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What else do I have to lose, anyway? I refuse to get caught up in his sick games. I won't become a prisoner of his own obsessions.
I can no longer be your obsession, Manasseh!
CHAPTER 10
Five years ago
Samael
I’m reading, but my mind isn't at all focused on what's happening in the Wardstone Chronicles. Instead, it's consumed by thoughts of what Rebecca was doing riding over Manasseh last night. Today, I couldn't concentrate at school at all, and the ball hitting me on the head during practice made me even more dizzy.
I sense they're hiding something, both of them, and I don't like it. I don't want her to be near him.
Why were they complete opposites before, and suddenly they're best friends?
“Samael, your father has returned from his business trip to Romania. Dinner is served,” Lucia, the woman in charge of serving and cleaning, sticks her head through the crack in the door after knocking twice.
“I'm coming,” I mutter, tearing my nose out of the first edition book I was reading.
I don't care about many things, but books remain my only indulgence. I'm a collector, I can't help myself.
So, Dad is back. Why do I have to deal with him now, of all possible days? I don't feel the need to see him.
“Wait before you open the door next time, or you might catch me jerking off,” Manasseh's irritating voice echoes down the hallway.
But he's right. Lucia has the annoying habit of barging in without waiting for permission.
I sluggishly rise from the desk chair and stare at the bruise on my ankle, acquired during today's training. I have twisted it, and it's no wonder. My mind hasn't been focused on anything else, except for one thing.
What could Rebecca’s deal be with that idiot, Manasseh?
I glance at myself in the mirror as I pull a black All Saints hoodie over my head, planning to go down to dinner just like that. I don't care about clothes; I have nothing to celebrate.
I linger for a few moments, staring at my reflection.
The bruise on my ribs looks ugly. When did I get that? I gaze at my lean abdomen and chiseled jawline. Is Rebecca into skinny and nerdy guys or sturdy and idiotic ones? Does she like the pronounced veins on hands and abdomen, the unkept hair, and the vintage clothing? Or does she prefer a more gym rats with a flawless hairstyle, and high-end designer clothes far beyond the average lifestyle?
I never gave a damn about how I looked, but now it's like I suddenly care, and it hits me that I just compared myself to my brother down to the tiniest detail.
I drag myself down the stairs, muttering curses under my breath as I nearly trip over Uriel's stupid slipper left in the hallway. That moron always leaves his crap lying around, while Manasseh is obsessed with hiding his personal stuff from the world.
His room is always freaking spotless, like some creepy serial killer's den. He's definitely picked up some weird vibes from those twisted documentaries he's been binging on.
I make my way downstairs and see that dinner is just getting served. Anabella is already planted next to the head of the table, right beside Dan, spoon-feeding Manasseh like he's still a freaking baby, and the dude's almost eighteen. The guy with his jet-black hair slicked back and those piercing brown eyes is deep in conversation with our family lawyer, Mr. Holland, by the fireplace in the living room.
Gilliard Holland isn't just the Morgenstern family's lawyer; he's also my old man's right hand.
“Hello, Dan,” I give him a casual nod, taking my hands out of my pockets. “Good evening, Mr. Holland,” I toss a respectful greeting their way, and the lawyer flashes a smile, extending his hand for a shake.
I started off on the wrong foot because my dad already senses my icy tone and distant vibe, but he holds back from causing a major scene, and pretend not to notice the muscles in his jaw flexing and his teeth grinding with irritation.
“Samael... let me get a good look at you!” my dad grabs my shoulder with a firm grip and scrutinizes me with a serious gaze, while I give him the same intense scrutiny in return.
His beard is all scruffy, but his navy-blue suit looks perfect. He's rocking that signature scent of his, Joop, mixed with the lingering smell of stale Marlboro smoke. He's always puffing on those cancer sticks whenever he jets off to Romania. He claims it's some sort of tradition, and he's been sticking to it. I know it all too well, because Manasseh always swipes a few from him. It's become a ritual, every time he's back, my idiot of a brother reveres it, showing off his control-freak side. Manasseh won't miss a chance to snoop around in bags and pockets, searching for smokes. He's got a knack for poking his nose where it doesn't belong, but he hates it when others do the same to him.
Did I mention how many times he's gotten busted for that crap?
My dad can't stand people messing with his stuff. I inherited that messed-up obsession from him, and Manasseh picked it up from me too because I'm not immune to this messed-up habit. More than once, I've caught him snooping through my room, claiming that something's been stolen from him.
