Ruthless Empire (Royal Elite 6)

Why I didn’t want him to drown, even though he deserved it.

I still wonder why I didn’t scream and yell and cry when I couldn’t reach him. When he floated in the bloody water. Why did I turn around and leave? That’s not how kids my age should respond to seeing their father drowning in his own blood.

I should’ve gone to Mum. I should’ve at least had a reaction.

I didn’t.

It was…nothingness. It’s there, but you don’t feel it, see it, or smell it.

Slender arms wrap around my waist from behind. Her flowery perfume envelops me as her pale, manicured hands grab each other at my stomach.

For a second, I close my eyes and cut my connection with the bloody water.

Silver is my chaos. She’s the first person I saw after all that blood, and for that reason alone, she’s associated with it.

She’s not supposed to be my calm. And yet, when her head falls on my back and her warmth mingles with mine, I realise she’s the only calm I’ve ever had in my life. Even books don’t compare — and that says something.

Silver is the beauty and the ugliness.

The calm and the chaos.

“How did you get in?” I don’t attempt to face her.

“I asked Helen for the code. I figured you’d come back home for the anniversary.” Her voice catches. “I wanted to tell you this at the funeral, but you were being mean, so I didn’t.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Cole. You were too young to lose a parent.”

“Or maybe I was old enough to realise it’s better I lost that parent.”

She lifts her head from my back but doesn’t release me. “What do you mean?”

“My father was abusive. He hit me and Mum, especially Mum, whenever he was drunk.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“No one did. Mum and I are great actors.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this — her, of all people. It must be because it’s a wrong fucking day. I get weird on wrong days.

“I don’t think you wanted him dead, though.” Her voice softens.

“Maybe I did.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t come to stand here on every anniversary.”

“How do you know that?”

Silence. Her hands tighten around me, but she doesn’t answer.

I untangle them and spin around to face her. “You’ve been watching me?”

She’s staring at the ground, kicking imaginary pebbles. “Maybe.”

I lift her chin with two fingers until her huge blue eyes are trapped with mine. “What makes you think I come here to pay tribute? Maybe it’s because I feel guilty.”

“It doesn’t look like guilt.” Her voice is gentle, emotional. “It looks like you want to grieve but can’t. It was the same at the funeral, right?”

I have no words to say, so I remain quiet, letting her interpretation soak in. How could she know me so well?