I was his only child. He hated me, but bloodlines were everything. Money was everything. I had inherited everything my mother had, which included just under half of the businesses since she was an investor. He needed me for power and status, more than I needed him right now.
“Really?” His face is so close to mine I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “Don’t push me, boy.”
I say nothing, but meet his glare. I wasn’t going to cower from him. He didn’t own me. After a few moments, he shoves me away so hard I stumble and fall headfirst into the doorframe, bashing my head on the wood.
“This town is nothing but a playground for the rich and the depraved. It’s best you learn which way your bread is buttered if you want to make it to adulthood,” he spits, before pushing past me and storming upstairs.
My head feels wet where my fingers touch the tender spot, and I know it’s blood before I see it. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I sit at the breakfast bar and pop off the cap. Looking out into the garden, where the darkness blankets everything, I take a long swig. I wonder what he’s done with the body this time.
Chapter Seven
Elena
I spend my lunch break in the music room with my violin. I should be practicing for the pep rally we have coming up with the rest of the cheerleading squad, but the masquerade ball is coming up too, and my father wants me to play a piece just before he gives a speech to garner support in the election. I don’t know why he tries so hard sometimes, the election can easily be bought, and with the backing of The Society, it’s virtually a sure thing.
I try to lose myself in the music, but it feels flat. I was here early this morning too, and I’ve been practising at home, but the bow feels wrong in my hand, and my chin feels like it's beginning to bruise as I butcher Beethoven’s music. Tristan was right, I sucked. I chastise myself, my father asked me to do this. I couldn’t disappoint him. I wouldn’t.
Sighing softly, I keep going, my fingers moving over the strings, ignoring how they bite into my skin as I force it. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead, and I bite back frustration as I ruin another note. Finally, I pause and inhale. I need to calm down and try again. I am not a failure. I am not a disappointment. I am just tired, I tell myself. I lower the violin as a lone clap echoes around the room.
Turning, I see Tristan standing in the doorway, clapping slowly with a huge grin. He looks tired, and there’s a gash on his forehead, nestled in a pretty purple bruise.
“Sonata No.9 has never sounded so shit,” he laughs as he enters the room.
“You think you can do better?” I hiss, annoyed. “Then here, have at it.”
I shove the instrument into his chest, getting a pang of enjoyment at the look of surprise on his face. Was he expecting me to cry at his comment? Was I supposed to care what he thought?
“What’s happened?” his concerned voice makes me frown. Putting the violin down on a nearby table, he grabs my hand. Turning it over, he looks at the red angry lines forming on my fingertips, and we both stare as a droplet of blood begins to form on my index finger. Without saying a word, he takes my finger in his mouth and gently sucks. I can feel his tongue flick over my skin as he slowly moves up the length of my finger. I stand, rooted to the spot, confused. What on earth was happening here?
I finally catch myself, and placing my hand on his forehead, I shove him away, pressing down on his cut hard as I do. He yelps as he steps back, eyeing me wearily as he sucks in a sharp breath.
“What the fuck was that?” I demand, glaring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Keep your hands and your mouth to yourself.”
He straightens up, that smirk appearing as he cocks his head at me. “Jesus, how sexually frustrated are you if that got you all hot and bothered?”
Crossing my arms, I roll my eyes. Why did it feel like Tristan Radcliffe was everywhere I turned these days? “I am not hot and bothered.”
“Really?” He leans against the desk and swipes his thumb across his bottom lip before crossing his arms and mocking my stance. Why did that make my chest feel tight? “The fact that you just got violent with me says otherwise.”
I grab my violin case from the floor and begin putting my instrument and sheet music away as I smile sweetly. “If it wasn’t illegal, I’d always be violent towards you.”
My body brushes against his as I reach across the table he’s leaning on to grab my bow. Placing it inside the case I close the lid and secure the clips with a snap.
Leaning in, so that I get a hint of something musky, he whispers, “Don’t lie. The Society would help you hide my body if you wanted me dead. You want me very much alive and breathing.”
It’s impossible to miss the suggestive tone of his voice, but Tristan isn’t on my ‘to-do’ list this week, or next. I have other things I need to take care of, and he isn’t even a stray thought. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Stretching out, his arm crosses in front of me as he uses it to prop himself up. “C’mon, Lena, when was the last time you got laid?”
His dark eyes burn into my skin as he watches my face, I don’t know what for, embarrassment? A blush? I refuse to give him whatever it is he wants.
“It’s none of your business,” I reply calmly as his hand comes around my wrist. He tugs gently and reverses our
