Her hand shakes around her fork. “A nice person. A person who goes out of his way for anyone.”
“I went out of my way for you.”
“To be nice?” Her voice is deceptively casual, as if we’re having a conversation about the weather. Her eyes are a sharp, brilliant blue. She thinks she’s unpacking me. I hope to hell she’s not.
“I was in the right place at the right time.” Of course, I was in the right place for Haley because I put myself there. I did the same thing for my siblings.
All except Lucian, who never seemed to feel fear or pain or anything else.
Our parents, on the other hand, hunted for fear and pain. Thrived on fear and pain. Live long enough with a pair of snarling wolves, and it’s obvious that the only distraction is a snarling wolf who’s foaming at the mouth and snapping at their heels. I was angrier than they were, and crazier, and more reckless as long as it gave my siblings time to hide.
My reputation as the Beast of Bishop’s Landing is accurate, it just lacks context.
Old tension strings itself through my muscles. The instinct to blame Haley for it is stronger than the whispers that say it’s not her. It can’t possibly be her. It’s that dinners were dangerous, volatile things, when all of us were forced to be in the same room and there weren’t enough exits. When any question from my mother or father could turn out to be a grenade with the pin already pulled.
“Enough about me, darling. I want to know why your family has hung you out to dry in this job market. The famous, perfect Constantines couldn’t scrape up a publishing company for you to work at?”
Haley looks uncomfortable. “I never wanted to ask for help. My dad was never a model Constantine, and with my aunt, there are always strings attached.”
“Your aunt?”
“Caroline.”
Before Haley’s mouth is finished forming the word, before the sound can fully reach me, a blaze of anger overtakes its boundaries and burns itself through every one of my veins. The rage takes me by surprise. I was ready for this. I knew the name she was going to say.
Because I know all about Caroline Constantine.
I know all about her from personal fucking experience.
The skin on my back crawls. Phantom pain. Very real fury. It’s not about the young woman sitting across the table. Not her fault, anyway. But she’s the one who will feel my wrath. Because the world isn’t fucking fair. I learned that young. Younger than Haley is now.
I’ve been holding back. I haven’t fucked Haley yet, because I wanted her to spend as much time as possible in horrified anticipation, fearing it, wondering when it would happen. I wanted the monster in her head to be far more terrifying than reality, so the two of them—me and that frightened imagination—will feed off each other until she cries and begs and comes and lives the rest of her life with the mark of them on her heart.
It’s disappointing, in a vague sense, that I only managed to wait two nights. But I’m ready now. Ready for a revenge fuck. Ready for the revenge fuck. Haley can be the one to answer for all the crimes of the Constantines. Then she’ll know—
She’s gone on speaking. Awareness of it comes too late to understand what she’s saying. I discover I’m staring at Haley, into those blue Constantine eyes, and not bothering to make my expression into something that passes for neutral.
Too late. Haley’s already seen. She hooks a hand on the edge of the table, holding on so tight her knuckles are white.
“Leo?” The tremble in her voice says she doesn’t recognize me.
Or maybe it says she does.
12
Haley
I’ve said the wrong thing.
Leo’s face is a candlelit mask, the shadows deadly sharp. It’s subtle. I expected his fury to be a massive display, with bared teeth and extended claws. With flipped furniture and broken glass. But whatever wound I’ve opened with my words is contained within his body.
It’s worse that way. Scarier. A man who turns over tables—I can understand that. I can fathom an anger so overwhelming that it transforms to blind motion. I’ve felt that before. When my mother died I tore down the curtains in our house. I ripped at the seams to her pillow until the soft insides bled out on the bedroom floor. For months afterward, we could only use paper plates and cups.
He’s that angry. The air