Page 18 of Decimation

I narrow my eyes, studying Chen’s face for any hint of challenge, any suggestion that he’s testing my loyalty, but all I see is concern. Genuine, frustrated concern for the future of the Brethren.

I should defend Konstantine. I should tell Chen he’s out of line, that he needs to show some god damn respect. That’s what a loyal brother would do. That’s what my father would expect of me, but the words stick in my throat.

Chen is right. Ines is a problem. A big fucking problem. A cancer that’s metastasizing through everything Konstantine touches, every decision he makes. And until she’s dealt with, until she’s removed from the equation, my brother will never be the leader he’s supposed to be.

I don’t say anything. I can’t bring myself to agree, can’t force myself to defend. So I just hold Chen’s gaze for a long moment, letting the silence speak for me then turn and walk away.

I’m brooding in my suite when they arrive.

The villa is quiet tonight, save for the distant sound of the wind howling outside. I’ve been nursing a drink for the better part of an hour, staring out at the darkness beyond the windows, trying not to think about what my father would do in this situation. I know by now all those whisperings from the meeting will no longer be contained to these four walls. Rumours have a way of getting out, of spreading, of turning from mere discontent to full on fucking rebellion.

While my brother is happy to pretend that the Esau threat is a far-off thing, a limited thing, contained within the British Chapter, I’m not so sure. I’m not so hopeful.

I know neither are the Guardians. Antonio thinks they are bigger, Zayn swears he has evidence that they are here, in the States but my brother won’t hear it. He won’t even consider it. He’s too busy dancing to the tune of his pretty bitch of a wife.

The door swings open without warning.

“Brother,” Konstantine announces himself with that easy confidence he’s always possessed, but tonight there’s something softer beneath it, something almost tender. “You’re being terribly antisocial.”

Ines follows behind him, a vision in some barely-there slip dress that clings to her body like a whispered secret. The silk catches the low lamplight, shimmering with every breath she takes. Her dark braids cascade over her shoulders, and she’s wearing that knowing smile she always does when she wants something. Tonight it reaches her eyes differently, a flicker of something I can’t quite name, something that makes my stomach tighten with instinctive wariness.

“I’m busy,” I mutter, not bothering to turn around. What the fuck do they expect anyway? They can’t spit in my face and expect me to be grateful for it.

“Busy drinking alone in the dark?” Konstantine’s voice is gentle now, but I can still hear the usual mockery lingering beneath. He moves toward me like one might approach a wounded animal. “That’s pathetic, even for you.”

“Maybe I want to be alone.” It’s not like I can’t have my pick of girls if I wanted them. It’s not like I can’t jump in the helicopter, spend a few hours at the Black Orchid or some other club if I so desired. But the truth sits heavy in my chest; I don’t want company. Not theirs. Not anyone’s. Something about the way they’re looking at me tonight makes my skin prickle with unease.

“Nonsense.” Ines’s voice is like honey, sweet and thick, but there’s a tremor in it I’ve never heard before. She moves with that feline grace of hers, perching herself on the arm of my chair, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “You spend every evening locked away in here. It’s not healthy. We worry about you.”

We. The word cuts deeper than any blade.

I let out a huff, trying to ignore how close she is, how her perfume invades my senses, jasmine and something darker, something that smells like forbidden fruit and half-remembered dreams. How she invades everything. How she’s invaded my thoughts every single day since my brother first brought her home, his eyes bright with the triumph of possessing something so exquisite.

I’ve never trusted her, never trusted the way she looks at me, like she’s cataloguing my weaknesses for future use.

Then my mind reminds me of what I have out, what I’ve got sprawled across my desk. All the information about Paitlyn, all the things I have done when I was expressly told not to. I grit my teeth, mentally calculating how I can pack it all away without them seeing it.

“Come on,” Konstantine says, removing my empty glass with a tenderness that catches me off guard. His fingers brush mine as he presses a fresh one into my hand. “One drink. Then we’ll leave you to your brooding. I promise.”

I look up at him then, really look. There’s something in my brother’s eyes, something almost pleading. Something that reminds me of when we were boys, when we were inseparable, before the weight of the family name crushed everything soft between us. But there’s something else too, something calculating beneath the surface. If I can play this cool, I can get through this without them even realising.

“Fine. One drink.”

Konstantine’s smile is different tonight, not triumphant, but relieved. He raises his own glass in a toast, and his voice catches slightly. “To family. To us.”

“To family,” Ines echoes, her fingers trailing along my shoulder with a deliberateness that sends an unwanted shiver cascading down my spine. Her touch lingers, a question asked in the language of skin, and I have to resist the urge to pull away.

I drink. The liquor burns going down, different from the whiskey I’d been nursing. Sharper somehow. More intense. It spreads through my chest like liquid fire, like something I didn’t consent to.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice already sounding strange to my own ears.

“Something special I picked up in Prague,” Konstantine says, settling into the chair across from me. “You like it?”

I take another sip. It’s good. Really good. The warmth spreads through my chest, my limbs, making everything feel softer somehow. Easier. The sharp edges of my resentment begin to blur, and beneath them I find something I’ve been trying desperately to ignore; a heat I don’t want, a pull toward something dangerous.

Ines slides off the chair arm and moves to the old gramophone I have on display in the corner. It’s vintage, one of a kind, and it’s still working despite its age. Her fingers trace its brass horn with reverence, as if she understands what it means to me, this relic of a more beautiful time. A moment later, the sound of a saxophone fills the room, old school jazz throbbing through the air like a heartbeat like the pulse of something alive and aching.

She starts to move.