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A butler? Wow. No wonder Van is an arrogant little prick. He’s got a silver spoon shoved up his ass.
“Thank you, Peter,” I say hesitantly, scooping Biscuit into my arms and clutching her to my chest, “for taking care of my cat.” While I deal with killers…
I don’t add that part because it looks like Peter is all too familiar with dealing with said killers. “It’s my pleasure.” He then looks at Van and tips his chin. “Mr. Cain.”
“Peter.”
Without waiting for Peter, Van opens the car door and guides me inside before rounding the front and easing behind the wheel.
“You never answered my question.” I stroke Biscuit’s soft fur, not bothering to acknowledge the aggravated huff I hear from my left. “Where are we going?”
“To my home.”
I don’t miss that he chooses not to say our home. Fucker.
“I assumed you lived here.” The house is big enough to house several families without them passing each other in the halls.
“You assumed wrong.” He pulls out of the circular driveway and heads through the peach orchards and rolling hills. But instead of getting back on the main road, he veers off to the right, to another driveway I didn’t notice when we were first coming in. It runs through several acres—I’d guess, about a mile away from his family.
“Eden,” Van clarifies dryly, “is my home, but the house of Enoch is not.”
The House of Enoch? When did Van grow up? The 1800s?
“Enoch,” he says finally, “is a man of tradition. I am the son of Enoch,” he continues, like we’re in biblical times. “Shakespeare, Bach, and Tennyson are my brothers. We are heirs to an undeserved throne.”
“Ah,” I say like it makes perfect sense and not like I’m in some parallel universe. “And Magda? Is she—?” I shake my head. “Are you also the son of Magda?”
He pauses like he didn’t expect that question.
I assume he isn’t going to answer, but then, as we cross the top of the hill, he whispers, “Yes.”
“They must be amazing people,” I say, slipping back into the past when we used to talk openly without threats.
“Yeah,” he says, “they’ve been good to me.” The unlike you hangs unsaid in the air between us.
I try changing the subject. “So, if you don’t live in the house of Enoch—”
I’m cut off as a monstrous house, much like the house of Enoch, comes into view with its sprawling acreage, beautiful flowers, and magnificent Magnolia trees decorating the front. The loop around the driveway has a darker stone with flashes of white and red flowers, situated behind massive iron gates. It looks like a castle built from fire and ash. I don’t need to even ask if this is his home. It screams Van Gogh.
“The House of Cain,” I whisper, never having seen something so beautiful—so hauntingly perfect. And I’ve been around beauty and money, but this is something different.
This castle feels like pain and agony, yet the splashes of color are bright. Great big windows pour light through them, and suddenly it all makes sense. “Light from the east and darkness from the west,” I say, just as he pulls to the front and gets out. My door opens, and I struggle to mask the shock.
“Wow,” I say. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He fights back a smirk.
“I didn’t want you waiting for a butler here.”
I can feel my brows crunch. “You mean only The House of Enoch has staff?”
“Yes.”
His clipped tone leaves no room for questions, and even if I wanted to push him on it, I doubt he would answer. He’s shared enough on the mile or two over here.
Curling Biscuit to my chest, I get out and let the man of fire and brimstone lead me into his castle. It boasts nothing but deep, rich navies and golds, much like Enoch’s house, but then there are black-accented walls and tarnished fittings. It looks like the whole house has been scorched, but it still shines brilliantly in the dark.
“If you’re hungry, the kitchen is there.” He points to a massive kitchen with black counters and glossy cabinets. A huge island sits in the middle, but it’s bare, sans the vase of sunflowers, in the middle.
