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After the amazing ten days I’ve had with Georgiou and Henry, the last person I want to see is this guy walking toward me with that smug expression on his face that makes me sick.
Cordelia is inside looking out, and the guards are stationed about the place. Dad wanted Peter and me to be alone to talk. That was his one stipulation about today, and everyone was to give us privacy.
Peter isn’t allowed at the house at night. That came at Cordelia’s request. I was thankful she was able to stand her ground with Dad.
The whole thing is still so bizarre to me.
The maid made an amazing lunch of an assortment of sandwiches, and the setting looks fit for the happy couple. Peter and I aren’t that, though.
We’re so far from it.
The fucking bastard sits opposite me, and the only thing I can think of to calm my racing heart and mind is seeing Georgiou in the next three hours. John is picking me up to take me to Georgiou’s workplace, and then he’s taking me to the house from there.
“Hello, Evangeline,” Peter says.
“Good afternoon.”
He chuckles. “So it’s like that now? Formal.”
“I think it’s best.”
Every nerve of my body tingles with a warning of danger. Dad might trust Peter, but I never will.
I look at him now, and I consider for the umpteenth time his part in my brother’s murder.
There have been so many times when I told myself I just imagined the whole thing. I have nothing to go on, nothing to anchor what I suspect except for the feeling in my heart. That shouldn’t be enough, but it tells me it is.
“You and I got off on the wrong foot,” he states, cutting into my thoughts.
“I don’t think so.”
He leans close and takes hold of my hand resting on my knee under the table.
He secures his hand around my wrist so tight I think he might cut off the circulation.
I open my mouth to call out for the guards, but Peter stops me with the lift of his other hand.
“Don’t you dare say a word, Evangeline,” he taunts. “You made some type of trouble for me last time; that’s not going to happen again.”
“Let go of me.” I try to wrench my arm free, but he holds on tighter.
“Oh, no, no,Bellezza,” he says with a taunting vibe. It makes me sick when he calls me that. It’s not the same as when Georgiou says it. “You’re going to want to hear what I have to say. You need to listen.”
There’s something menacing in his eyes that makes me take heed.
“What do I need to listen to?”
“This: your old man thinks the sun shines from my ass, and it doesn’t matter what you or your little whore of a cousin says to him.”
“You bastard,” I hiss.
“Yes, that is exactly what I am and what I’ll be to you, my dear Evangeline. I heard there’s a car that comes here and picks you up every night.”
My blood freezes in my veins, and I swallow hard.
Jesus, who told him?
