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“I left DuPont tower,” I said while tugging him toward the sitting room. Atticus and August followed after us. I took a moment to remove the sheets covering the furniture, then plopped down on my mother’s favorite sofa, with Leo sitting beside me.
“Is it wrong that I’m a little happy she killed some of your men in the process?” August asked while preening at Atticus. He moved to the large wingback and slumped into it.
“I’m about two seconds from punching him,” Atticus said while staring at me.
“Did you get hurt?” Leo asked, unbothered by their fighting. The golden guard looked at me closely, searching my eyes for the pain we both knew was there. Even though I could turn my emotions off during a kill, I still struggled with the aftermath. I refused to feel bad for escaping, though. Atticus might have had some sway, but Theodore DuPont was bad news. I had a bad feeling something terrible would happen if I stayed there any longer.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “It needed to be done. We’re all here now, and we’re going to work together to take down Lord Nathan.”
August let out an audible scoff.
“Augustus,” Atticus said. He cleared his throat. “We know you might have some reservations, but we need you. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but everything I’ve done has been in your best interest.”
August narrowed his eyes and looked at us suspiciously. “My best interest? Stealing the woman I am to marry was in my best interest?”
I swallowed. “Atticus, maybe we should tell him.”
“Tell me what?” August snapped.
Leo looked between us. Observing. Always observing. I squeezed his hand while Atticus gnawed nervously on his lip.
I gave a brief nod to the towering DuPont, who was stewing in his indecision. “Six weeks ago, your mother came to me. She had a job for me to do.”
At the mention of his mother, August’s face fell. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him about her death, and the loss of Isabelle still weighed heavily on both of us. “What kind of job?” he choked out.
“Your father got some information—information that put you in danger. Your father was very angry.”
August peered at him. “Did you—”
“I killed your father to protect you,” Atticus said, cutting him off.
August sat back on the seat, his eyes wide with wonder. “You? You killed him?” He leaned forward and gaped at Atticus. “What did he find out? What did he know?”
“Your mother had an affair. You are not the rightful heir to the throne,” Atticus said. His declaration was like a heavy weight settling over all of us. It was a complete and naked truth. My fingers were clenched so tight around Leo’s hand that the tips of my fingers hurt and tingled.
“You’re lying,” August said in disbelief. His breathing quickened as his fingers twitched in his lap. August’s eyes darted from me to Atticus to Leo, looking for some sign of deception.
“I’m not,” Atticus replied.
Silence stretched. Our breathing seemed too loud, even the creaks and groans of my childhood home were deafening, weaving through the silence that had fallen over us.
August’s teeth ground together like gears. His fingers flexed like he was going to tear something apart. “You really are a fucking bastard,” August finally said, his voice was barely above a whisper. “What is your angle? Why lie like this?” August stood from his seat and moved toward the fireplace, his boots thudding against the floor.
“Augustus,” Atticus said. I could hear the crack in his voice. “Your father was going to kill you and your mother.”
“No. My father was a bastard, but he wouldn’t—” His eyes slid to me and he paled. He’d learned a lot about King Frederick these last couple of weeks and exactly what he was capable of.
Atticus stepped toward him. “I know you don’t want to believe me, but it’s true. She made me promise to keep you safe—”
“Stop,” August said. He held up his hands. “Stop. I don’t want to hear this.”
“August. I know this is hard,” I said, trying not to anger him more.
August’s eyes widened as he looked back at me. “Christine?” He paused as he took a deep breath. “You knew. Why didn’t you tell me?” Anger seethed from him, his shoulders hunched and his cracked knuckles turned white.
“I-I was going to,” I stuttered. “I just found out while I was at DuPont tower. I would have told you earlier, but we were…” My words trailed off. We were dealing with our fucked up relationship. We were trying to navigate all of this chaos.
“I wanted to tell you,” Atticus added. “But you weren’t stable. I wasn’t sure—”
