Page 26 of The Good Girl

“Serena Suliman?” she drawls, making the name sound almost trashy and too try-hard as it falls from her lips. “How unfortunate.”

I can feel Serena stiffen beside me at the slight, but before I can say anything to ease the awkwardness, my mother gives us both another smile worthy of a toothpaste advert and ducks out of the room, blowing air kisses as she leaves. “You girls enjoy your little sleepover, have fun!”

Serena huffs and lays back down. If she thought coming into the lion’s den was going to be fluffy clouds and rainbows, she was very wrong. This was nothing, my mother was the embodiment of warmth and hospitality compared to my uncle or the others. They lived by their own rules—Society rules—and Serena wasn’t part of that, which meant that she was nothing but dirt under their shoe.

“I see why you don’t have people over…” Serena snipes, and I resist the urge to laugh.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tristan

My father is in a foul mood after last night’s Council meeting and I can only hazard a guess as to why. His little proclivities are drawing too much attention, and while The Society doesn’t normally give a shit about anything like missing women, elections were just around the corner. It was making people look bad, officials were having pressure applied to them, funding was being directed into creating task forces and The Council must have decided that Malcom Radcliffe was becoming a liability.

It served him right, I scoff to myself as I sort through my paintings in the attic. I take pictures of some of them before wrapping them up and calling Reid to arrange a collection on Monday.

I can hear doors slamming downstairs and I ignore the banging, wondering if we’re still on for a round of poker at the cabin this weekend. I’d originally suggested a day of riding the bikes in the forest, but Noah had been put under house arrest by his mother and Atlas had a job to do for his father and The Council. I fire off a quick text, checking if the plans for tonight were still the same and moments later he replies with:All good to go.

I jump in the shower, washing off the paint that covers me today. Shades of orange and red, laced with chocolates and golds. I’d painted her as I’d seen her last night, firelight on one side and moonlight on the other as she sat with her eyes closed on the window seat, half-eaten cake by her side. Peaceful. Beautiful. It was only a shame that I hadn’t managed to capture the lethal side of her, the one that held a sharp fork against my cock and made promises that shouldn’t have turned me on, but did.

Reid had loved the initial pictures I’d sent him, pressing me about who the girl was. “Mate, you’re obsessed.” He’d chuckled down the phone. If only he knew how true that was.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a navy shirt, I grab a blazer, dressing up a little for the poker game. I was always curious to see the stakes, and tonight was no different. It was like wandering around a yard sale, or poking your way through an antique shop—you never knew what people would consider worthwhile and precious. Sometimes, the nature of the secret wasn’t as telling or juicy as what it said about the person offering it up.

I take the stairs quietly, trying not to draw attention from my father, and just as I think I’m almost free, he calls my name.

“Tristan Radcliffe, get your ass in here!” The shout echoes around our hallway and I tense. “NOW!”

I enter the open kitchen, pausing when I see a young man tied to a chair at our dining table. His shirt is in shreds, and there are crimson spatters everywhere. He squirms against his restraints, trying to shout out against the ball gag my father has shoved into his mouth, but the knife my father presses between his ribs silences him.

Laughing, my father swipes a half-empty bottle of bourbon from the kitchen counter and takes a long swig before slamming it back down. With a twisted smile, he waves his knife towards the man and then to me. “Tristan, meet Jaxon. He’s an acquaintance from Newtown.”

Swallowing, I make sure to keep my shoulders straight and my face passive. My father was on a rampage and nothing would stop him until he burned himself out.

“If this is how you treat your friends, I’m not surprised you don’t have many.” I raise a brow coldly and fold my arms, unaffected by his brutality. Nothing amazed me anymore with the man who shared half of my DNA.

“Jax here is the fucking reason The Council is breathing down my neck. He’s ajournalist.” My father snarls the word, spittle flying from his mouth as he paces a circle around the shaking man.

Jaxon locks eyes with me and I see the defeat there, we both know he’s not leaving here alive. Like Eve with the apple, knowledge is power, and we all know he’s seen too much and knows too much to ever go back to his shitty little job and tiny apartment back in Newtown. He’s probably regretting his life choices right now, but it’s too late.

I give them both a two-finger salute and take a step backwards, away from the shit show going down in my kitchen. “Nice to meet you, Jaxon, I’m afraid I was just on my way out.”

He tries to scream, spit mixing with blood and tears as my father laughs and slides the knife down Jaxon’s sternum, cutting him open like a baked potato. His eyes are pleading with me, begging, and on some level I wish I could help. But that wasn’t my life, I wasn’t a hero.

“Poker game.” I shrug as if it can’t be helped, and I see his eyes bulge as if I’m a madman. Not insane, just raised by sociopaths and psychopaths in a secret society for the rich and elite.

“You’re a flippant little gob-shite.” My father glares at me, swiping away his sweat with the back of his hand, succeeding in only smearing sticky blood across his face. “Get here. Finish the job.”

I take another step back, with my hands held up. “No can do. Clean clothes, and I’m meeting Atlas and Hunter.”

“Tristan,” he growls, and I force myself not to shiver, not to tremble or show an ounce of fear. He would not be the one to break me, he needed me too much.

“Malcom.” Mimicking his tone, I cross my arms and flash him a bored look.

“You will learn to obey me.” I hate him more than usual when he’s like this, deranged and crazy. Power hungry and psychotic. If I could get a hold of the phone in my pocket without triggering my father, I could send a message to Rowan and warn him. Afterall, The Society would need to help clean this up.

My eyebrow raises. “I highly doubt it.”

He snarls, his hand flying out as he slashes Jaxon’s throat open, killing his new plaything quickly before striding over to me and grabbing my jaw. Unlike with Lena, I don’t trust this grip, the feel of his hands on my body making me feel disgusted.

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