“There’s nothing about me that’s civilized, Mother,” Parrish drawls, sounding bored as he looks me over from head to toe, sizing me up with a single glance. As soon as he’s made his pass, he’s done, and I can see a hardening in his eyes: he’s dismissed me.
The thought is fucking infuriating.
But I promised my grandma that I would try. I promised Maxine. I promised myself.
“Nice to meet you, Parrish, I’m Dakota,” I grate out as pleasantly as I can, stepping forward and offering a hand. His are covered in tattoos, literally drenched with ink. There are matching sunbursts on the backs of either hand, letters decorating his knuckles. Both arms are covered, too, and much of his chest. I know he’s a bit older than me—seventeen as opposed to sixteen—but I can’t imagine how he got so much ink so fast.
He stares at my hand for a moment and then takes another swig of milk. I notice he doesn’t get a single drop of white stuck to his lips. My hatred for him doubles. Triples. Quadruples with each subsequent swallow.
“Chasm’s coming over in a few,” he tells Tess, and she bristles with irritation.
“Parrish, shake your sister’s hand,” she snaps, her voice stretched thin with fatigue from the long flight. We flew business class—of course we did—but she’s still tired, and so am I. Drained. Empty. Emotionally destroyed. “And tell Chasm he can spend a few nights at his own place. We have family stuff going on here.”
With another chug of milk, Parrish turns and shuffles back into the living room, barefoot and wearing plaid pajama pants and nothing else. Against my will, my eyes glide over the smooth muscles in his upper back, traveling down the curve of his spine and finding a taut, trim waist. A drip of lust mixes with my newfound fury and turns it into something … weird. Like my emotions weren’t already in a tangle from finding out that I’m a goddamn kidnap victim. As if he can sense me looking at him, Parrish throws a lazy, arrogant glance over his shoulder.
“As if, little sister. In your dreams.”
Parrish pads off, leaving me gaping, a violent, achy feeling shooting from my heart to my fingers and toes. What the … hell? My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails digging crescent marks into my palms. Did he really just say that? Really? Fucking really?!
I have to slow-blink away the shock of his casual insult before I can close my lips, turning back to look at Tess.
She’s now halfway up the stairs and doesn’t seem to have heard.
Loneliness spreads out from my chest, an icy balm to soothe away the fire of my frustration. It doesn’t make me feel any better though. Instead, I hurt worse. There’s nothing more devastating than the cavernous chill of being lonely.
“Like I was even looking,” I murmur lamely, almost a whole minute too late, and far too quiet for Parrish to have heard anything at all. Parrish. When Tess and I first met—and she’d finally stopped kissing my forehead and crying—we sat at my grandparents’ kitchen table, and she told me all about her other children.
Parrish isn’t Tess’ biological kid. Instead, he’s the son of her husband, Doctor Paul Vanguard. She met Parrish when he was three, and I’d been gone for just a few months. She told me she threw herself into being his mother for want of missing me.
I’m not sure how to process that.
Apparently, I have four biological half-siblings living in this house, too, siblings that I share with Parrish.
Heaving a defeated sigh, I follow Tess up the stairs and find her waiting, wringing her hands in nervousness. The curved staircase deposits us in a bit of hallway floored with pale bamboo, a wall of windows facing toward the lake. On either side of us, the hallway continues. Tess gestures for me to follow her to the left.
“Your room is right across from Parrish’s,” she tells me as I struggle to rein in a groan. Fan-flipping-tastic, that’s exactly the restful, private space I need: one with a doorway that’s three feet from his. Tess glances over her shoulder to gauge my reaction, so I force a smile I don’t feel. Her hair is bouncy and dark like mine (before I dyed it anyway), thick espresso-colored curls pinned into a loose bun behind her head with several stray ringlets brushing against a pale freckled neck. My own hand strays to my neck, and I flush, hoping Tess won’t guess the direction of my thoughts.
“Look at those toes, kiddo. Long and curved, just like me and your mother. Your great-grandmother used to call them witch toes.” My grandfather’s voice sounds in my mind, and I choke a little on my feelings. I looked just like them, like my grandparents, like Maxine, like Saffron—the woman I thought was my mother, but was really just my … kidnapper.
