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Chapter Nine
Troy
With Thalia so upset, I don't leave for Stonehaven until the following morning. Even then, I'm anxious about leaving her side. She's hiding something from me, something important. Whatever it is, it's eating her alive.
That drives me fucking crazy. If she'd just tell me, I'd fix it for her. But I see the fear in her eyes when I bring it up. She shuts down whenever I push for information about her past or family.
They're the key to whatever is eating at her.
I stop by Samson's on the way to the castle, knowing I need help figuring it out.
He opens the door, blear-eyed and yawning.
"I need help."
"Jesus, Troy. It's too fucking early for whatever battle is brewing between you and your father today," he groans, rubbing his temples.
It's been a rough week. Every fucking time I come back, my father and I argue about something. I've been avoiding him the last few days. Ever since he informed me that he still hasn't canceled the marriage contract. We nearly came to blows over that one.
He's lucky he's old and frail. If he weren't, I probably would have wrapped my hand around his throat and shaken him like the bastard he is.
"It's after ten, Sam."
"Yes. That's too fucking early." He sighs dramatically, shoving the door open. "Come in. It's too goddamn bright out here." He glares at the sun as if he expects it to turn down five notches.
"Late night?"
"Please don't remind me." He stomps across the room to the wet bar, rifling through until he finds the vodka. He holds it up toward me, silently asking if I want a glass. He shrugs and takes a swig straight from the bottle when I shake my head. "Ah," he breathes. "That's better."
"You know you wouldn't have to keep drinking all fucking day if you never started, right?" I ask, moderately amused.
He gives me the finger, flopping down on the couch. "You know, I wouldn't have to start if they'd find a fucking cure for hangovers, right?"
I chuckle, shaking my head.
"Did you know Darion Avila has twin daughters?" He cranes his head back, eyeing me over the back of his sofa. "Clara and Zara." His brows furrow. "Or maybe Sara and Vera. I don't fucking remember. It's not relevant. The point is, he has two gorgeous daughters, and they're little hellcats." He groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "They kept me up all fucking night. Vera—or maybe it is Zara—is an artist with her tongue."
"Jesus Christ, Sam," I mutter, my lip curling. "I don't want to hear this."
"You're the one banging on my door at ten in the morning," he reminds me. "Why are you here anyway? After what happened the other day, I figured you'd be back in your love nest with your wood nymph, ignoring your responsibilities while you let him stew."
"She's not a wood nymph," I growl, glaring at him, which only makes him chuckle. "And she's the reason I'm here."
"Oh, really?"
"I need help."
"You said that when you got here."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, striving for patience. He's testing it today. Has he always been this infuriating? I'm not sure. He's always been outrageous, but I think I have less patience for it now. The shit he says about the women he sleeps with—I can't imagine ever saying any of that about Thalia.
"Sorry," he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll stop pissing you off now. What's up? What do you need?"
"She's afraid of her father. I want to know who the fuck he is and what he did to her," I growl.
"Okay, so…ask her."
"She won't tell me."
