Chapter Four
Soren
A card made of white parchment with black script lands in front of me at the breakfast table, where I’m three bites into a parfait with extra blueberries. My father slams his fist on the table, rattling the legs so hard that I feel the vibration in my elbows. It’s enough to make me want to spit my yogurt out just to spite him.
“Just what the fuck is this all about, Soren?”
My eyes widen as I recognize the seal at the top—the Somerville crest—and then read the brief description announcing the upcoming union of the happy couple. Save the date, it reads cheerfully. Official invitations will be sent via mail in a week.
“Don’t even bother answering my question,” Dad booms. “You can’t even look at me, can you? A fucking failure of a son sitting at my table, and he can’t even look me in the goddamn eye!”
What’s the point of speaking? He’ll simply shoot down any explanation I try to give him. While I did my best with Alex, Parker managed to slide in like a sly fucking fox, stealing our competition right out from under us. Whatever Lev and Tomas tried to do wasn’t sufficient either.
While Alex is still up for grabs, the social pressure to marry Parker will soon set in—and all of us will be fucked if we don’t do something about it.
I set my cup of yogurt and berries calmly on the table in front of me. “She’s not married yet.”
“I don’t give a damn, Soren. You’re out.”
I stare at my father. “Excuse me?”
“I said, you’re out. Or did you lose your hearing while you were losing to that goddamn Somerville?”
“You can’t kick me out. I’m–”
Dad’s face glows red, cheeks puffing up as he presses both hands hard into the surface of the table. I hear the wood creak under his weight and feel the threat in his stance. If I don’t get up and move, I’m going to get much worse than a verbal lashing.
“Get. The fuck. Out.”
I stand slowly. “Can I grab my—”
“No!” he growls. “I want you gone right this second. You’re dead to me, Soren!”
Fear pushes my body into motion. In a matter of minutes, I’m out the front door and crossing the lawn to get to the cottage. Letting myself in and settling at the table requires only muscle memory, not any conscious thought, and I find a cup of tea in front of me before I can think to ask.
Nana always knows.
But my first sip is so sour that my cheeks hollow out. “Nana,” I groan. “This is hot lemon water. You never do that. You know I like chamomile.”
“Huh?”
The way she looks at me like I’m a complete stranger is alarming. She looks utterly confused by my rejection of her “tea” and places her hands on her hips in preparation for a good scolding. When she raises her finger to say something, she sighs and then settles into the chair next to me. “Do you know how to kill, Soren?”
I frown with concern. “Nana, are you feeling okay? Why are you asking me that?”
“War is coming.”
“What do you mean?”
Another sigh echoes from her as she reaches for the teapot. While she pours fresh tea into a new teacup, she removes the one I’ve sipped and replaces it with the new cup. “That was supposed to be for me.”
“You drink hot lemon water?”
“Helps cleanse.”
I arch my left eyebrow. “You’re not making any sense.”
“War is coming, Soren,” she repeats. “It always happens when there’s a funeral before a wedding. A bride who wears black is a bad omen.”