Page 73 of Stolen Harmony
Chapter 17
Drowning Again
Rowan
Itipped the whiskey back in one swallow, the burn cutting straight to my gut. It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was—but alcohol at least showed up when nothing else did.
“Rowan.” Anna’s voice carried that sharp edge only she could manage—half exasperation, half worry. She slid into place at my elbow, frowning at the glass in front of me. “It’s not even ten a.m.”
I shrugged, pushing the glass forward. “Breakfast of champions.”
She didn’t move to pour. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest, giving me that look that had once kept me from sneaking cigarettes behind the school gym. “Most people come here for coffee this early.”
“Coffee doesn’t do the job,” I muttered, though even to my own ears it sounded weak.
Her expression softened, but her voice stayed firm. “Whiskey at this hour isn’t a job either. You eating?”
“When I remember to.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Anna let out a breath through her nose, grabbed the bottle anyway, and refilled the glass with a little more force than necessary. “One,” she said pointedly. “And then I’m making you eat something that isn’t liquid.”
The amber liquid caught the morning light as it splashed into the glass—too bright, too wrong for this hour. I wrapped my fingers around it anyway, trying to ignore how much like pity her silence felt.
And then a shadow fell across the bar. I looked up, the whiskey haze thinning for a second as recognition hit me like a slap.
I knew that face. Had seen it smiling down from campaign posters plastered on every lamppost in Harbor's End. Sharp jawline, silver hair perfectly styled, the kind of expensive suit that whispered money and influence. But up close, there was something predatory in his pale eyes that the photographs had managed to hide.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice smooth as aged scotch. He was already signaling Anna for a drink before I could answer, sliding onto the stool beside me with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to taking what he wanted.
“Victor Grant,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
Grant. The same last name as?—
“Elias is my brother,” Victor continued smoothly, clearly reading my expression. “But I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”
I shook his hand automatically, fingers clumsy from alcohol and surprise. His grip was firm, and practiced
“Rowan,” I managed, voice rough.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are.” Victor’s smile was allteeth. “The prodigal son returns. Quite the story. Tragic, but compelling.”
Anna appeared with his drink—something expensive and clear. She set it down with a thud that made Victor arch an eyebrow. “Everything alright here?” she asked, gaze flicking between us.
“Just getting acquainted,” Victor said. “Old family connections, you understand.”
Her jaw tightened. “Rowan, you need anything else?”
I raised my half-empty beer. “Maybe another. If we’re doing introductions, I should at least be hydrated.”
She snorted softly but didn’t linger.
Victor swirled his glass, studying me. “She’s protective of you. Admirable. Though I wonder if she knows what she’s protecting you from.”
“Let me guess—you?” I shot back. “Because that would explain the cologne.”
