Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Since no one knew what the hell Emeric’s trigger was—what was it, by the way?” she asks, turning her face to me as the door opens and her mother steps inside.
“It was Amelie. Emeric didn’t use a word, it was an image of her own mother. One he wanted to kill.” Aléia smirks. “Poetry, really…”
“I don’t—“ I shake my head, the room refusing to hold still.
Voices overlap. Asher grabs my arm. “It’s Nonna, her counter weave broke through…”
“Love, Ivy… love is what sets everyone free. That’s why we do La Journée du Nous.”
I think over what she says. “But I don’t want to love…”
It was the easiest answer.
Nonna chuckles, pointing to Jord. “I think you do.”
“I don’t even know who I am,” I mutter, kind of annoyed.
I already cared for Nonna, loved her enough. Love means order and control. Nonna is order, Emeric is control. Leon is the foundation I always land on, Luce is the walls that keep me safe, and Punk is the security. Love is a house of order and control. What the hell would Jord be useful for?
Nonna laughs under her breath, bending to my height and placing both hands on my shoulders.
Her eyes soften, pupils dilating. “When you don’t know who you are, ask yourself how you feel. The answer will tell you who’s in control.”
Everything snaps back to the room.
I can’t move.
“Oh my God…” I whisper, eyes lifting to Asher as the whole room falls to silence. “Emeric is already dead.”
“Yeah.” Asher stares back at me. “I made sure of it.”
I fall backwards, landing on a sofa.
My whole body shakes.
Désamour isn’t in France.
It’s here. It’s been here the whole time. On Veilarath.
I dig my fingers into the upholstery, nails catching on the weave. This was Emeric’s work. He’d ask me questions, then he’d take the answers back. He left me the facts because he needed me functional, and he stole the lines between them. The shape of the thing. The reason three houses mattered. The reason the families pretended to be separate when they were all just fingers on the same hand.
My stomach lurches.
La Maison du Mal. One machine with three heads.
The Monét line. The Delacroix line. The—God, the crest. Three sigils cut to fit each other, a puzzle I’ve been too stupid to assemble.
My eyes snap to Asher.
He’s still standing there, watching me come apart. The scar across his throat catches the light, a pale rope of healed tissue that I’ve traced with my fingers, with my tongue, never asking the right question, never letting myself wonder why a man who answers to no one wears a mark like that.
The final initiation.
Everything seems miles beneath me, blood thudding in my ears. He let them cut him. He knelt, Asher knelt, and let a blade split his throat open. That was what it cost to become Le Parrain.
Le Parrain.
I look at him. The snowboarder, the brat, the man who fights me and kisses me, and underneath all of it, the head of the French mob. The one Emeric himself was so afraid of—
The dream that triggered all of this opens again in my head, different this time.
Emeric didn’t claim Le Boucher.
I lift my hands in front of me like I’m holding that very same mugshot, only now it’s a full, detailed sketch of a younger Asher.
My hand flies to my mouth to stop myself from spewing.
“I feel sick.”
“Baby…” Asher steps closer and I can’t even find the strength to push him away.
My eyes lift to his. “Liars.”
“Breathe,” Asher says, his voice distant.
I can’t breathe. I can’t stop the flood. Every locked door Emeric planted in my head is swinging open and the light pouring through burns, showing me the architecture of a cage I’ve been living in since I was old enough to hold a blade.
“There was a house that needed to be built, but first, it needed the foundation—” Emeric pointed to Leon, before landing on Luce, “and the walls, they need to be strong enough to keep everyone and everything out.” Then he landed on Punk. “Until it was time to play house.”
They all knew. Every single one of them fucking knew.
My mouth opens. Can I even be bothered arguing?
Betrayal slams into me all at once—every kiss, every fight, every fucking lie. Rage arrives right behind it and my arm is already moving.
I drive my fist into his cheek with a satisfying crack that shudders through my split knuckles.
Pain tears through my side, but I don’t care. My eyes stay on him, the rest of the room dropping away.
He laughs, and my knife clears its sheath before the sound dies. I drag the edge across his chest, drawing a thin line of blood.
“—Ivy!” Luce, I think, but I’m too locked in to care.
Asher’s mouth curves, smug. “Go on. Do it.” Silence. I wish I fucking could. I wish I could just be done with everything.