Page 123 of Feed Your Fiends

“So, Bart let him go because he finally realised that Jarett was telling the truth? That he doesn’t know who your brother is? That he’s not the father?”

“Maybe. I think Bart deemed him utterly useless beyond death at that point.”

She swallows. “He would’ve killed him, just like he wants to kill your brother?”

“Of course. He gave me Jarett so that I could have you.”

“Wait…he wants you to have me?” she asks, utterly confused.

“He wants me to have what I want, and I hate the way you say that word,brother.”

“You sound like Aria.”

“He’s a stranger, Elle. We share, noshared,a mother. That’s it.”

She looks at me intently. “It’s one thing if Bart wants to kill people. That’s horrible, despicable enough, but you’re looking for this brother too. You'rehelpinghim.”

“I don’t have a choice. You think I’m spoiled?” I chuckle darkly. “Bart gets what he wants. Even I don’t think that highly of myself to assume I can ever stop him. You say I always win.” I shake my head. “You don’t know my father. He always wins.”

She freezes, a look of terror passing over her features as she stiffens in my arms. “Then why would you want me to meet him?” she asks, confused.

“Just to say that you did. At least once.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

She tries to get off my lap, but I lock her against my chest.

“Gant! We’re talking about murder! You say there’s no way out of his scheme, yet you somehow think he’ll let you plan your own life out?”

“I know he won’t. You say I’m delusional, but I’m very much aware of my reality.”

“Then, why do you keep holding on to me?” she asks, trying to break my grip again. “Don’t tell me you think if you do exactly what he wants, he’ll let you have what you want, me.”

“I don’t think that at all.”

“Then seriously, what the fuck are you thinking?”

“That I want you to meet him,” I say, grabbing the shower head and running it over us.

She shivers despite the warmth. “Why?”

“I said I’d do anything for you, but I don’t want you to do anything for me that you don’t want to, Elle.”

Her shoulders relax, and I drop a kiss on her right one before meeting her gaze in the shower glass.

“But I will ask you to do this.”

“Why?” she insists, her brows knitting, a pained plea in the question.

“Because it would mean the world to me.”

Gant

Libeulle’s unusually sober when I stroll through the front doors. Which is exactly why I’m here.

I glance up at the freshly repaired skylight with stained-glass and fluttering dragonflies. The supporting wood is obviously new, too, because it interrupts the darkness of the tray ceiling with its raw oak hue.

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