Page 15 of Primal

And if Papa discovers how Braken and I first met… he’ll kill him right here on the spot.

Since I can’t flick him off without incurring my father’s wrath, I do the only thing I can. I ignore him, turn around, and walk away.

Jescie greets me with a raise of her glass and a forced smile. “Is it time?”

“Unfortunately,” I answer with a heavy sigh.

I snatch the wine glass from her before she can stop me. My youngest sister doesn’t protest as I down it in two gulps. We both need a little extra liquid courage to get through this.

“I was jealous you got away,” Jescie admits. “I mean… I knew I’d miss you, and I was happy for you, but I was also green with envy. You did something I’d never have the courage to do.”

“All it did was piss off Papa. Look at where I’m at now. Still here.”

“Where did you go?”

“Not far enough away, apparently,” I mutter.

She glances over at Papa. “Are you staying?”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice now that Mason is dead.”

The eulogies go in order from youngest to oldest. The room is so packed there’s no room to sit, let alone breathe. Jescie stands there, a portrait of our deceased mother with her wavy, shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes that don’t waver as she tells stories of Mason from childhood. Sable goes next, recounting the time Mason burst into her room and found her halfway through his birthday cake, which she then scarfed downbefore Mason could get a bite. The story makes the crowd chuckle, but Sable’s smile is far from genuine. She dabs at the tears at the corner of her eye and steps down, long black ponytail bouncing in time with her Louboutins.

Now it’s my turn.

Standing in front of the crowd is nearly paralyzing. Every pair of eyes is on me, but I can’t tell which are friends and which are foes. Most likely none of them. Being a Godwin is a dangerous game where the pieces always shift before there’s time to complete the puzzle. Being Hector Godwin’s daughter means I should hold almost all the cards, but there could always be someone waiting to put a target on my back.

Just like they did with Mason.

“I’m not sure why we’re here when Mason would much prefer to be at a Seattle Mariners game,” I joke to start my tribute.

The room laughs and resounds with agreement, but my mouth runs dry. I wish it were just a joke. But Mason spent his life at the Seattle Mariners’ stadium, all the way up to his dying moments.

The rest of the eulogy is a blur, mostly because of the tears that line my eyes and voice. Between the stories of us accidentally breaking our father’s car window during baseball practice to us losing our voices from screaming during the many baseball games he dragged me to, it feels like Mason is alive in the stories I tell. How am I supposed to let him go?

I finish with a quiet, “Love you, Mason,” and take my seat, staring at the ceiling lights until my eyes burn.

I can’t cry in front of all these people. Any move I make as a Godwin is plastered all over social media before I can blink. Word gets around when your family is powerful and well-connected. Mason’s death was front page on Page Six before his car even finished smoldering. The last thing I want is my red-splotchy face posted above some disgusting caption reading“DEVASTATED! Socialite Fiora Godwin cries at her brother’s funeral and looks good doing it.”

My father speaks of Mason’s fire, loyalty, and talent. But Mason’s murder isn’t just a death. It’s a warning. Someone is out there threatening to knock down the tower he spent so long building. And his words are clear that he’ll find out who and make them pay.

By the time the respects are over, I’m exhausted. My eyes burn from trying to stop my tears. My chest is tight from the constant reminders that Mason is gone. There are so many people here that I want to scream or smoke a whole pack of Marlboros—something I haven’t done in years.

I need air. I don’t want to chance reporters or paparazzi outside just in case, so I make for the funeral home’s back door, bowing my head politely to people who greet me as I pass. As I step out of the parlor, I feel it again. A pair of eyes watching my every move. But when I turn to look back, no one is paying me any mind, giving me a chance to make my escape.

The breeze is cold on my feverish skin, cooling me down. It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but maybe the sky is crying with us. As the only male in the family, Mason was always Mom and Papa’s favorite. Maybe he’s Satan’s favorite, too. There is no way Mason ended up at the pearly gates. In fact, I can imagine him playing poker with the demons, swindling them out of everything they had and laughing about how Hell is going to be a fun ride.

It brings a smile to my face.

“It’s good to see you smiling again. It’s good to see you period. I started to wonder if you’d return.”

My body goes rigid before I recognize the voice. Marco. Just the person I need most right now.

I was worried he wouldn’t come, but he strolls up to me as casually as ever, hands stuffed into the pockets of his rain-splattered trench coat.

Screw the tabloids. I hurry down the back steps of the funeral home to fling myself into his arms. He’s warm and smells of mint and apple from the cologne I bought him for his birthday. He crushes me to his chest so close I can practically feel his heartbeat.

“Sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he mumbles into my hair.

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