Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

“Thank you, Mr Wilson.” I nod at him and his wife. She seems to be more preoccupied with Mae’s painting than the conversation at hand. Her lost gaze suggests she’s seeing her daughter in there.

“It was nice to meet you,” William says.

“Call me if you need anything, Mr Wilson.” I nod again. “If you shall excuse me.”

I steal one last glance at the dark mystical painting then walk out of the gallery. As I push the door, I catch a glimpse of a group of Mae’s friends rushing to her parents. They don’t look so well. Like Mae’s mother, they could use some food in their system.

Freezing air refreshes my senses. I curse whatever made me come here.

So many slips as of late. The worst part is that I have no idea how to stop them.

‘You do, Aaron. You just refuse to admit it.’

Shut it, demons. Not another word.

My feet itch to kick or crush something. Right here. In public. But I can’t. Because image is damn important.

I storm to the car when my phone buzzes.

“What?” I bark at Tristan.

“There’s five minutes until the meeting. Where are you?”

The driver opens the back door. I slide inside and throw my weight on the leather seat. “I’m calling in sick.”

“You were perfectly fine an hour ago.” His tone’s impatient. I can picture him tapping on the desk. “You’re not sick.”

“I am now.”

Click.

My phone beeps.

Tristan— Here’s how it goes. If you don’t show up to the meeting, I’m making you the main host of the banquet we’re throwing.

Dylan calls. I hang up.

I switch off my phone and thrust it in my pocket. They can both go fuck themselves. I’m in no mood for signing contracts I couldn’t care less about.

What the hell am I doing in the family business anyway? It never interested me.

My other career choice...

I stare at my hands. It’d be too heavy on my bloodlust. My demons would go rampant in a setting filled with blood.

“Where to, Sir?” The driver asks.

I throw my head back and seal my eyes shut. There’s this pleading voice inside me, not my demons’, that begs to see the little mouse.

“Home.”

No matter how far away that sounds.

. . . . .

The dark curtains block most the afternoon’s light, casting a grey hue on my office. I sit behind the huge desk, twirling a scotch in my hand. A picture of a black jaguar hangs in the opposite wall. Its black brings safeness.

Kane’s bulky frame crowds the leather chair across from mine.