Page 49

Chapter 17

Lucian

Present day ...

“Lucian! So good to see you!” Patrick Boyd reminds me of a cross between an evangelist and a car salesman. Bright goody-two-shoes smile in place, he wears his hair slicked back like a wanna-be gangster who can spout Bible verses while soliciting your vote. The thin-rimmed glasses are supposed to give him an educated air, but really, he just comes off as confused.

Thin, cold skin greets mine when I shake his hand. “It’s been a long time, Patrick.”

“How’s your mother?”

“Well.” I never cared much for my father-in-law, who never hid the fact that he favored my mother. Given his predilection toward younger women, though, it didn’t make sense that he’d find her all that attractive, which leads me to believe his feelings were also politically motivated. “Let’s not beat around the bush with formalities. I understand you’ve been inquiring about Schadenfreude.”

Brows winging up in surprise, he shifts in his chair and smiles. “Word travels quickly.”

“When you make enough noise, sure.”

“It was actually your father who told me about the secret group. Before he died. Just never really had the chance to fully connect me.”

Perhaps I gave my father too much credit for being shrewd. Of course, that’s the nature of my meeting with Boyd now. To see what the hell Griffin Blackthorne was thinking, when he made the guy privy to so many powerful individuals. Like allowing a child to play with the controls of a missile. “And what is your interest?”

“I want to be a part of it. One of the elite.”

Eyes locked on his, I study the fine, subtle movements of his body that betray the calm he’s trying to convince me of. The incessant twitch of his eye. The bobbing of his throat. The occasional flutter of his lashes and tip of his head. As if every nerve ending is firing at once and he can’t get a handle on it. Politicians are strange people, in that they have an ability to wear a mask for most of their public. But set them down in front of someone they might actually fear a little, and they tend to be a bit more transparent. “Are you aware of the nature of this group?”

“People come to you for favors. In exchange for … a particular recreation.”

“Sadism. And why would a man of your stature want to be affiliated with something like that? Considering your past transgressions?” Say it, Boyd. It’s political.

“As I understand, this group has existed for generations without anyone’s awareness, or interference.”

“You don’t strike me as the type of man who could stand by and watch the suffering of others.”

Lips curving to a grin, he crosses his legs and eases back into his seat. “I’m a politician, Lucian. I’ve done it my whole career.”

Rising up from my chair, I bite back the frustration of this meeting and come to a stand in front of the window. Below me, Isa pushes my mother in a wheelchair, stopping to point at something out of my view. The greenhouse, if the angle of her finger is anything to go by.

From here, the pale pink top she’s wearing cuts low enough that I can see her cleavage, just like I spotted it the day in the library, when she wore that godforsaken white dress. In fact, it’s God I blame in general for throwing this peculiar girl into my path.

Dark tresses fall over her shoulders, and my hands crumple into fists with the thoughts of how many times I could wrap her hair around them. Pulling her neck taught, mouth gaping while I hold a blade …

“Lucian?” The annoying tone of Boyd’s voice hits me like a wet towel to the face, and my previous thoughts dissipate with my returning irritation.

It’s just as well, really. I have no business looking at her that way.

So young.

These lecherous thoughts she’s stirred inside of me are wrong, yet the temptation pulls at me every time I’m near her. The cloying, sweet scent of her skin, and oozing sensuality in her voice that serves as an aggravating distraction every time she talks. The way she challenges me, in spite of the sliver of fear behind her eyes. It messes with my head and if there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s when shit messes with my head.

Nineteen. Not a huge gap, but she’s young enough to make me feel like my father ogling the help, a thought that crimps my lips.

“You don’t understand,” Boyd prattles on behind me, while I continue to watch my mother and her disarming companion. “I didn’t mean to screw things up with that Krishner girl. It was just … she was so young and pretty. So … different. I missed my Amelia terribly. I was distraught. Particularly when Greta left me. I was alone.”

The comment leaves me frowning, and I break from the window to face him. “So, you fucked a teenager to soothe your broken heart? That’s disturbing, Patrick.”

“It was stupid. Irresponsible. And for the record, she was of consenting age.”

She was barely eighteen, and him fifty-six. Consenting, or not, it’s fucking gross.