Page 12 of Twisting Beauty

I filed that away, too.

Alistair’s voice was measured and calm as he spoke. “Lord, we give thanks for the provision of this home, for the order that sustains it, and for the discipline that keeps each of us faithful to our purpose and to this family.”

Through my lashes, I glared at her.

Her head was bowed, her hands still in her lap, her spine very straight.

“We ask that those raised under this roof be granted the clarity to recognize sacrifice when it is made on their behalf, and the humility to receive correction as the act of love it is intended to be.”

As if she felt my gaze, her eyes lifted beneath her lashes and found mine across the table.

Neither of us looked away.

“In all things, may duty precede desire. Amen.”

I tore my gaze away first.

The meal started around the table and the silence that followed was weighted.

She reached for her cutlery, outer fork first. Correct. She took a bread roll from the basket and then set it on her side plate. She waited until Alistair had lifted his fork before she picked up hers.

Each correct move made me more suspicious, not less.

Rua had never been careful about these things. Rua had needed to be corrected constantly at this table, forks on the wrong side, reaching before Alistair had started. This girl moved through the ritual like someone who had studied the rules rather than grown up under them.

I drank the rest of my wine and set the glass down. “Father.” The word came out level. “Don’t you think Rua looks different?”

Her eyes cut to mine across the table. The flinch was small, barely there, a slight pull at her brows that she caught and smoothed before Alistair turned toward her. But I’d seen it. It landed like confirmation, sharp and satisfying, and I held her gaze for a second longer than was necessary before I looked away.

I took a mouthful of wine and kept watching.

Alistair’s attention moved over her face, the way he looked at new acquisitions, at properties, at things he was considering the value of. Then lower, taking his time where the fabric of her top pulled taut across her chest.

My fork stalled. The look was not fatherly. Something dark twisted through my gut.

I reached for my glass, but for some stupid reason, I knocked the stem instead of grabbing it.

Thankfully, my reflexes were honed from hurling, and I caught it before the wine spilled across the white linen.

Alistair’s gaze flicked to my hand.

I set the glass down properly and released it, one finger at a time.

“You’ve filled out, Rua,” Alistair said to her, setting his knife down as he speared a piece of lamb on his fork. “The Institute’s regimen seems to have finally made a woman of you.”

I kept my face still. Under the table, my hand tightened to a fist.

Her grip briefly tightened on her spoon, her shoulders almost imperceptibly squaring before she smoothed out her expression. “Magdalene certainly had a lasting effect on me.”

Her control impressed me despite everything. Rua would have colored, dropped her cutlery, made it obvious.

“But her manner,” I said after a moment. “Her attitude. The way she holds herself. It’s almost like she’s a different person, isn’t it?”

She laughed, and the sound had teeth. “Aww, big brother. You mad because therapy gave me a pair?”

I bit back my rising temper and made myself smile, the kind that took effort to hold. “I’m surprised they let you out.”

She tilted her head, all faux sweetness. “You don’t like the woman therapy stripped back?”