RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,134
haven't even considered the fact that we'll be sharing the same bed. The thought of it makes my blood pound at my temples. Elodie, naked and spent, wrapped up in the bedsheets next to me. Surrendering herself to unconsciousness, laying in my arms, not knowing what kind of a man I truly am and all the awful, hideous things I've done. I don't deserve it. Fuck, I don't deserve any of this.
A loud slamming sound disrupts the peace outside, sharper and more jarring than a gunshot. Elodie jumps. I head over to the window, irritation digging its claws into my back when I see the black Range Rover that's pulled up in front of the house. Even four floors up, I can hear my father's aggravated bark as he enters the house.
“Where is he, then? Where the fuck is my son?”
31
ELODIE
Donald Jacobi was a general in the army before he retired a month ago. But men like him never really retire. Not in any way that counts. He was a general when he hung up his uniform, and a general he will remain until the day he dies. His very presence seems to swallow up the room, as Wren leads me into an enormous high-ceilinged space that I suppose would have been used as a formal reception room back in the day. I see the back of him first. Standing with one hand braced against the mantle of a looming fireplace and the other planted firmly on his hip, he strikes an imposing figure. Wren stands a little straighter, his shoulders pulling back as he clears his throat, announcing our presence.
“It's only good manners to call ahead if you're planning on bringing guests to the house,” General Jacobi drawls. He affects a lazy, playful tone, but there's a very real reprimand in his words. He pivots with a flourish, pushing away from the fireplace, and a pair of cold, assessing eyes land on me. His gaze feels like a knifepoint being driven up, between my ribs.
Wren was right; he’s nothing like the man in the painting in the attic. His face is a roadmap of lines and crevasses that tell a clear story—one of anger and unhappiness. The deep brackets around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes speak of bone-deep unhappiness.
“Introductions, please,” he says tightly.
“This is Elodie Stillwater. We're at the academy together. Her father's stationed in Isreal.” Wren gives him this sparse rundown of me in as few words as possible. “Elodie, this is my father, General Donald Jacob, retired.”
I think Wren tacks retired on the end of his father's title just to piss him off. Looks like it works, too.
“Pleased to meet you, General Jacobi,” I say.
He gives me a curt nod. “Sir will suffice. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, too, young lady. Your father's reputation precedes him. I don't doubt that, with a father like him, you've had quite the proper upbringing. Your manners do him proud.”
I couldn't give a shit about doing my father proud. The colonel is obsessed with making an impression with his betters, though, even if they're no longer an official service member. He'd have a fucking fit if it got back to him that I somehow disgraced myself (and ergo him) during my introduction to Wren’s father.
“Israel's a prestigious posting. I've heard things are calm over there these days, but you never know when that might change.”
I’ve never wished for conflict to break out anywhere. The innocent and the downtrodden always suffer. That doesn't mean that I haven't hoped that something would happen while my father was outside of the base, though. Some freak accident, or an isolated attack of some kind, that resulted in Colonel Stillwater's untimely demise. If I'm hell-bound for thinking such things, then that's a price I'm willing to pay. Stoke the fires and lay out the welcome mat, I say. So long as I no longer have to bow to my father's crippling authority while I'm alive, then there's no price I'd be unwilling to pay.
“Thank you, Sir. That's very kind of you to say.”
“You've just joined the academy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you're enjoying it so far? You're enjoying spending time with my son?”
I blush furiously. There's something underhanded about the question—a distasteful insinuation that makes me feel like he's accusing me of something. “Uh, yes, Sir. The academy itself is beautiful, and the curriculum's challenging. Plus...yes, it helps to have friends there to spend time with during our downtime.”