I watch the bastards walk out of the study. Odin told me to stay in my room, but it’s not like that would have changed anything. I knew what my father had agreed to in order to save his neck. I’m pretty good at being invisible, lurking in shadows and listening. It’s easy with my father because he wishes I was invisible. Wishes I’d never been born.
He’s another bastard just like them. Worse, if he can sell his own flesh and blood and on this day of all days. We buried my uncle, Jax Donovan, today. He was my mom’s brother and the last link to her.
Santos Augustine stops on his way out. As if what we just did—that shared spilling of blood—somehow bound us, creating an invisible tether between us. He turns and looks up at where I am lurking in the shadows of the second-floor landing. His eyes meet mine. Even at this distance, they send a shiver along my spine.
I narrow mine and send all the hate I can muster his way because maybe he can see what’s inside of me too.
“You belong to me now… Don’t forget it.”
What the fuck does that even mean? I’m fifteen. He’s ten years older than me. What can he do to me? Nothing. That’s what.
We stare at each other for a long minute before he gives me an almost imperceptible nod and what I swear is a smirk before he and his family walk out of my sight. Out of our house.
My brother appears at the bottom of the stairs. He pauses to look up at me, and I see his face contort with pain as he begins to climb. My father glances at us, then disappears back into his study. He can rot there for all I care.
“I told you to stay upstairs,” Odin says, taking my hand. The handkerchief is sticky with blood, but he peels it away. I suck in a breath. “He didn’t have to be so fucking brutal about it.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“Let’s go get this bandaged up.” He looks at me with that pitying expression. Why, I don’t know. He’s the one with the fucking limp.
My eyes fill up. It’s bad this time. He’s never limped before.
“Are you okay?” I ask him as we walk through my bedroom into the bathroom we share. It’s a jack-and-jill. The second bedroom wasn’t supposed to be Odin’s, but he’s been there for as long as I can remember.
“I’m not the one with a cut in my hand. Sit.”
I perch on the edge of the tub while he rummages beneath the sink for the first-aid kit. Once he has it, he sits on the closed toilet seat and drops the handkerchief into the trash can. He proceeds to clean the cut. It stings, but I hold my breath and don’t make a sound, watching him work as he carefully bandages it.
Once he’s finished, he throws away the cotton swabs and washes his hands. “It’ll probably scar. I’ll see if I can get you a cream.”
“I don’t care about a scar,” I tell him, watching blood stain the bandage. It hurts. But weirdly, it gives me something to focus on.
Something to time my breath to.
You can feel your heart beat to the throbbing of pain like this. It’s a strange sensation. Grounding in a way.
“Here,” Odin says, taking two aspirin from a bottle in the cabinet and holding them out to me.
I take them and watch him swallow two himself.
“The limp isn’t better,” I tell him, as if he didn’t know.
“It’ll be fine. Just needs some time.”
I follow him into his bedroom, where he drops onto the edge of his bed like he’s exhausted.
I sit beside him and lay my head on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t let him do it.”
“I’d rather he beat me than you,” he says and guilt washes over me even though that’s not his intention. Our father is an asshole and a drunk. And Odin has stood between him and me too many times.
“I wouldn’t.” I look up at him.
“Well, sis, you’re safe now,” he says with a dark smile on his face. “You belong to Santos Augustine. I don’t think he’ll take it well if our father lays a hand on you.”
“Is that like the silver lining or something? Because it’s a crappy silver lining.”
He chuckles and scoots back to lean against the headboard. He studies me. “What did he say to you? Before he did it?”
I cross the room, push the curtain aside to look out into the dark street. I’m not sure if the lights I see in the distance are the tail lights of the Augustines’ cars.
“Forgive me,” I say, turning back to Odin.
“Hmm.”
“And then the ominous, ‘You belong to me now… Don’t forget it.’” I mimic Santos Augustine’s low, dark voice. “Asshole.”
“You do, though. You understand that, right?” Odin asks seriously.
“I understand that he’s a jerk and a bully. I understand that our father fucked up and what they should do is punish him.”
“They are.”
“No, they’re punishing all of us.”
“These things are complicated. There’s history between our father and Brutus Augustine.”
“What history?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure of the details, but Santos’s aunt, Brutus’s older sister, used to work for The Club. Something happened with her and dad.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “He hurt her?” I know what he’s capable of.
“I guess. It doesn’t matter for you. It was a long time ago. What matters is that you take this seriously.”
“It’s not the middle ages. Women don’t belong to men anymore.”
“People don’t sign contracts on parchment in blood anymore either. This is real, Madelena.”
“Don’t call me that.” He only uses my full name when he’s either angry at me or I’ve done something stupid. I can’t stand the former and the latter, well, whatever.
“I mean it. Just be careful.”
“Odin—”
“Promise me,” he says in a tone I don’t like, one that is too serious. When I don’t answer right away, he raises his eyebrows.
“Fine. I’ll be careful, whatever that means.” I pick up the framed photo of Uncle Jax, Odin, and me. We took the picture last year at the amusement park. We had such a great time.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder and put it down. “I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
He reaches over to open the nightstand drawer where he keeps a small flask. He twists the cap off and holds it out to me.
I mock gasp and touch my hand to my heart. “Odin! I’m fifteen!”
“I think we both deserve a little tonight.”
I take it and drink a big swallow, expecting but still wincing at the burn as it slides down my throat. I hand it back and watch Odin drain the flask.
“You’re going to get wrinkles if you keep looking at me like that,” he says, closing the flask and putting it back in the drawer.
“You’re in pain. I see it.”
He touches my hand. “You and me both. Go to bed. I want to forget today.”
I nod because I want that too. I kiss him on the forehead and switch out the light on the nightstand, leaving the door open a crack. On my way to my bedroom, I take the destroyed handkerchief out of the trash can. I’m not sure why I do it, but I do. I bring it to my nose and inhale the subtle, lingering scent of aftershave beneath the metallic one of blood. In my room, I shove it into the recesses of my bottom dresser drawer and change into pajamas before slipping into bed.
I don’t sleep right away, though. I lie wide awake, staring up at the ceiling, and think about what happened. About how Santos Augustine said those two words before he cut me—like he wasn’t going to enjoy what he was about to do. Like he didn’t want to do it.
But that is a bunch of bullshit, I tell myself, and roll onto my side. If he didn’t want to do it, he could have not done it. He’s an asshole. I know that. All the Augustine men are assholes with too much money, too much power, and absolutely no qualms about getting their hands dirty. I’ve seen Santos out on a few occasions. He always has some beautiful woman on his arm, and he’s always dressed impeccably. He’s also a man people give a wide berth to. That’s subconscious, I think, and pathetic. I know more about him than he might realize.
And I know Odin is right. What he said about me belonging to him, it was a warning.
One I won’t forget anytime soon.