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August’s nostrils flared. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he said to him. “You are a fucking liar,” he shrieked. “You lied about Christine and now you’re lying about this. I don’t know what you want, but I don’t believe this shit. I don’t believe a fucking word.”
“It’s true,” Atticus said. “And I have proof.”
August snorted. “More lies?
Atticus rummaged through his pocket and pulled out an envelope.
“What the hell is that?” August asked before taking it from him, giving us all a look of disbelief. He slowly opened it, and a piece of paper slid out.
August’s fingers trembled as he unfolded the note, and he gripped the edges. He stared at the paper, his eyes skimming the words, then looked back up to us. His brown eyes spoke of incredulity.
“You know it’s authentic. You’ve seen your mother’s handwriting plenty of times,” Atticus said.
August swiped at the tears welling up in his eyes. “Why do you have this?”
“Insurance,” Atticus whispered. “When she told me to kill the king, I asked her to write down the truth and sign it. I’ve kept it safe, but wanted to have something should she stab me in the back.”
August cleared his throat.
“Dear Augustus,
If you’re reading this, then I’m hoping Atticus has a good reason for telling you the truth.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dearest boy, but I have not been honest with you…”
He dropped the paper and crumpled to the floor. I got up from my seat and wrapped my arms around him as he sobbed. I stroked his hair as his tears soaked into my chest. His shoulders shook as he cried. Then, he went strangely still and tilted his head up to look at Atticus, fear brimming in his expression. “If King Frederick was not my father, then who is?”
Atticus DuPont looked up and his face was on full display. He was pale, bloodless and trembling before August. His brown eyes, once so bright and certain, were now clouded and despairing. “August, you’re a DuPont.”
Chapter Sixteen
ATTICUS
I’d let Augustus spend the day sulking in the study. He’d disappeared for two hours after I dropped the bomb in his lap that we were brothers, and when he returned, he clutched a bottle of cheap whiskey and was stomping through the house, looking for a private room to drink away his sorrows.
Christine stayed hidden in the bedroom, trying to avoid his anger and also trying to sort through her own feelings about everything. I was giving her space and also reluctantly giving Leo the chance to grow some balls and comfort her.
If he didn’t pull the stick up his ass out soon and go take care of our girl, I would. And every miserable bastard in this house would hear her scream my name.
I opened the door to the study and walked inside, prepared for the worst. Augustus was temperamental, selfish, and self-destructive even under the best conditions. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was high off his ass and close to finishing the bottle.
What I found surprised me. Augustus was sitting behind the desk, just so, with his legs crossed, the bottle in his grasp, his eyes fixed on the bookshelf lining the opposite wall.
The study was warm. The setting sun danced and glittered through the panes, warming the rich oak and hardwood floors. A wall of books was on the right, and an expansive window was behind Augustus.
“I used to like reading.”
I didn’t say anything. He looked up at me after a moment, and I saw the glassy look in his eyes.
“Graphic novels. I liked the pictures. Too many words on a page and I got bored, but I liked it enough.” He took a swig of his whiskey. “King Frederick told me to stop wasting time with frivolous things.” He swallowed. “So I stopped reading them.”
He was speaking slowly, but with a clarity that I hadn’t heard come from his mouth in years. Maybe ever.
“I also liked sailing,” he said again, and then he reached for the bottle and pulled it back to his lips.
I stood next to him and looked at the books lined up in perfect order. There was a world atlas, but the spine was worn down, the pages well-thumbed.
“I used to read about the oceans,” he said, “and dream about sailing around the world.”
His voice slurred and his eyes were glossed over. He was a mess. And it was my fault. I spied another bottle of whiskey and took a swig while he spoke, needing my own liquid courage to survive the tension. The whiskey had a sharp, sweet taste that bit back, like a quaking cramp in my gut. Its smooth, woody taste was hard to describe but easy to enjoy.
