Page 143 of A Vicious Love

It was after three in the morning, closer to four when I walked into Marcel’s house. I stood outside his room and considered whether waking my brother and his wife because I had developed a sudden, violent allergy to feelings was appropriate.

It wasn’t.

I went in anyway.

Marcel’s house was dark, but not cold. It never was anymore. Before Emmie, his estate had been black stone, and silence that made staff nervous. Now the hallways had warmth under the floors because Emmie hated waking up with cold feet. There were flowers on side tables. Soft blankets folded over chairs. Books stacked where she had abandoned them. Little pieces of her everywhere, ruining the place in the most disgusting way possible.

Making it a home.

Their bedroom was at the end of the private wing, behind two carved black doors I had absolutely no right to open. I opened them.

Marcel woke before the door even finished moving.

He came up on one elbow, body half over Emmie before his eyes had fully adjusted, one arm locked around her waist and the other already reaching beneath the pillow. There was a gun there. I knew because Marcel and I were raised by the same kind of men, and neither of us slept in rooms without weapons.

Emmie made a sleepy sound against his chest.

“Daddy?”

I stopped in the doorway.

For a second, the whole reason I had come twisted under my ribs and made me feel sick.

They were tangled together in the dark like the world had ended and neither of them had noticed because they had each other. Emmie was curled against Marcel, her black hair spilled over his chest, one leg caught between his. Marcel had a hand on her back even while half-asleep, holding her there. Keeping her tucked into him, and safe from a threat that turned out to be me.

Disgusting.

Marcel’s eyes sharpened when he recognized me. He moved his hand away from the weapon.

“Jamison?”

I stood there in my coat, still smelling of smoke...feeling like something had cracked open in my chest and all the wrong things were spilling out.

“I’m having an emotional crisis.”

Marcel stared at me. Emmie lifted her head from his chest. No one spoke.

“I said,” I repeated, harsher, because apparently I needed the room to understand I was in a fucking emergency, “I’m having an emotional crisis.”

“I heard you,” Marcel said.

“And?”

“And I’m deciding whether I’m still asleep.”

“I’m serious.”

“That is what’s concerning me.”

Emmie blinked at me, still drowsy, then her expression changed. Her eyes softened first, her mouth trembled like she was trying not to smile.

I pointed at her immediately.

“Don’t.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Oh,” she whispered.