Page 79 of Feed Your Fiends

“It’s only a matter of time before Gant sees that you don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Neither do you, and you’re his uncle.”And mine.“If you cared so much, you would confess the truth and keep your money. But the money’s worth a lot less to you than your wife’s happiness and your new nephew’s ignorance, right?”

He just peers at me as if wondering who the fuck I think I am.

“Eloisa Ginhart,” I say to his unasked question. “That’s the name on the account. Are you ready for the bank account number yet?”

Elle

As I slip into the garden, my elbow throbs in tune with my thundering heartbeat and quickening footsteps. It’s only when I see myself in the tall windows of the sitting room that I realise my elbow’s bleeding.

Fuck,why hadn’t I noticed it before coming into the gardens? My escape from the dark garage and Silas had left me frozen and numb. Now that I’m washed in sunshine, and I see Gant emerging from the orangerie, I’m suddenly launched back into reality. Well, a surreal reality because suddenly I’m six figures richer. My head’s still spinning over the number, my fingers still sweating as I clutch my phone like I’m clutching the bills themselves.

I’d spent so much time in the garage that I was worried Gant would come looking for me and not find me where I said I was. I need him to trust me, to believe that I’m here for him. I’m about to head inside to actually use the powder room this time when that deep, cool voice stops me.

“Elle?”

Instinctively, I follow his gaze to my elbow. I must’ve rammed it onto a nob or something to break the skin when I tried to escape. But how the hell had he seen the blood from so far away? The second I lift my head, he’s already in front of me in a few long strides, Sylo and a concerned-looking Delphine flanking him.

“What happened?” he asks, gingerly holding my arm like he’s afraid to break it. He’s been so gentle lately. Like he’s afraid to break me even more.

Wishful thinking.

“I slipped and fell,” I say quickly before thinking better of it when Delphine’s in earshot. I don’t want her to think the hidden staff was negligent. “I didn’t dry my hands well, so I dripped and skidded. The towel rack caught my fall, and my elbow grazed the sharp corner.”

Delphine’s brows knit as she reaches for me. “I’m so sorry. What a horrible first impression. Come, I’ll get you bandaged up.”

“It’s just a nick,” I say dismissively, but she pulls me beneath her arm so that I’m wedged between her and Gant.

“Darling, blood is impossible to get out of most things, including stone.” She frowns at the dark spot where I’d dripped on the walkway.

Maybe it’s worse than I thought.

“I insist. I can give you a painkiller too. It may not hurt now, but it will in a few hours. Don’t worry, Gant,” Delphine says with a reassuring smile as she tugs me toward the house. “I’ll take care of her. Sylo, why don’t you show Gant the planetarium?”

Sylo smiles, placing his pale fingers on Gant’s shoulder. “I’d love to.”

But Gant’s staring at me, completely ignoring them, as if waiting for my answer.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, prying my fingers from his side and warmth.

Silas was inside. Would he still act like nothing happened if Gant isn’t present? Sylo already told me that Silas didn’t respect Delphine after all, but then he seemed concerned about keeping her happy. Was that just for appearance's sake?

Then again, maybe a second alone with Delphine is exactly what I need for more than just answers. She’s like the pleasant version of Marisol, and maybe in some bizarre way, having her like me is like gaining that acceptance I never could from her sister, even if she were still alive.

But why would I care about that?

I don’t.

No, it’s not Marisol that has me smiling and relaxing in Delphine’s arms. Maybe it’s Jaime’s latest betrayal that’s forcing me to seek an older woman for guidance, even if it’s just for a bandage. It feels nice, normal, to be looked after.

She leads us to a butler’s pantry off the main kitchen. The creamy green cabinets scream old money, as do the black and mother-of-pearl diamond pattern tiles.

“Sit,” she says, pulling out a rolling stool tucked beneath the counter before rummaging in one of the drawers for a small medical kit.

“I’m really sorry,” I begin as she slips on gloves before cleaning my wound over the tiny sink and patting it dry with gauze. When she sprays it with disinfectant, I can’t help but jump. You’d think that after my feet debacle, a little sting wouldn’t faze me.

“Nonsense,” she says dismissively. “And careful with that lip. You’ll start bleeding there, too.”

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