so, darling. Tell her, Rupert.” She gestures to one of the men next to her with the flick of her wrist, spinning around to look at the bookcase. “Now, this all needs to go. It’s dated, and well, even then, I don’t think it could ever be considered stylish.”
The man, Rupert, scurries toward me, an open leather portfolio in his hands. “If you’ll just look here?—”
I wave my hand in front of him, walking around him to stop next to my mother. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, dripping in derision and diamonds. “This is Henri, he’s the leading interior designer in California right now.”
“I don’t give a fuck about him or his accolades.”
She tsks, the noise as sharp and grating as I remember. “Ten weeks in Rosewood with those filthy bikers and look at you, talking like some common whore.”
There’s a gasp, and I honestly don’t know if it came from me or Cora or the other woman in the room. I’m doing my best to ignore her presence.
“What did you just say?” His voice is low, that lethal sort of tone I’ve never heard before.
I don’t turn around, I already know Silas is here. There’s a tightness between my shoulder blades that eases with his presence. It gives me the courage to face this, face them. And I find myself settling in for a long-overdue conversation with my mother.
Mom doesn’t even bother to look at Silas, and I know it’s intentional. A power move, if you will. “Oh, let me guess, another one of your charming motorcycling friends, hm?”
“They’re not my friends, Mom. They’re . . . they’re my—they’re mine.” I feel my cheeks warm as I fumbled over my words, but I keep my head straight and eyes locked on my mother, and I fucking brace. Because I know her, and she never misses an opportunity to speak her mind.
