Page 83
His father, Harold.
The resemblance between father and son is undeniable. The same strong bone structure. The same commanding presence, even trapped on a canvas.
Beside him sits a woman with dark hair twisted high on her head, eyes distant as though she’s watching something just beyond the frame. With only a hint of a smile, her beauty feels quieter than Evelyn’s, less performed. Somehow more dangerous for it.
And beside them stands a boy with blond hair.
My eyes linger on him. “Is that you?”
Edwin doesn’t bother to look. “Yes.”
It’s hard to match the child in the portrait to the man holding my hand. That boy looks thoughtful, even mischievous with his smirk. Not yet sharpened with intensity.
Four younger boys stand around him. Five sons.
A lineage with generations of power. And I’m walking right into it.
Edwin tugs my hand, urging me forward.
The mansion seems to shift as we move through it, older sections blending into newer additions until the entire place is layered beneath the weight of everything that came before.
One of Edwin’s brothers appears at the end of the hall. Another Crotavere partial to black, though his black hair and piercings make him a bit scarier. His eyes drag over me with open disdain.
“This is her?” he asks. “Sweet little virgin?”
Heat floods my face again. It’s the way he says it. He already knows what I am to Edwin.
“Not when I’m done with her,” Edwin says.
They speak about me as though my existence serves a purpose. A role chosen before I understood the story I stepped into. I’ll have to play the part in front of everyone, but suddenly this is moving too fast.
Edwin doesn’t slow as he pulls me to the grand staircase, its banisters curling upwards as though it leads somewhere forbidden.
Panic spikes in my chest.
“Edwin,” I say, tugging his hand. “I can’t.”
He stops halfway up the stairs, turning just enough to look back at me.
“Can’t what?”
My pulse races, scattering coherent thought.
“Have sex with you,” I whisper, hating how pathetic it sounds. “Not like this.”
There are too many people around. I can’t do it when his family already sees me as the girl he’s meant to deflower.
His gaze lingers on me. Then he turns without a word, leading me farther upstairs and into his bedroom.
The space is enormous, with a fireplace and a sitting area past the bed, so large it could take up my whole room at the Bolton house. Everything is black and green and severe.
He releases my hand.
“You can’t, huh?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” I answer, my voice quieter than I want it to be. “I just…”
It doesn’t feel right. Nothing about this situation is natural.
