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“Afternoon, Saint,” I hear another voice from behind me and my blood turns to ice. Can dealing with too many issues and personalities at once drive you to insanity? Because if so, I might need a straitjacket before this night is over. I slowly turn to face the owner of the voice and come face-to-face with Hector and Scarlet Hayes. “Hello.”
Scarlet pats Hector’s hand. “Go find my son and get me a drink so I can chat with the girls.”
Hector smiles tightly at us all before walking away. I don’t expect an explanation. I don’t expect a relationship with the man that I should supposedly call my father, but something, anything, would be better than watching his back disappear. Asshole.
Scarlet rubs my arm with her palm. “You look absolutely stunning, sweetheart.” Aside from her choice of husband and her questionable taste in second chances—or ten—I like Scarlet.
Madison drapes her arm around my shoulder. “Doesn’t she?”
Scarlet clears her throat as her thumb brushes over her Dolce clutch. Back and forth. Back and forth. Must be a nervous trait. “Bishop tells me you’re back in The Coven?” The corners of her eyes crinkle, but there’s a smile on her crimson shaded lips. I’m sure she has become quite good at concealing her emotions over the years, so I take her manner with a grain of salt.
“I am.”
“Well, I would really love—we—would really love to get to know you a little more, but only if you’re up for it?”
I look around at all of the girls, noting that they look somewhat uncomfortable.
“Sure.” I smile back up at Scarlet. “That sounds nice.” It sounds terrible, but I’m in survival mode, and survival mode is agreeing to anything.
“Good,” she says, just as Hector returns with her drink. “Did you find our son?”
Hector nods. “I did.”
“Good.” Scarlet narrows her eyes. “Excuse me, girls. I have a pair of balls to crush.”
Hector follows her. I notice everywhere Hector goes, people either move away very quickly or they try to get close enough to talk to him. There’s no in-between. The power one man holds without so much as breathing a word.
“She’s so awesome.” Ophelia sighs. “What a woman.”
“There you are,” Samael interrupts, coming up beside me. “Dance with me?”
I hesitate.
“Actually!” Tillie plasters on a wide, forced smile. “We were just about to head to the powder room.”
“It’s fine, he’s my friend.” I hook my arm in his and he leads me toward the dance floor. A classical piece is playing, one I don’t recognize. I rest my hand behind his neck as he brings his to my hip while taking my other hand.
“Your friends always look at people that way?” He nudges his head toward where they’re all standing. Tillie looks livid, Madison seems uncomfortable, but it’s Ophelia that bothers me. She’s watching with confusion, her brows pulled in.
“Well, no, actually. Sorry.” I peek up at him. “It’s a you problem.”
He spins me around to the music and my eyes collide with evil. Brantley’s jaw is working overtime, his attention solely on us. I look down beneath the table again to see Bishop’s hand on his arm. Nate has one rested on his shoulder, but again, it’s so discreet that no one would even notice. Veins pop in Bishop’s arms, as the same ones rise to Brantley’s neck. Nate shoves him down a little, and that’s when I realize the strength they both must be using to stop Brantley from getting out of his chair.
Samael wraps his arm tightly around my waist and pulls me farther into his chest, his lips near my ear. My eyes remain on Brantley. I don’t know why. This is torture. I feel as though every vein in my body is being filled with liquid fire, and the longer I stay here, the hotter it becomes. “I don’t think your brother likes me much.”
I step away from Samael, sweeping his arms off me. “Excuse me.” Sweat pools at the nape of my neck. The Berta becomes too tight. My hair becomes too heavy and the oxygen too thick. I can’t breathe. People move around me, but they’re not moving fast enough and everything starts appearing in double vision.
I can hear Bishop talking through a mic. Loudly. “Welcome to the opening night of REU and RPA—” I stumble forward, crashing into something hard. Or rather, someone.
Hands grip around my arms, standing me up while guiding me to the back of the room. Bishop’s voice drifts off in the distance until I hear a door close and a lamp switch on. I must fall to the ground because my tailbone stings.
“Saint…” Brantley kneels down in front of me, ripping open his collar and tossing his tie across the ground. “Look at me.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes closed. “I’m okay now. I won’t. I’ll leave.” I stand on shaky legs and turn toward the door he brought us through, but his hand flies up and slams it closed again. I flinch. “Brantley, I can’t be this close to you.”
