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Without even one word he manages to exude the attitude I don’t take this seriously, like we’re in a boardroom.
Just because I’m not joyless like him, because I like fucking good times, doesn’t mean I don’t take my role as king of my part of Delacroix, of my place at the Quinate table seriously.
I do.
And I pull my fucking weight.
I sprawl in my seat at the table’s head, what I call the table’s head. Hendrick’s at the other end, and he doesn’t look up.
Fuck him. I’m getting the fucking jewels, and the fucking girl and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Leaning back, I hook an arm over the back of the chair and twist one of my rings, bouncing my foot on a knee. And I wait. Because I’m not calling the meeting to start until he looks up. The others won’t, tradition means it’s me or Hendrick.
We’re all rich, but the two with the most money, the most power, are me and him.
In here, it’s an equal balance of Quinate power, but there’s always been an air that we could make or break it. And if the Quinate falls, chaos will rain.
I like chaos.
Just not that particular kind of chaos. Not the idea of the absolute dregs rising to take what they can.
So the Quinate rules. But we both have the edge of being the two that if we went to war, if we tried to kill the other without just cause, then things would crumble. Like I said, the Quinate would come and destroy all the other person holds close, and I know it would mean the end of order in the city. The kind of end that would be felt everywhere.
The hate in me is hotter, more violent, the edge sharper.
MG has a lot to do with it.
Telling her about what his father did does, too. Because it makes everything I’ve stuffed down feel so much fresher.
Hendrick finishes whatever the fuck he’s doing. He closes the cover on the iPad and neatens the pad of paper on top of what looks like a book. He takes his time, calm, deliberate moves, as he caps his fountain pen and puts it away in the pocket of his jacket.
Then he looks at me. The glare might be subtle, but the ice of it burns bright and sharp.
He makes a gesture, and it takes all I have not to launch myself at him.
Even from here, I can feel his disdain, the vibration of dismissal, the way he clearly thinks I’m not good enough to be here.
We stare at each other.
A hot-cold war of wills.
Everything stretches out.
It takes Ivan clearing his throat to break it. “Can we begin?”
“Yes,” Hendrick says, not lifting that cold, hateful scowl from me, “can we, Jac?”
“Well, I’m not allowed to kill you, so we might as well.” I look around. “I believe the first and most important thing is Kester Kincaid?”
“You’ve decided that’s now important, have you, Jac?” Hendrick’s words are quiet, measured. “Good to know.”
I’m about to rip shreds from him, when he continues, “Because you know his plans—”
“I saw him,” I say, barely holding back the snarl, “alone.”
Hendrick doesn’t smile. “I’m aware you took a risk for the team after his attempt last time.”
“When he tried to cause trouble for me?” I ask, the poison right at the surface.
