Kings of Blood and Money (Underworld Kings)

I follow her into the kitchen, halting her retreat with a tug on her wrist. Wailing on me, she bares her teeth, snapping, “Let go of me.”

I release her and dart forward to block her exit route, my hands raised in surrender. “I know you’re pissed. You have to understand Noah needs me to have his back. He’s always had mine,” I tell her carefully.

Gaze narrowing, she huffs, “Yeah, it must be nice. You know who’s always had mine?” she fumes, hands on her hips. “No one. Thanks for keeping shit consistent.”

“That’s not fair,” I plead.

“No, you’re right, it isn’t.” She jabs a thumb toward the locked door across the room. “Father told me, by the way. I asked, and he told me what it is he does, so all the mystery is out in the open.”

A shiver chases up my spine. He told her?

“Really?” I drop the apple into the trash and fold my arms. “He just told you?” I fix all my attention on her.

“Yes. I asked him, Remi, because you and Noah treat me like a black sheep.”

“That’s not true.” Is that how she thinks we see her?

“Yes, it is. And you know it. Neither of you have wanted me here. I’m the thorns in your rose garden.”

“Don’t say that.” I blanch, the weight of her words knocking me off-kilter.

“Why can’t you ever just be honest with me? Answer my questions frankly?”

“Because sometimes the truth is hard to hear.” The stillness of the room allows me to hear my own heartbeat as it thuds in my ears.

“Let me be the judge of that. You’d be surprised by the amount of strength I possess.” Determination pinches her features.

No, I wouldn’t. I know she’s strong. She’s had to be. “Fine. What do you want to know?” Lying to her is getting us nowhere. It’s time for truths, no matter how painful they are. For me. For her. For Noah.

Folding her arms, she says nothing, her mind ticking over. Then she moves toward me. When she’s only a couple feet away, she flicks her gaze to my forehead, and asks, “How did you get that scar?”

Fuck.

Swallowing the bullshit answer I want to feed her to protect her, I answer her with the truth. “I was shot.”

The air stills around us, a gurgling from the ice maker the only sound filling the space. “You were shot?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes.” My tone is defensive. The urge to touch my hair to make sure it’s covering the scar has my fingers twitching.

“By who?” Horror satiates her voice. The realization that I’m not lying pings in her head like a lightbulb turning on.

“Your real father.”

Stumbling back, her head shakes from side to side. A kaleidoscope of color fills her eyes as she dissects what I’m telling her, working through everything she knows and putting things together like a jigsaw puzzle. On a broken whisper, she murmurs, “Your mother?”

Memories of my mother, of her last months, are gone, a block of memory lost to me because of the injury. I nod my head firmly. “And sister.”

Color drains from her body as she reaches up to her throat, the information choking her. Retching, she stumbles to the sink, emptying the contents of her stomach.

Opening the fridge, I pull a bottle of water out and unscrew the cap. She turns on the tap to wash away the mess and takes the bottle, swilling her mouth out with it.

“That’s why Noah hates me,” she wheezes.

“He doesn’t hate you. What your father did wasn’t on you, Freya—isn’t on you.” I rub a soothing hand to her back.

Bloodshot eyes, lost and full of sorrow, lift to mine. “Why would he do that?”

Good fucking question.

Shrugging, I place a hand on the counter, drawing a small circle. “We don’t know for sure. Dad said a business deal went south and your dad thought he could make a statement.”

“That’s more than a statement.” Swiping a hand down her cheek to clear an errant tear, she sniffles. “How did I end up here?”

Small, broken like a bird without wings, she curls her shoulders in on herself.

“I don’t know. The bullet did a number on me. I had two surgeries, lost a chunk of my memory. I don’t remember what happened or the build-up, just what came after. I got home after months of rehabilitation and you were here.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, she paces back and forth, her wet hair swaying over her shoulders with the gentle shaking of her head. “What about my dad? Did he go to prison?”

A shadow chases through the room, the sun dipping below the horizon as Noah enters. “Prison is too good for a man like him.”

A little gasp of air echoes from her chest. Her back goes rigid. “Why take me, keep me?”

“A question we’ve always wondered, little Freya. Enemy blood runs in your veins, yet you’re here living.” It sounds like a threat, and she shrinks under his scrutiny.