The Other Brother (Snow and Ash Book 3) (8 page)

He lifts his chin and blinks. “Really?”

He looks so anxious, like what I think actually matters. I snort. “It’s fine. Let it go, okay?”

If I have to sit here and discuss my problem and how it made him feel and how he’s all sad now because he couldn’t man up and take on a crappy wife, I think I’ll claw my way out of this room and all the way back to Knoxville.

His face relaxes, and he grins. “Phew! You made it so easy. I pictured lots of groveling on my part. Maybe a few knives thrown at me.”

“Yeah, well, I hate violence, so…”

He flings himself back in his chair and gives a shout of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. With Kent.” He turns in his chair and gives another peel of laughter.

My blood pressure shoots through the roof, and I cross my arms over my chest. “I take it back. You’re not forgiven.”

“God is punishing you both. You know that, right?”

My eyes shoot poison-tipped fuck-you darts. “For what?”

“Kent’s heavy into BDSM, and you hate sex.”

I gape at him and shake my head. He really is a douche.

“Don’t worry,” he says, snuffling his laughter and getting to his feet. “I’m sure he realizes you’d chew his arm off if he tried to spank you.”

I’m just getting to my feet when he moseys out of the room, still laughing.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Patricia. I got carried away reading to Mrs. Wick.” I’m out of breath. I practically ran all the way back from the nursing home.

“No worries. I’ve got everything ready,” she says and gestures to a tray. “I had them make his sandwich with focaccia bread. He’ll love it.”

“Thank you.” Sunflowers. I smile and run my finger over the textured center. Asheville grows them for the nutrition in the seeds. The fact that they’re pretty is a bonus.

“I’d better hurry or I’ll be late.” I fling off my coat and toss it onto the back of a chair. I kick off my boots and jam my feet into a pair of four-inch heels and reach for the tray.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

I follow her glance to the bruise just above my wrist. Kent gave it to me last night when he pinned my arms over my head. Just thinking about it sets my heart racing. I raise the tray and pretend great interest in its contents. “Just an accident.”

Patricia spikes a brow, but she doesn’t pursue it.

“Do I look okay?”

Kent sent a message after breakfast with a list of things he wanted me to accomplish today. I don’t mind. I don’t know this territory and I don’t know this house or these people, so it’s nice to have a little direction. One of the items was to bring him lunch at precisely one thirty, and he asked me to don the dress I now wear. With a crisp bow at the waist and a flair skirt, it reminds me of something from the early 1960s. I never would have chosen it myself, but I love the caged netting that fills the three-inch gap between the neckline and the rest of the dress. But my hair. It’s so damn curly. It needs to be braided, badly.

“Sit down for a sec.”

I cast a glance at the mantel clock. “But it’s almost—”

“Sit!”

I do, and Patricia retrieves a few things from my dressing table. When she returns, she drags a brush through my thick snarls. “Honestly, Mrs. Barry, I think we need to do a hot oil treatment.”

“What’s that?” Sounds like some dark-age torture.

“Something my mother used to do when she was young.” She gathers my hair up in two twists on either side of my face and anchors them with bobby pins. Then she pinches my cheeks.

“Ow!” I pull back and clutch my stinging flesh.

“That’s the price you pay for beauty, Mrs. Barry. Now look.”

She drags me in front of a mirror, where I find that she’s cleverly arranged my hair in a World War II–type style. Long in the back, twisted up on either side of my face, and thanks to her, pink cheeks. Since I’ve never tried to draw attention to myself, it’s better than any result I’d have gotten on my own. But Kent wants this, and I want to convince him I’m doing my best to not give him any more trouble. I’ve spent the last four years showing fear, and I want him to see I’m at least trying to get it under control.

“Thanks. Now I’d better run!”

She hands me the tray. “Shoulders back, chin up. Remember, you are not a servant.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I scrunch my nose at her and set out.

Like I said, his office is all the way on the other side of the mansion, and the Biltmore House is huge even for a mansion. I’m not accustomed to wearing high heels, and by the time I reach his clerk’s desk, my toes pinch so badly you’d think someone had smashed them with a sledgehammer. Sgt. Aguilar isn’t at his post. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s just past one thirty. I take a deep breath to calm my flutters. I knock and open the door.

Instantly, my heart sinks like concrete. There are five men clustered around Kent’s conference-room table, the shoulders of their uniforms loaded down with stripes and epaulets. I gasp. “I’m sorry! I thought…” I meet Nico’s eyes, and there’s just enough rebuke in them that my cheeks go nuclear.

I take a step back and let out a puff of breath. “I’ll just leave this outside.”

Damn it. I do nothing but fuck up. My heart hammering in my chest, I grasp the tray in one hand and reach for the door handle.

“No!” Kent shoots to his feet. “I mean, please. I asked you to come, but then I got caught up.”

I hesitate, a rabbit caught in the wolf’s stare. I flash a look at the small buffet table behind him. He nods once, and he smiles out of the good corner of his mouth.

Feeling like a complete idiot, I close the door behind me and make my way to the corner.

“It’s clear,” Nico says. “I don’t know why you don’t admit it. The shooter was obviously sent by Balenchuk.”

“No, it is not clear, Nico. We don’t have all the facts yet,” counters Col. Wagner.

“We pissed him off,” Nico insists. “Or Lawrence did, anyway. We kidnapped his daughter. We tried to use her to lure him into a trap. Why wouldn’t they try to take Lawrie out?”

“Nico’s right,” Kent says, his voice calm. “But we also just slaughtered a large cannibal settlement near Old Charlotte, and we aren’t exactly popular with the people down in Chattanooga. We can’t fight a war on three fronts, so I suggest until we have more information, we hold off on any retaliation.”

Nico crosses his arms over his chest. “I think you’re so in love with peace that you’ll take it up the ass just to avoid war.”

The room fogs with silence, and I keep my focus on preparing Kent’s rose-hip tea. Old Charlotte. The thought of even going near the place gives me the chills. In fact, the thought of going anywhere east of the Appalachians frightens me. Most of the Eastern Seaboard is rubble. DC, Philadelphia, and New York City were bombed to hell and back three and a half years ago when rioters overran troop trains, slaughtered the soldiers, and took the relief food and supplies. Rampant cannibalism erupted in all three cities, and gangs started bleeding out into the countryside and attacking the outlying communities. In an effort to control the outflow of cannibalism and savagery, the president bombed the shit out of all three cities as a warning. There’s nothing left. Charlotte took a hit when a relief train carrying the first lady’s nephew was attacked. The soldiers again were slaughtered and all the food and supplies taken. The president’s last act before disappearing entirely was to flatten Charlotte, Cleveland, and Atlanta.

The fact that Kent dared attack a larger settlement of cannibals out near Old Charlotte is testament to the fact that he is not afraid of war.

Col. Wagner clears his throat. “With all due respect, I don’t think we should make any decisions until A, we know whether or not the general will recover, and B, we know who did this.”

Kent’s lunch is all set up, and I take him his tea since it’ll just get cold sitting in the corner. Then I pick up a pitcher of water I spot and begin refilling their glasses.

The conversation buzzes, but I concentrate on filling the glasses and on not tripping in my too-high heels.

“You’re looking quite rosy today, Mrs. Barry.” I shoot Col. Wagner a wide-eyed look to see if he’s making fun of me, and catch him looking down the front of my dress. It’s Kent’s fault. He’s been feeding me, and I have more curves than muscle these days. For reasons of his own, he’s not letting me hide anymore.

“Thank you.” I barely restrain myself from clasping the dress close to my chest.

I study Kent to see if he noticed the colonel’s pervy behavior. His head is cocked to the side and his expression is soft, like he’s proud of me or something. Which, of course, completely unnerves me. I look away and move on to Nico. I reach for his glass.

“What happened to your wrist?” he asks.

For a moment I freeze, and then I resume filling his cup. I am uncomfortably aware that all eyes are on me, and there’s nothing I can do to tone down the mottled flush on my face. “I’m trying to practice my Wing Chun, but I’m a little rusty.”

I avoid his eyes. Kent’s too, because all I can think of now is Nico’s comment about Kent being into BDSM. I know that’s what Nico’s thinking, but this was an accident. It was. A flash image of Kent in leather pants wielding a whip sends a giggle to my lips. Should I tell him what Nico said? I don’t really even know what BDSM is. Blindfolds. Handcuffs. Sex toys. Gross! No way. I’m not going to say a word. I’d die of embarrassment.

I save Kent for last. “Is there anything I can have the staff bring you?”

“No.” He traces his hand over my bruise and gives me a smoky look of promise. Then he takes my hand in a firm grip and smiles at me. “Thank you, Bianca.”

Warmth rushes through me, especially that space around my heart. I struggle to keep the stupid puppy-dog look off my face, but I’m pretty sure I fail. I nod and duck my head.

I move to the door, head high and shoulders back. Not a servant. Mrs. Barry.

I will see him soon.

Tonight.

~ ~ ~

I smell like the devil’s armpit.

I just finished doing an extra five miles on the treadmill, and I’ll need a shower before I can even think of going to dinner. Since Kent is still downstairs running the territory, I know the bathroom’s mine. I strip naked and toss my exercise clothes into the magic laundry basket. Magic because it’s always empty. Back in Knoxville, Tish and I had to carry our laundry to the basement, and although someone else did the wash, we had to put our own clean clothes away. We were also responsible for keeping our rooms clean the old-fashioned way—by doing it ourselves. The Barry’s are richer, more powerful, and have greater resources.

I step into the hot shower and sigh. Whoever would have thought hot water could feel so sinfully good? I’m thinking about abandoning my morning baths permanently. We had hot water at home, but only because someone heated it over a fire and lugged buckets up to the bathroom we shared. We only had enough water to clean ourselves, and it was only warm enough that we could bathe without shivering. The Masons did not waste fuel or manpower. But this—it’s like getting a massage. I lose myself in pre-ash shampoo and homemade soap that smells like lemons.

When I emerge, the bathroom’s steamy and I feel fresh and free. My hair is squeaky clean, and I think about that hot oil treatment Patricia mentioned. I dimly remember what it’s like to have conditioner, but I think even when I used it, my hair still tangled like crazy. I rub a dollop of that lotion into my palms and smooth it over the ends of my hair. It works for skin, right? So after I brush my teeth, moisturize my body, and tug a comb through my hair, I wrap myself in a towel and return to the bedroom. I have a closet. I’ve just never been in there. Every time I enter the room or come out of the shower, fresh clothing is laid out for me like some mystical genie granted a wish.

This time, nothing. Patricia hasn’t been here yet. I get to choose my own outfit! I skip across the room toward the twin closets. The one on the right holds my things; the left belongs to Kent. I’m tempted to slip inside and touch his things and inhale his scent. I throb at the memory of him filling me, making me whole, and I want to wrap myself in him. I reach for the left door and turn the handle.

I’m only two steps into the closet when I catch the scent of mildew, sweat, and old pee. The hair on the back of my neck goes stiff, but before I can retreat, an arm snakes out from behind Kent’s uniforms. It catches me about the waist and pulls me back against a hard body. A hand claps over my mouth, and even though I scream, the sound is muffled.

“Well, look what I found.”

My breaths come shallow and hard, and my heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings as I struggle against the man who holds me. Oh God. Is this the man who shot Lawrence? Am I next? I scream again, and the hand that covers my mouth moves over my nose, cutting off my air.

“You must be the wife,” he says as I struggle to free myself. Abruptly he shoves my head into the wall, and I see Cheerios. Little white circle-o’s against black. He grabs my hands and holds them up over my head and uses his body to pin me against the wall. Something cold and sharp connects with my neck.

“Why are you doing this?” My body is trembling, and the fact that my towel dropped to the floor and I’m completely naked against this man puts my brain in near shutdown mode.

“You people killed my family.” His fetid breath nearly makes me gag. Shaggy dark hair and several days’ stubble hide much of his features, but his eyes are the deepest chocolate brown. They blaze with hatred.

“I don’t know your family,” I tell him, hoping to stall for time.

“I don’t give a shit who you know!” The blade presses more firmly against my throat. “You people wiped out an entire village. Defenseless starving people. Everyone, down to the smallest child. My son!”

I suck in a breath as horror spiders through my veins. “The cannibals!”

“We do what we gotta do to survive. We don’t kill for meat. We eat what’s already dead. You are the murderers.”

My gaze darts toward the bedroom, and I will someone to come through the door, to rescue me from this madman.

“What…” My voice fails as terror threatens to erase my mind. “What are you going to do with me?”