“I’m afraid I am through, though.” Mycah injected regret into her voice that was pure bullshit, but the alternative—revealing to her parents that their jabs at Achilles sickened her—wasn’t an option. “I just remembered I have an early meeting to prepare for. I’ll make sure to come by next week for dinner. I’ll call you later.”
Before they could object, she strode from the room, ignoring her father’s strident calling of her name. Neither of them would pursue her. Not only would they refuse to grant their staff anything to gossip about, but etiquette would keep them in their seats. And nothing—not even a fleeing daughter—trumped etiquette.
Sometimes Mycah detested their devotion to manners.
Then sometimes she was grateful for it.
Like now.
Within moments, she accepted her coat from their butler and stepped into the frigid January night. She paused on the top step of the Back Bay mansion and breathed deep.
How sad was it that she didn’t inhale the scent of crisp air as she walked away?
No.
All she tasted was freedom.
Seven
Achilles plowed his fist into the punching bag, sending it spinning away and swinging back. He struck it once more, the power singing up his arm and into his shoulder. He welcomed the vibration that carried a subtle, sweet burn. He sought it, chased it as he pummeled the bag again and again until his arms trembled with fatigue and sweat dripped off his face and bare chest.
The gym in Farrell International had quickly become Achilles’s favorite area of the building, next to his office. In both places, he lost himself either in code or in the numbing exhaustion of exercise. He could lock himself away...lock everyone else out. Even Cain and Kenan.
Guilt flickered in his chest, and he smothered the urge to rub at the spot, as if he could erase it like a smudge of dirt. If only it were that simple.
He scowled, stalking over to the weight bench where he’d left his towel and bottle of water. Snatching both up, he wiped off the perspiration and downed almost half the water. At seven o’clock at night, he had the place all to himself. After a long day at work, most of the employees champed at the bit to leave. Not him. He delayed going back to that luxurious penthouse that had come with the appointment of co-CEO. Luxurious and cold. Three months he’d lived there, and he still felt like a squatter. To be fair, though, he had no desire to be there.
The cavernous apartment with its floor-to-ceiling walls, fireplaces huge enough for a man his size to stand in, a kitchen that would make Emeril Lagasse weep in envy, a library that his mother would’ve wrestled Belle to get...
It didn’t make sense that he could live in a place so huge and still battle claustrophobia.
Nine more months.
That had become his mantra.
Nine more months, and his promise to Cain would be fulfilled. And then he could return to his cabin. His life. His peace.
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in battered but comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he moved behind his desk, his mind already focused on work. Not for Farrell, though. No doubt it violated about ten company rules, but he used his after-work hours when all the rest of the staff had gone home to return to his pet project—the one he’d been laboring on for over a year now.
A high-fantasy, open-world, action-adventure video game geared toward at-risk youth. With world building that was a cross between the inner city and Middle Earth, he aimed to challenge players, teach them teamwork, decision-making, discipline, problem-solving, to think outside the box.
Six months of that year had been working with a psychologist on Achilles’s mission and figuring out what elements he needed to include in the game to reach the kind of youth he’d once been. The youth he’d met and lived with for two years while locked up. This game wasn’t just a possible moneymaker for him; it was his passion. He didn’t want to hear why it wasn’t marketable. Or that while his ideals were laudable, they weren’t realistic. That’s why he hadn’t told anyone about it.
He might now be a millionaire, living in a penthouse at the top of a high-rise, but that didn’t expunge lessons learned from bullies’ fists or slaps from his mother’s boyfriends: No one cares how smart you are. Keep it to yourself.
Achilles sank into his chair, reaching for his mouse to bring up his programs on the three monitors on his desk. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes he became engrossed in the script.
“Hey, Achilles.” A fist rapped the top of his desk, reluctantly dragging him out of the world of code. “I’m not above doing something completely immature to get your attention. We both know this.”
Sighing, Achilles leaned back in his chair and met an identical blue-gray gaze. Kenan smiled at him, dropping into the visitor’s chair, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. Unlike Achilles, his half brother still wore a dark blue, beautifully tailored business suit that appeared as fresh as if he’d just donned it minutes ago instead of hours.
“What’re you doing here?” Achilles asked.
Kenan heaved a theatrical, loud sigh. “Aging well before my time worrying about you. I’m too young and pretty for these lines of concern to be etched in my forehead.” He circled a finger over the nonexistent wrinkles. “So I’m asking you the same question. What are you doing here so late?”
Achilles snorted. Both at the dramatics and the deflection. Kenan might be better at hiding his ambition and hunger behind his charm and magnetic smile, but the other man didn’t fool Achilles. Demons pursued his younger half brother, too. Achilles just didn’t know Kenan well enough to identify them by name.
“Working.” He jerked his chin up at Kenan. “Your turn.”
