“We’ll deal with her.” Grandmother says it calmly, but the sharp glint in her eyes promises retribution. “You just focus on recovering.”
“Where did you find me?” I ask, hoping for some clue as to who Queen is.
“A forest in Oregon. About an hour from the state border.” The vindictive flash in Aunt Jeremiah’s eyes says she’s going to fuck Mom up. Nobody touches one of the family and gets away with it.
But we also don’t ignore it when somebody’s helped one of us. So why are they so reluctant to talk about Queen?
Four days later, I get discharged. I try to look for her, but not even the firefighters who found me know anything about her. Aunt Jeremiah hires a team of private detectives, and they also return with nothing. Queen might as well have been a figment of my imagination. My therapist implies as much. He says it’s a “coping mechanism,” something to keep my sanity intact. “One of the ways our mind protects itself.”
But…
As I stare at the long, ugly scar on my arm, I know I didn’t imagine that night. Or the drugs Mom put into my food and drink to keep me under control. If Queen hadn’t cut me loose, I would’ve died. If she hadn’t pushed me out of the way, the wolf might’ve fallen on my head and killed me on the spot.
I think of her shoulder injury. Wonder if something happened to her while I was out cold—
I hate Mom!Ihateher, hate my weakness, hate that I lost Queen and can’t find her again. So much for being her knight. I don’t even know if she’s okay. Her aunt and uncle couldn’t have been treating her well, not with those old clothes and how dirty she was. She really needs more than Wonder Bread and water. And a better dress than the stained white one she was wearing. And shoes. And school. And the pretty things that girls deserve.
No matter where she is, I pray that she’s okay—and that her goodness comes back to her a thousand-fold.
Chapter Two
Ares
–twenty-two years later
“It won’t be possible for you to make junior partner. Thought we should inform you before the official announcement,” says Catalina, my grandmother and the matriarch of the family.
Her voice is supposed to be soothing, but it only pisses me off. “Are you shitting me?” I say in a flat monotone, unmoving in my seat. My eyes scan TF, short for The Fogeys—what my brothers, cousin and I call the elders behind their backs.
Grandmother sits at the head of the table, her jet-black hair pulled into a chignon. It’s the style she’s favored since her years as a highly successful prosecutor in L.A.—it makes her appear both stern and elegant. Her skin is pale with very few wrinkles, and she’s in a cool blue dress that intensifies her eye color.
To her right is my father, Prescott Huxley, a senior partner at Huxley & Webber, who wields his tongue like a scalpel to shred his opposing counsels into little, mewling ribbons. His hair is as dark as Grandmother’s, but he keeps his cropped, all clean cut and controlled. He has a booming voice, but rarely raises it. He doesn’t need to in order to get attention. His confidence alone is sufficient. Not only that, he’s in one of his black three-piece bespoke suits he reserves for court appearances, although he had no such thing today. He silently munches on a miniature tiramisu from the dessert trays before him, his pale gray eyes on me. The delicate sweet looks awkward in his large hand, but headores the little desserts Grandmother serves when the family gets together.
Aunt Jeremiah sits opposite him, her hair once again dyed a deep, rich red—which inspired a joke that her hair periodically turns that shade from being drenched in the opposing counsels’ blood. Also a senior partner at Huxley & Webber, she believes in winning at all costs and commands both respect and fear. She’s drinking a glass of Merlot and puffing on a cigar. Her son Huxley thinks she only smokes cigars to celebrate a victory, but she also indulges when she’s feeling particularly tense. Her well-fitted, hand-stitched ebony skirt-suit projects power and control. Complete overkill—I should’ve realized this wasn’t going to be a friendly evening chat.
“We wouldn’t joke about your career.” My father pushes the dessert tray in my direction, as though a bit of sugar will be enough to coax me into a better mood.
“Why can’t I get the promotion I deserve?” I demand.
“You aren’toweda promotion,” Aunt Jeremiah points out.
“My clients love me, and I draw new clients. Not only that, I bill more hours than anybody else, and the work is exceptional. People respect it.”
“Yes, but you don’t know how to balance your life. And you do the bare minimum of mentoring,” Dad argues.
“I aim for qualityandquantity. Just ask.” The junior associates never complain about me. Most compete to have me on their side.
A short silence falls over the table. Grandmother adds more sugar to her tea and stirs it in.
“You know I deserve this promotion,” I say. “Ethan fucking Beckman is making junior partner this year.”
Grandmother frowns. Ethan Beckman is my nemesis and the right-hand man of John Highsmith, a name partner at a rival firm. He loves stealing our clients and doing everything inhis power to fuck up our cases. Everyone at Huxley & Webber loathes him. “Be that as it may, you exhibit an unhealthy obsession.”
“What unhealthy obsession?” I demand. I’m the opposite of obsessed. I do everything in my power to stay as detached as possible from everyone, except family. Hell, I’ve only had four girlfriends.
“The girl from Oregon.”
I freeze.Queen.
