Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,105

is Henry,” I say.

“Hello, Henry.”

“Hi,” Henry says, shyly.

“Do you want some tea, or cocoa?” Papa says. “I think Greta has the kind with marshmallows . . .”

“I like marshmallows,” Henry says.

“Let me find it.”

Papa gets up from the table, shuffling around the kitchen, searching the cupboards. He never cooks anything himself, so he doesn’t know where Greta keeps anything.

He’s wearing a clean, pressed dressing robe over striped pajamas. His slippers are leather, and likewise clean and new. My father never let himself go physically, no matter how destroyed he was after my mother died. He still put on his dress shirts with the French cuffs and the cuff links, his three-piece suits and his oxfords. He gets his hair cut every two weeks, and he spends thirty minutes shaving every morning.

The only part of him that grew wild is his thick gray eyebrows, that hang heavily over his beetle-black eyes.

He was a big man, once—not as big as me, but physically imposing. He’s shrunk down over the last five years. Lost weight and height. He’s as intelligent as ever, though. I’ve seen him beat Nero at chess, and that’s not easy to do.

He finds the cocoa, then heats milk in a saucepan on the stove. We have a microwave, but he’s never trusted it.

“Where did you come from, boy?” Papa asks Henry, not unkindly.

“We were living in Los Angeles for a while,” Henry says. “Before that, we were in Spain.”

“Who’s we?”

“Simone is his mother,” I tell Papa.

Papa pauses in the act of spooning cocoa into a mug. His eyes meet mine. He looks over at Henry, more carefully this time. I see his gaze combing over Henry’s height, his hair, his eyes, the way he slouches in his chair at the little kitchen table.

“Is that right?” my father says, softly.

“Yes,” I nod. “That’s right.”

Papa pours the hot milk into the mug and stirs. He carries it over to Henry, taking the seat across from him.

“I’ve known your mother a long time, boy,” he says. “I always liked her.”

“She’s famous,” Henry says, sipping his cocoa. The foamy milk leaves a little mustache over his top lip. That makes him look especially like a Simone—a very specific and precious memory I have of her, from a long time ago. I press my thumb and index finger into the inner corners of my eyes, turning away from him for a moment, and breathing deep.

“She’s a very beautiful woman,” Papa nods. “I was married to a beautiful woman myself, a long time ago.”

“Papa,” I say. “I have to go out again. Can you take care of Henry? He can sleep in my room.”

“I can,” my father nods. “He doesn’t look tired, though. Henry, are you tired?”

Henry shakes his head.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“Do you have any board games?” Henry asks, eagerly.

“I have a chessboard. Have you ever played chess?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll teach you. After we finish our drinks.”

I step into the living room, out of sight of Henry and my father. For the hundredth time I check my phone, to see if Du Pont has texted me yet. Nothing. No missed calls, either.

It’s almost midnight. In seven hours I’m supposed to meet Du Pont god knows where, to stop him from killing the woman I love. And I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m going to do that.

My phone rings in my hand, startling me so badly I almost drop it.

“Yes?” I bark.

“You sound stressed, Deuce,” a drawling voice says.

“Fucking hell, Raylan!” I cry, inarticulate with surprise.

“I got your message.”

I don’t stop to explain—I rush right in.

“I need to know everything you know about Christian Du Pont. He’s a fucking psychopath. He—”

Raylan interrupts me. “Why don’t I just tell you in person?”

“What do you mean?”

“I caught a transport into Chicago. We’re on the tarmac right now. You can come pick me up, or I can take a cab.”

“You’re here? Right now?”

“You better believe it.”

My whole body goes limp with relief.

I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do. But if anyone can help me, it’s Long Shot.

“Stay there,” I say. “I’m coming to pick you up right now.”

I pick Raylan up at O’Hare. He’s unshaven, hair so long it’s over his collar, clothes and skin both filthy. He grins when he sees me, his teeth and eyes white against the dust.

“Sorry,” he says. “I meant to shower somewhere along the way.”

I hug him, not giving a fuck about the dirt, which puffs up in a cloud as I