Cruel War (The Gilded Sovereign 1)

Flowers blossom at sunrise and wilt in the dark… How are you today, little flower?

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I ignore Ares’ attempt at a taunt. I’m done being a toy for Ares and his friends; today, I’ll get him to talk. With the photo album in hand, I make my way into the kitchen, set a mug under the Keurig, and breathe deeply to calm my erratic heartbeat.

Once the mug is full, I settle at the kitchen table and stare at the cover of my gran’s album that holds secrets I didn’t know my father kept. How could he lie to me? Opening to the page I found this morning, I stare at the woman, the blonde, green-eyed woman, who looks so much like her sons. Or they look like her.

Her smile is wide, reminding me of Ares when he didn’t know I was watching. The man staring at her, Abner Lancaster, looks like a man besotted. But when I drag my gaze toward my father, what catches my attention is the black snaking out of the shirt cuff onto his wrist.

Furrowing my brow, I lean in further, trying to make out what it is. I remember my father having a scar on his hand, one that looked painful, as if his flesh was sliced open. When I asked him about it, he told me his job was dangerous.

At that time, I believed him. But now, I’m not so sure.

“You’re up early,” Gran says as she enters the room. She settles opposite me once she’s gotten herself a mug of coffee.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I tell her. I glance up, noting her gaze on the album before me. “Did my dad ever have a tattoo?”

Her eyes flicker with something, but the very next second, it’s gone, and I’ve lost whatever just crossed her mind. I wonder briefly what she’s hiding. Surely, she knows about whatever it is Ares mentioned last night.

“I don’t remember.” She rises from the chair, ignoring my penetrating gaze, as she moves to the cooker, flicking it on and lighting the gas flame. “Did you want bacon and eggs? Or are you having cereal?”

“I’m not hungry.” Sitting back, I lock my gaze on hers, silently pleading with her to just tell me what the hell is going on. “Ares mentioned something about our dads being friends.”

“Why are you talking to that boy? He’s trouble.”

“He’s the only one telling me about my family.” This time I’m on my feet, frustration bubbling through me. “I have to get to class.”

“Dahlia,” Gran starts, but I’m not in the mood. I’d rather listen to Ares taunting me than to my gran hiding shit from me. Grabbing my backpack and keys, I head out the door, slamming it shut behind me. I immediately feel guilty for doing it, but I’m tired of being kept in the dark.

I deserve to know what secrets lie in my family.

Turning the engine of my car, I pull out onto the quiet street. Even though it’s early, I will feel more comfortable at school than at home.

Home.

A strange place to me now. I grew up in a big city, living in the capital, with so many people who didn’t know who I was. A stranger. For a moment, I wish I could go back there. This town is small, too small, and the fact that everyone seems to know each other’s business is jarring.

I pull up to the school, killing the engine. I push open the door and grab my bag before heading toward the quad. The chilly morning air is evidence that we’ll soon have snow on the ground—winter’s coming.

A cold shiver trickles its way up my spine, but it’s not because of the weather. It’s because I feel him as if he’s magnetized to me, and the moment he’s within range, I’m tugged toward him.

“There’s the pretty flower.” Ares’ voice filters over the breeze as he nears me. He’s alone this morning, and I wonder where his entourage is.

“What do you want?” I sigh, shouldering my backpack as I cross my arms in front of my chest. His gaze drops to my top briefly before flitting back to mine.

“I think we started on the wrong foot,” he tells me.

I can’t hide the frown on my face, confusion etched into every crease. “Oh? And what exactly is the right foot?”

“You asked me about your father last night,” he tells me, and I nod. “I’ll tell you. Everything.” Ares lowers his voice, stepping up closer to me, offering me a whiff of the spicy cologne he’s wearing. His dark hair hangs across his forehead, a dark strand falling into his left eye. His gaze is hardened, and by the way he’s looking at me—hunger and danger emanate from his glare—I can’t help but shiver.

“What’s the catch?”

“Who says there’s a catch?” he taunts, lifting his hand as he saunters around me, until he’s right behind me. Heat cocoons me for a moment as both his hands land on my shoulders. His fingers squeeze my tense muscles. “You’re in need of a rub down, flower,” he murmurs in my ear, causing me to shiver as his warm breath fans over my cheek.