“I wasn’t invited, Maddox. It’s a family thing.”
When she starts to pull her hand away, I place mine over it, keeping it there. “I’m inviting you. And you are Verity’s family. Please come.”
“All right. I’ll come. For you.”
And with those words, I know this is more than just sex for her too.
How could I be wrong?
Seven weeks ago
I walk into Bastian’s childhood home with more anxiety and tension than I’ve felt in years. I fight against the urge to light the place on fire or run as far as I can. Quinn’s hand in mine is the only thing keeping me in place.
When I told Bastian the only way I would go was if Quinn came too, I thought another lecture was coming. Instead, I got a nod of acceptance.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed the way he keeps watching me. All the way to his dad’s,he’s observed me with curiosity and amusement that’s been both irritating and unnerving. Like he knew something I didn’t.
Newsflash. I knew too. Didn’t mean I could admit it.
When we made it past the foyer, Verity took Quinn with her to the kitchen. I could hear boisterous laughter billowing nearly as soon as they went through the door. I couldn’t stop the scowl that pulled at my mouth. I didn’t want her away from me or near that motherfucker.
I followed Bastian until we stood next to a small minibar. I stared at the variety of liquor. I knew what each one was despite being in crystal decanters. My mouth watered with need. The need to feel the burn, to let it flow until this need to destroy everything was buried beneath the haze of alcohol.
Honestly, I wanted more than that, but the alcohol was closer.
Bastian hands me a glass, and I’m disappointed but not surprised that all I get was fucking water. “Why did you bring me here, Bastian?” I finally snap.
“You know, I thought when you first objected so strongly to coming here a few weeks ago, it was out of resentment that you weren’t told who your dad was. I got that. I was pissed when I first found out about you. I was an asshole to keep it from you for so long, even if I understood.”
He turns up his drink, watching me closely. He knows I want what’s inhisglass, and he’s a son of a bitch for taunting me. “Then the other night, I was listening to you talk to Quinn.”
My hackles rise that he was eavesdropping on my private conversation. “Aren’t you a little old to be snooping like a teenager?” I snap.
“Not in my house. And not when you don’t shut the door all the way. Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when I heard you tell Quinn about the night everything went down with Zoey. We all knew you were trashed, but Maddox Masters trashed still doesn’t screw people over. I just never understood what made you snap. What made you do everything you could do to cause all of your relationships to implode.”
“They didn’t all implode.”
“I’m not sure you could actually do anything to make Ryder abandon you. I maydisagree with this unhealthy codependency you two have, but I know he’s loyal. I get that. I have that with Rory.”
“Get to the goddamn point, Bastian, because I’m still trying to decide if I want to light this fucking house on fire or not.”
“The point is that you have it all wrong.” He says it so casually I know he believes it.
But I know what I heard, and I tell him that. “You think I’m going to take that piece of shit’s word for it,” I hiss. “When’s the last time you heard someone admit they raped a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Maddox, if you don’t know anything else about me, you know I don’t tolerate that. Father or not, do you think he’d still be breathing if I thought he did something like that. I just need you to hear him out.”
I turn away from him, already tired of the bullshit. I walk around the house until I come into a room with a piano. A beautiful, antique Steinway and Sons’ Rocco grand piano sits next to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake.
I run my hand over the smooth wood, trying to remember the last time I played a piano of this caliber, and realize it was the last time I was at my dad’s. Bastian, of course, follows like the prison warden he’s trying to be, probably afraid I’m going to sneak out. He sets his glass on the rail wood, making me fight the urge to slap it off.
He runs his fingers over the key, tapping out a few bars. “This belonged to my—our grandfather. His mother was a concert pianist in Italy. Called her a virtuoso because she played her first concert when she was twelve.” He looks over at me knowingly. “Said she was composing her own music when she was just a little girl.”
“You play?” I ask, still looking at the glass sitting on the beautifully preserved wood like it’s a demon. I’m not sure if it’s because of my anal, OCD obsession about not damaging instruments, or the fact I really want that fucking drink.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves his fingers across the keys. I smirk as the intro to Enter Sandman fills the room. “At least your taste in music doesn’t suck.”
“Seems we’re more alike than you think,” he mutters as he continues to play the song.
