Page 1 of Twisting Beauty

1

LORCAN

Ikept my head down as I stood in the center of my father’s study, disgust curling hot in my gut. Stupid. I’d let him catch me. Whatever punishment coming was my own fault.

“You are so close,” Alistair said, his voice low and cold. “So close to being exactly what this family needs.”

Even the stuffed animal heads staring down from the walls seemed to judge me.

“Then you reach for that damned instrument.” He stepped closer. “Your mother was weak, but I won’t tolerate that in my heir.”

I flinched at his comment about her. But I forced myself to remain still. I knew better than to defend her. To defend myself.

I kept my face blank and fixated on the small details in the room to hold myself steady. The smell of cigar smoke and absinthe. The ornate pattern in the Persian rug beneath my shoes.

The wicked glint of the silver-handled cane that he held in his hand.

“Stand properly.” He jabbed my shoulder with the cane tip, engraved in the shape of a hound’s head, dark stains soaked into the depths of its fur. “If you insist on disappointing me, you’ll do it without slouching.”

He circled me slowly, a sneer on his face as if he were inspecting something defective.

The hair on the back of my neck lifted as I tracked his footfalls as he positioned himself behind me.

I braced without appearing to brace.

The first strike landed across my back.

One.

Pain flashed hot and sharp, and I swallowed my cry, my knees locking to keep me upright, arm muscles straining against the urge to defend myself.

Two.

The knobs of the hound’s head caught my ribs with brutal precision.

I let part of myself step away from the pain. That was the only way through it. The green and wood-paneled walls dulled at the edges. The text on the spines of his book collection of first editions blurred.

Three.

Alistair kept talking between blows, his voice cold and disgusted. “Scraping at the air like a soft little eejit. Do you know how ridiculous you looked?”

I thought I was being smart by fingering the strings without using the bow. But the music resonating in my head was so lovely I lost myself in it.

Four.

A black shirt would be safest tomorrow, something thick enough that no one would notice if my bandages bled through.

The grandfather clock ticked from its corner. The smell of smoke and absinthe turned nauseating. Sweat gathered under my shirt. I kept my eyes on a fixed point ahead and clamped my jaw shut.

“I should’ve thrown your mother down the stairs when we found out she was pregnant. You’re a fucking embarrassment.”

Five.

Only when he returned the cane to its resting place did I allow myself to breathe, shallow gasps that tasted of copper and shame. I tried to contain the humiliation crawling up my spine, but it spread anyway, seeping through the cracks in my armor, mixing with the rage burning under my skin.

He turned and glared at me expectantly. “I’m losing patience, Lorcan. Purge any remaining weakness if you want to become my heir.”

I knew exactly what he wanted from me.