Malum: Part 2 (The Elite King's Club 5)

Daemon doesn’t flinch. His eyelashes flutter closed and a flash of pain passes his face. “How?”

I curl my legs out from under my butt, massaging my temples. “Sudden Infant Death.” I stand abruptly, my mind shutting down from the conversation I so openly started.

I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Why did I tell him? I wasn’t ready. I thought I was ready. I start banging around the room in search of something to numb the ache that has started in my chest.

Daemon’s hand comes to my arm.

I freeze, turning in his grip slowly.

His fingers come to my face, his thumb on my lip. I know what he’s trying to say, I see it in the way his eyes peer into mine, like they’re trying to speak a foreign language.

I smile, laying my face into the palm of his hand. “Go to bed. I will see you in the morning. I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Daemon asks just as I reach for the door handle.

I smirk, not bothering to give him another look. “Yes. A plan.”

I’m making my way down the twin staircase after Daemon heads to bed when Nate appears at the bottom. He’s wearing grey sweats and nothing else. He’s been working out, judging by the sweat that is dripping off his finely chiseled torso.

I cross my arms in front of my chest.

He smirks, his eyes eating up my body. “You look good in that…”

I roll my eyes, taking the final steps down and shoving past him. “Let me guess, you fucked my mom too.”

A strong palm collides with my arm at the very place that Daemon just touched. Only where his was gentle, this was dominating.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I snap, spinning to face him. “The no-talking-to-you thing? Get used to it, Nate, because I hate you. You kidnapped me, brought me here, told me that everything was a plan from the beginning, told me you wanted to kill me—all for what?”

Nate doesn’t say anything, his jaw set taut and his eyes glaring at me like a demon. A beautiful, unhinged, total bad boy demon. What the fuck. I need a drink.

I turn to go find some alcohol when his voice stops me. “I wasn’t lying, Tillie.”

“Yeah, well neither was I when I said that I hated you, so leave me the fuck alone.”

Finding a bottle of Proper Twelve in the cupboard, I take down a tumbler and fill it with the amber liquid, shooting the first one back and inhaling the cloak of numbness that comes with the first swallow. The pain begins to dissipate into the back of my mind, so I pour another and put the bottle back tidily near the—fully stocked pantry.

I growl softly, piecing things together. They obviously had been planning this for some time to have all this food. There’s shit in here from our world, not from Perdita. Swirling the liquid in my glass, I take a closer look around the kitchen. It’s splashed in white marble and black trimmings, with one glass window that overlooks the backyard. There’s an adjacent dining room on the other side and I quickly step in, noting the twelve-piece dining suite. To the right is floor to ceiling glass that opens out onto the backyard. No pool. Interesting. I push on the door, stepping out into the cold soft wind, closing it behind myself. There may be no pool, but there are beautifully kept flowers that are blossoming against what lighting there is.

“Can’t sleep?” a deep, familiar voice interrupts my downtime.

I don’t bother to look toward it. I know that it’s Brantley. “Well, that amongst other things.”

“What do you think of flowers?” he asks, and that question was random enough to conjure me to look at him. He’s sitting on a small iron set chair near a stone fountain that’s decorated by small hedges and vines of roses.

I take a couple of steps down, sinking deeper into the dark night. “Hmmm, I’ve never thought much about it. Why?”

Brantley chuckles and then stands. When he comes opposite me, his presence is intimidating, but I don’t falter.

“Why did you all bring me here?” I try him.

“Because this is where you should be.”

I pause, contemplating whether I should or should not cuss him out for pulling a Bishop on me and lying straight to my face. “Every time you’re vague to me, I’m calling you Bran Bran.”

His head snaps in the general direction of yours truly. “I think the fuck not!”

I chuckle, swirling my whiskey around inside my glass. “Your reaction has just solidified the fact that I indeed, will be calling you Bran Bran every time you are vague, or I think you’re lying to me.”

He kicks my chair, so I look at him. Which I do, over the tumbler glass as I bring it to my smug lips. “Don’t like that name, Princessa.”