I tucked in the thinning mother of my child over her last few months of life. The same woman who never gave me a chance after she decided I wasn’t enough.
I gave her what comfort I could, and I watched the spark fade from her eyes, her skin, her bones.
When it got to be too much and I had to get back to work, I went into debt for a home nurse to fill in the gaps.
I buried the hopes and dreams she killed much earlier. I wrapped my hands around my own throat and strangled the life I couldn’t have.
After Charli, there was no room for outsiders.
No goddamned room.
No space in my smaller, darker cave of a world for anyone who wasn’t blood. Kit came first and last.
Kit became my religion.
Nile, she takes me back to an earlier time when I was new to being bitter and broken. Isn’t that the problem?
She’s the same brat I remember, effortlessly skilled at crawling under my skin. But she also isn’t.
In the years since I last saw her, she’s grown up and so much has happened. So much life, and life hurts you.
It leaves bruises, no matter what you do. There are so many sore spots on her I try not to press.
Her grandfather’s secrets.
Her father’s shitty flaws.
What Leonidas’ death means for the family, when he was the fabric that held it together.
Frankly, I don’t envy her.
I always respected the old man, but this is a giga-ton of responsibility to drop on anyone so young. Especially when she hasn’t had achanceto live that much yet.
Twenty-three years old.
So fucking young.
And she’s stuck wrangling destiny, deciding Leonidas Blackthorn’s legacy.
I glance back at the open laptop on my knee before I have to stow it for our arrival.
Cleo might’ve thought she dug deep enough with Jasper Fairfax, but I threw together a profile of him on my own.
I can see her logic. I get why she’s convinced he’s our best starting point.
The man’s practically a Boy Scout in art and antiquities. A sterling reputation.
Even his record with sketchy items thought to be stolen or moving on the black market. He’s helped recover several valuable Egyptian artifacts over the years.
On paper, he’s a class-act professional, the right pick to handle something as delicate as the Hera Egg.
Plus, he has ties to celebrity art collectors and government officials in at least a dozen countries. I have no doubt he meant it when he told her he could find a buyer, if he wasn’t interested himself.
He also has the ideal experience in Eastern Europe. According to his website, he played a key role in securing several rare treasures that could’ve easily vanished in the chaotic years after the Soviet Union collapsed. That’s backed up by articles.
Lots of articles.
So many, I wonder if a few were drafted by Fairfax’s own press team as marketing.
