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He waits until everyone collectively turns to him—even Dimitri and Michael are watching him expectantly. He eats up every moment of it, tossing me a glance out of the corner of his eye to make sure that I’m listening. “If I’d known all it would take to get you to drop your panties was to tell you I was rich, I’d have told you before I dropped you on the doorstep.”
My chair scrapes the floor as I move on instinct, ready to bash his head against my table and use his hair to mop up the blood he sheds. Dimitri beats me to it, jumping out of his seat. His fist is already flying through the air, colliding with Wes’ jaw.
Rhea jumps up too, covering her mouth but failing to suppress a delicate scream.
Elaine rushes into the room, nearly dropping the platter of cheesecake when she catches a glimpse of Wes on the ground, Dimitri’s knuckles sending blood splattering across the tablecloth. By the time I drop to Dimitri’s side and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, he’s gotten a good beating in on my insufferable half-brother. That smug smile on his face is gone for one thing, and blood trickles from his lip and floods his mouth.
Dimitri stops immediately once I bring him to his senses, rising and adjusting the collar of his shirt as if he’s just done something undignified. I quite enjoy the view of Wes on the ground, though, whimpering in pain. Though his face was previously untouched, he’s taken quite a beating to the rest of him this week… kicks, punches, the few shallow wounds left when I sliced him with a blade… the same one, I assured him, that we’d used to kill Giante while he listened, helpless, in the next room, waiting for his turn. A spot of blood on his stomach, still spreading over the starched white shirt I had to lend him, assures me Dimitri got in a jab or two below the collar… he may even have to stich Wes back up again.
“Apologies,” Dimitri says, straightening his tie and turning toward Claire and Rhea as if he’s just blown Wes’ head off in front of them. It’s not a necessary apology, though I do prefer to have my sister far removed from the violence of this world. I also don’t like her to hear a man spouting disrespect and getting away with it. “I just got angry. The disrespect.”
Rhea blinks, wide eyes matching her gaping mouth. She’s too stunned to notice that right next to her, Claire is grinning wide with amusement. She wipes it away with a long swig from her bottle, wrapping her hands around the neck and tipping it back. I reach a hand out to Wes, who’s struggling to sit up despite one hand pressed against his stomach. When he grabs my elbow, allowing me to hoist him up, I consider getting in a hit of my own. But there will be time for that later, so I pull him in so that only he can hear my harsh whisper. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t say her name ever again. And if you so much as look at her, I’ll send Michael to your room tonight with boiling bleach so that the last thing you see in this world is my cellar. Hmm?”
“Um,” Rhea laughs nervously, noting that our embrace has lasted a touch long. “You guys good?”
I let go of him, causing Wes to lose his balance enough that he has to grip the edge of the table to keep from swaying on his feet. “My apologies, Claire.” A thrill of satisfaction floods through me as he mumbles the words without seeking her face, though I notice he said her name. He’ll pay for that later. “I forgot myself for a moment there. Perhaps I’ve outstayed my welcome.”
He absolutely has, considering I never wanted him here in the first place. When no one objects, Michael stands, buttoning his jacket. “Well, that was an interesting poker night, but I think someone should drive him. I’m not sure your friend should be driving with blood in his eyes. The roads are so dark at this time of night.”
Wes opens his mouth, but Michael’s firm hand on his shoulder surely tells him there’s no room for negotiation here. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, wiping blood from his face with the linen napkin. As he drops it on the table, he looks for a moment as though he’s about to meet Claire’s gaze.
But he’s smarter than he looks sometimes. He smiles at Rhea instead. “It was lovely seeing you again.”
Chapter eighteen
Claire
“What the ever-loving fuck was that?” Rhea demands, blinking into the space Wes has just vacated. She looks scandalized—not something that I see on her often.
I can feel the weight of Elaine’s eyes on the back of my neck and have to suppress a shudder at the feeling of vulnerability that passes over me. Instead of letting myself shudder, I roll my shoulders. “I think Wes was feeling a bit… emasculated.”
“But Dimitri?” She turns her eyes to Remy, demanding an explanation. I don’t know how he managed to keep all of this from her for as long as he did—he deserves a medal for it, honestly. Because in the space of the week that I’ve been in on his sordid secrets, we’ve pushed the envelope too far. Rhea is brilliant and airy and fierce and gentle, but she’s not stupid. We won’t continue to get away with leaving her out of the loop, and I intend to tell Remy that as soon as I get him alone, which I really need to do.
“I’m sorry, Rhea.” I huff, clutching my stomach and crinkling my face. “I’m not feeling well. Do you mind if I go back to my room?”
Her eyes track to mine, her mouth open like she’s about to say something, but then she softens. “Of course.”
“I’ll help you upstairs.” Remy offers, stepping forward to loop his arm through mine. I don’t know if he’s just attempting to be chivalrous or if he caught the look of desperation I threw him over his sister’s shoulder.
“I’m giving you a pass because Claire is hurt,” Rhea says seriously. “But I want answers. So, get your story straight when you’re upstairs together and then be prepared to spill it all next time I ask.”
I fight the laugh that bubbles in my throat—it’s not funny, but I am feeling wildly untethered. I’ve never drank so much champagne, and the combination of that with the oh-so-euphoric feeling of flaunting myself as unbroken before Wes has me uninhibited.
As soon as we clear the hall, I push Remy against the wall and cover my hand with his mouth. I’m not even sure why, other than the urgency of the matter.
His eyes are molten, confused, but very clearly willing to go wherever I’ll take him. “Wes stole a knife.” I tell him. “When he stood up, he slipped it into his coat pocket.”
He stares at me for a second, like he’s wondering whether to believe me or maybe mourning the moment that he thought was about to pass. “Let’s hurry then.” He practically pulls me in the direction of the stairs, but I shake out of his grasp.
“I’m fine. Go stop him.”
His hesitation is brief, and then he nods, spinning on his heel and stalking fast through the living room at a pace that’s just a touch more than casual, but not as suspicious as a full-out sprint. He shuts the door softly, and once he’s gone, I poke my head back in the dining room. “Thank you for dinner, Elaine.” I tell her.
She looks startled when I call her name. By the time her eyes meet mine, the smile in place feels insincere.
“Would you like dessert? I can bring you a plate?”
“Oh, no.” I laugh. “I’m afraid I’m stuffed. Rhea?”
