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Loyal but vengeful.
Loving but cold.
He’s a hard man to love, but I did, even when I knew he was using me.
But I’m not that girl anymore, and Van is not that boy, though I hope his protectiveness still lurks within him since he basically chummed the shark-infested waters before tossing me overboard.
But then again, I don’t know what these guys have done. Van says they are killers, but are they human killers or, like, bug killers? Van could just be playing word games.
Honestly, they don’t look like criminals.
While tattoos peek out from under a few sleeves, one would never know that a thousand-dollar suit disguises a former convict. For all I know, they could really be elementary school teachers.
“Reese,” Magda interrupts, pulling my attention back to the perfect lasagna causing my stomach to rumble. “When did you and Alistair meet?”
It’s funny she refers to Van as Alistair, not Asshole or Demon Child.
“We met in South Carolina,” I tell her vaguely, “when we were teenagers.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Van is beside me.
“We can’t stay,” he tells Magda, almost as if he’s ashamed.
She turns slowly and faces him. There’s no fear in her eyes, only the brightest look of concerned suspicion. “You can’t? And who—”
“I approved it.”
My head jerks back at the familiar voice and find Judge Gadot standing at the kitchen door.
“It’s his wedding night,” he offers as an explanation, flashing Magda an apologetic smile.
“He’ll come for breakfast tomorrow instead.”
I don’t remember that conversation ever being discussed, but I also don’t remember Van telling me that Enoch was family, either.
“All right,” Magda says sternly. “But I expect you both here for breakfast in the morning. I need to get to know my new daughter-in-law.”
My head snaps in Van’s direction, but his hard gaze gives nothing away.
Daughter-in-law?
It’s not like I didn’t already know his mother was dead. After all, that’s how we met, but the passion he feels about his mother is incomprehensible. I cannot imagine him ever calling someone else Mom or even allowing a person to attempt to fill that role.
“Understood.” Van tips his chin at Enoch and then grabs my hand rather roughly and pulls us out of the kitchen without a single goodbye.
“Slow down,” I say, short of breath. “I can’t keep up.”
“You’ll keep up, or I’ll drag you. The choice is yours.”
Oh. My husband is quite romantic. Forget carrying me over the threshold like a normal person. My husband prefers to drag me through it.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
We exit the front door, where a man dressed in a black suit and white gloves awaits with Biscuit next to our car. “Mrs. Cain,” he addresses me.
“Uh…”
I have no idea who this man is.
“Peter,” he answers my unspoken question. “I’m the butler for The House of Enoch.”
