So fuck both of them.
“You have two choices, Ember.” I pretend like my name uttered inthatvoice doesn’t send a trickle of resentment and anticipation through my veins. “A, you can walk over to the G Wagon waiting on us and get in. Or B, I throw your li’l ass over my shoulder and carry you over to that G Wagon. Either way, you’re leaving this fucking cemetery.”
“What about C? There’s no third option?” The trepidation and healthy dose of “what the fuck?” having its way with me aren’t reflected in my voice.Show no fear.A mantra I’ve learned and exhibited since childhood. Still… Asad has always been a show-versus-tell kind of man, so I have zero doubts he would carry through on his threat. And nobody would dare stop him. So why am I goading this man? I don’t know. Must be temporary delirium from no breakfast.
A beat of silence, and then he shifts closer to me. My gaze is still focused on the casket, but like a fucking Police song, I’m very aware of every move he makes, every breath he takes. Living with him for over a decade has taught me it’s in my best interest to keep careful track of him.
“C, I can pry that casket open, toss you on top of your father’sstinking corpse, and bury you right along with him. See if you and him will make that rising-from-the-dead shit a three-peat.”
The shiver that rips through me should be fear. Hell, if it was fear, I could try and convince myself I have even a splinter of morality left. But while I have no problem lying to other people, I refuse to do it with myself. That shiver is all sharp hope and eagerness. For all the torment Asad inflicted on me, he’s never physically touched me. The same can’t be said for his ho of a mother, but Michelle’s touch never had something akin to a fever simmering beneath my skin. Never had me anticipating glimpsing bruises darkening my body. Never had me longing for my breath to be cut off by strong, absurdly elegant fingers wrapped around my throat.
Like I said. No morality left.
Because only a sick-ass bitch would lust after the bully and monster that made her childhood a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.
“A it is.”
This wasn’t a battle I could win, and over the years, I’ve learned how to wisely choose them. Asad and Michelle might think they’ve won every skirmish we’ve engaged in, but I plan on claiming the war as my prize.
With Marcus gone, all they see is House of Cross. Claiming the whole empire. Me? The only thing in my front view is freedom.
Autonomy.
And getting the fuck away from them.
Turning, I tug my arm free from his grip, but it isn’t lost on me that if he truly willed it, I would have him clamped around me like a Pandora bracelet. I slowly walk over to the casket, stopping right on the edge of the open grave. The fragrance from the fresh flowers tickles my nose, smelling like death and final goodbyes. I inhale, dragging the scent deep into my lungs and holding it there. This is what I’ll carry with me, not the Cool Water cologne that was his signature scent. The familiar anger rises within me, and the pain swimming underneath doesn’t temper it.
“I’m not going to stand here and give you some sentimental farewell. We both know it would be bullshit. We barely spoke to each other in the thirteen years since Mommy died; I won’t be a hypocrite and eulogize you now. One thing I can thank you for—you’ve been consistent. You abandoned me in life and you’re doing it again in death. See? You never switched up. Goodbye, Marcus.”
I open my clutch and remove the item I’d stolen from the safe in his office late last night. Comical how he didn’t think I knew of its existence, much less the combination to open it. Slowly, I lift my arm and tuck a ring bearing the Cross family crest among the flowers, hiding it from sight. Since the line of male heirs to the House of Cross and its empire died with Marcus, I think it’s fitting the heirloom passed down from son to son goes into the ground with him. He’s taking a secret with him, too. Call it my parting gift to the father who didn’t give a fuck about me unless he could use me. Even then, he didn’t care about me as much as what I could do for him.
Briefly closing my eyes, I give him both middle fingers, then shoulders drawn back, I walk away without a backward glance.
I head in the direction of the path that leads to the cemetery’s private street, currently lined with all models of luxury vehicles. By now, only stragglers litter the freshly mown grass. Most people have either left or are waiting in their cars to exit the gated property.
“Mr. Prince, we offer our condolences on the passing of your father…” A tall, slim, and either brave or disturbingly reckless reporter with a short, dark red bob and black shirt and skirt, slightly too short and inappropriate for the occasion, approaches Asad.
He barely pauses in his long stride to address her, but I don’t wait for him, continuing toward the Hummer he pointed out. Marcus made it his lifelong ambition to hide my existence from the general public’s knowledge, and old habits die hard. I can’t lie though. A rebellious, furious, and petty part of me wants tobarge over there and introduce myself as Marcus Cross’s only daughter. Kind of like Edward Rochester’s only wife, both hidden unwanted and scurried away. Both hiding a killing rage.
But no. I keep walking. Even after Marcus’s death, I’m keeping the status quo, toeing the line.
Moments later, he reappears at my side, his long-legged stride easily catching up with me. Must’ve been a very short conversation. At damn near six feet, five inches, Asad towers over me by nearly a foot, and his muscled bulk far outweighs me. And I’m not a small woman. My family runs a fashion house, but my frame—all breasts, hips, ass, and thighs—isn’t the “ideal” model-thin or tall. Another black mark against me.
Ask me if I give a fuck.
We silently advance on the waiting gleaming, black-on-black Hummer, and I deliberately inhale a breath and allow my mask in place and drop the barricaded shield around my heart. All necessary and learned precautions when coming in contact with my stepmother. Do I want to analyze why I’m just now erecting these barriers and not when Asad first approached me?
No, I’ll pass.
The driver opens his door and climbs out of the vehicle, but Asad holds a hand up to him and stretches his other arm across me, opening the rear door. The heat and the scent of his Creed cologne mingled with an undertone of cedarwood and musk that even I couldn’t duplicate in my lab reach out to me.
Shoring up my protective walls, I reluctantly slide into the waiting vehicle and sink down onto the long, black leather seat across from Michelle and Kareem. The sound of teeth being sucked greets me, and I meet my stepmother’s glare. Her mouth curls as if a rancid odor followed me in, and though a lava-hot hate tries to melt the ice around my emotions, I simply cross my legs and clasp my hands together, resting them on my lap without flinching or dropping my gaze. Unlike her son, she doesn’t put fear into my heart. No matter how many times she laid a belt over my back and legs, yanked my hair until I sworemy scalp bled, or put her cigarettes out on my skin, she could never break me.
For a moment, my eyes clash with Kareem’s and the warm, weighty sympathy there barely registers. Not because I don’t think it’s genuine. Kareem Prince is nothing if not… genuine. Genuinely polite. Genuinely nice. Genuinely weak.
At one very brief time, I almost considered him a safe space. A space who didn’t belittle, threaten, or punish. But very quickly, I learned Kareem wasn’t Switzerland. Kareem, with his pretty brown eyes, handsome face, and lean, wiry build, was more like a country that puts up a brief fight, then caves to the bigger power.
He’s the least dangerous of the three. But that’s only because his malice wouldn’t be intentional, just apologetic.
