Richer Than God - Amelia Wilde Page 0,38

my bed, and I’m so hungry for her that the emptiness grates with every breath. I’m not going to make it through dinner and this evening if I don’t calm the fuck down.

Foolish.

I abandon the ledger on my desk and shut myself in the attached bathroom. I’m too hard to ignore it any longer, the skin stretched tight over my thickness, and unzipping my pants and freeing my cock only gives me the slightest relief. A little more when I take it in my fist. The most when I pump myself to release in five desperate strokes. It’s still not enough, but it will have to do.

When I go back out, Reya is waiting with a manila envelope in her arms. “Zeus,” she says.

“Is that from the police station?”

She watches me, wary, as if we haven’t known each other for years. “It is.”

Reya’s waiting for me to ask about Brigit. I’m not fucking asking. If I say her name right now, I won’t be able to bear being away from her until dinner. I doubt she could handle more of me right now. I doubt I’d care. “Give it.”

She hands over the envelope, and I tear into it. Reya waits a minute longer, and when I don’t say anything, she leaves without another word. I’m not particularly invested in whether she’s angry with me or not. Her emotions have nothing to do with Brigit and my plans for her.

The contents of the envelope include a stapled packet of papers topped with a photo of Brigit. The photo is as arresting as she was the first time I saw her, and my heart stops to see it. It was taken from outside the window of a restaurant. Brigit sits at a table, her hands in her lap. She wears a smile I recognize as fake, forced. Part of her face is obscured by the head of the man she’s sitting with.

I flip it over, but there’s nothing written on the back. The explanation had better be in the report.

I skim the cover page, which is mostly details that don’t matter—her eye color. Her height. Last known address.

Her last name.

That name matters less and less to me with every hour that passes. She’s mine. Her father’s last name has no impact. There’s almost nothing about him here. I flip to the next page.

That’s when the words tip over and slide along the document, changing places until I shake it to get them to make any sort of sense.

Betrothed, it says. That’s a fucking strange way to describe it. I read over it again. Is this a fucking prank from the turn of the century? It’s not—there’s Xavier’s signature, right there at the bottom. Reported missing after engagement. Uncle/fiancé is John Lowell.

Fuck.

I know that name.

He’s not just some lowlife off the street; he’s a fucking judge. He presided over my arraignment the night Hades sent the law to Olympus. And he, like Xavier, is a corrupt motherfucker and frequent client of Olympus.

He’s on the invite list for the party.

I flip the packet closed and put it back in the envelope then shove all of it into the locking cabinet in my desk. What the ever-loving fuck. I wasn’t just being paranoid about leaving her here then. I was fucking right. Men like that have people everywhere in the city. I know, because I am one.

Betrothed. To her own uncle. Cancelling the invitation isn’t an option. Things are too tenuous in the city. He is too corrupt.

“Reya.”

She hasn’t gone far, because she never does. “Yes?”

“Bring Brigit for dinner.”

“She’ll be right down.”

A pause. “What?”

“Nothing.” She disappears, and I go to the dining room and use the opportunity to scan the streets below for any sign that more trouble is approaching Olympus. There’s nothing. It means nothing. It certainly doesn’t mean safety. Nothing ever does.

Brigit’s reflection appears in the window. She stands proudly at the door, but it’s an effect that wavers; one moment, her chin is held high, and the next, she bites at her lip. A struggle. I wait for a twist of guilt for what I did to her earlier, but none comes. Looking at the ghost of her in the glass only makes me want to do it all over again. Every day, if possible.

“You didn’t tell me about your family,” I tell her reflection.

Instead of startling, she moves into the dining room. Someone—Reya, probably—has dressed her in blush pink and done her makeup in soft shades. Looking at her head-on, it’s