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Since Noah’s stepmother ended up in the hospital after my little stunt last month, the Marlowe house has stepped up their security. There’s a guard posted at the gate and a state-of-the-art alarm system that will stand up against even Antony’s best man.
Fortunately, I have the golden ticket – the son of Senator Marlowe, who’s been given the codes and security clearance and free rein to come and go as he pleases. Noah drives up to the gate and punches in a code. The gate swings open, and the security guard runs over and peers in the window. I’ve wrapped my hair in a scarf and I’m wearing dark glasses on the chance he’s been told to shoot Mackenzie Malloy on sight, but the guard doesn’t bat an eyelid as he waves us through.
He hasn’t even checked underneath the picnic blanket on the backseat, where Tiberius is hiding with his gun strapped across his chest.
We park in the garage – just one vehicle in a bank of fancy-ass cars. The one on the end is covered in a tarp that flaps in the breeze as the door clicks shut. I ease myself out of my door, careful not to clip it against the Mercedes next to us, and pull the blanket off Tiberius.
He groans as he unfolds his bulk and slides awkwardly out of the car. “Did you have to take those speed humps with quite so much enthusiasm?”
Noah is too wound up to appreciate Tiberius’ unique sense of humor. He lets out a sound that’s part caveman grunt, part tiger growl, but all pissy rich-boy. I itch to slap that expression off his perfect face, but I know he’s acting like a shit because he’s angry and afraid.
We’re in the lion’s den.
“Is your stepmother here tonight?” I whisper as Noah punches in a code to turn off the alarms and panic buttons. That done, we make our way through the darkened garage.
Noah shakes his head. “She’s staying with her parents. She says she doesn’t feel safe in the house anymore. The truth is, she’s never been safe here, not from the real enemy.”
He leads us through wide hallways and a towering foyer held up by fluted gothic columns. Malloy Manor is flashy in a typical Emerald Beach way, but the decor here is Murder House Chic – heavy wooden furniture, Victorian flocked wallpaper, chandeliers the Phantom of the Opera would dismiss as too grandiose. I turn to the sweeping staircase, but Noah tugs me away, leading us instead down a hallway on the eastern wing.
“Shouldn’t we go to the bedrooms?” I indicate the sweeping staircase.
Noah shakes his head. “Dad never sleeps there anymore.”
We pause outside a half-closed door. I listen hard, but the house is as silent as a tomb. And I’d fucking know. It’s got the feel of a tomb, too – the weight of six feet of grave dirt bears down on me as I stare at that door, teetering on the point of no return. Even the palatial rooms manage to feel claustrophobic, and my throat itches with the taste of stale, funereal air.
I will have my revenge on Brutus. I will make him taste the same fear. But it will not be tonight. Tonight is for Noah.
Cold moonlight beams through the window, glinting off Tiberius’ pistol as he presses his body against the wall, lifting his chin to wait for Noah’s signal. Noah’s eyes are two pinpricks of unfathomable blackness. Even in the gloom of the house, he is a creature of shadow and sin. Noah flicks his gaze to the door. His chest heaves. He makes his decision.
Pressing his finger to his lips, he shoves the door inward.
It flings open, bouncing against the wall with a CRACK that sounds like a gunshot. My heart leaps in my chest, but I don’t rush into the room the way Noah and Tiberius do. A queen takes her time.
I take a moment to glance around me at the room. With the double-height ceiling, stiff furniture, and decorative frieze of romanticized battle scenes, this looks less like a room in a house and more like the stateroom of a Roman palace. A fire blazes from a stone hearth – as if this is the middle of winter in Seattle or something and not fucking California. The flickering light illuminates a portrait that takes up nearly the whole wall – a young man who looks remarkably like Noah. Except for the eyes – they’re a beautiful deep blue, like the water of Emerald Beach on a calm, clear day, and there are no secrets inside them. Only kindness.
Felix Marlowe.
I don’t have time to appreciate the artwork. Noah’s father is on his feet, yelling and reaching for the light. Tiberius grabs his hand and slams it against the table, smashing the Tiffany lampshade and raining shards of glass across the Persian rug. Senator Marlowe grunts as he tries to kick his captor, but his legs are tangled in a blanket he had over his knees and it only takes a few moments for Tiberius to subdue him completely.
Tiberius hauls the senator from the floor and slams him into the wingback chair, pointing the gun at his head. “Don’t move a muscle,” he says, flicking the safety off with a cocky grin. “Unless you want your brains to decorate that fresco.”
“Who the fuck are you? What is this—” The senator’s eyes flick to Noah. I see they’re the same dark shade, although where Noah’s have depth and fire, John Marlowe’s are the kind of dark that is cold and heartless. “Son, what is this nonsense?”
I nod to Noah, who flicks on the unbroken lampshade on the opposite side of the fireplace, aiming the bulb at me as I step onto the edge of the rug. He’s been taking lessons from Gabriel on how to make a dramatic entrance.
“Hello, Senator.”
John Marlowe doesn’t flinch as he recognizes me. I’ll give him credit – he has a near-perfect poker face. But he doesn’t know that I’ve been schooled in how Marlowe men maintain control. He sweeps a hand through his hair, and there’s a slight wobble on the edge of his mouth. He’s not shitting himself yet, but he’s not far away.
“What is this?” He glares at Noah. “Do you know who this girl is?”
Noah moves to stand beside me. He looks down at his father with an expression of complete disdain – I know he’s mirroring the way the senator has looked at him for so many years, and I want to slap John Marlowe for it. Noah is amazing, and he should have never been made to feel small while Felix was treated like a god even in death.
He’ll never feel small again. Not after tonight.
“Noah, what’s the meaning of this?”
Noah says nothing. He lets his dad take in the scene – Tiberius beside the fire, his scarred face wreathed in flame, his finger tapping the trigger. Noah facing him with defiance burning in his eyes, his fingers entwined with his enemy, Mackenzie Malloy. Senator Marlowe flicks his finger beneath the arm of the chair, jabbing a panic button. Little does he know that Noah disabled the alarm. No one is coming to help him.
