Page 26 of Wicked God
But with Lauren’s situation hanging over me, I need to deal with my father and the university before I can even think about Olivia. Still, I’m not letting her slip away. I’ll find a way to contact her.
Lauren emerges from my bathroom in a sleek black dress and boots, a fuzzy pink bag slung under her arm. Her hair falls in loose, glossy waves.
I blink. “Where did you get those clothes? I thought we were ordering takeout and you were going to tell me your plan.”
She shrugs, nose wrinkling. “I have my ways. And why aren’t you dressed? You can’t go out looking like that.”
“Go out where? Did I miss half the conversation?”
She gestures at the empty walls of my apartment. I just moved in, so the place is still bare, save for a few boxes and the essentials. “We’re going to an art gallery. Your apartment needs art, and we need to get out and clear our heads. It’ll do us good.” She gives me a pointed look, daring me to argue.
Sometimes, I really don’t understand women.
“And the takeout?”
“Plans changed. Art, then drinks and sushi. I know how you live, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate a few extra boxes of takeout.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Lauren, this isn’t exactly the time for—”
“No arguments.” She fixes me with a look that brooks no refusal. “You can worry about legal loopholes later. Right now, you’re coming with me, and we’re going to enjoy ourselves. Doctor’s orders.”
I almost smile at her bossy tone. “Oh? And when did you get your medical degree?”
“I’ve always known precisely what treatment you need.” Her eyes glitter with mischief. “Trust me, an evening with me is better than brooding here alone.”
I groan, pushing up from the couch. “I don’t know what’s happening, but you owe me for this.”
Lauren pulls out a tube of lip gloss and applies it to her lips. “You got me expelled from my course, brother. If anyone owes anyone, it’s you. Now hurry up. I don’t have all night.”
Chapter 13
Alexander
The sky is bruised and heavy, grey clouds hanging so low over the city that it feels like the storm might break at any second. Despite the threat of rain—or maybe because of it—the gallery is alive. Monday evening, and every inch of the stark, white-walled space pulses with bodies and voices, the clink of glasses, the hush of feet on polished floors.
I follow Lauren through the crowd, catching fragments of her commentary on a painting—some twisted figure with knotted limbs and wild eyes. The artist has talent, I’ll give them that, but the piece makes my skin crawl. Not something I’d want staring at me over morning coffee.
I glance at my sister, arching a brow. “Since when do you appreciate the macabre?” I ask, nodding toward the canvas. “It reminds me of you, actually.”
“Hilarious.” Lauren’s smile is sharp, and it puts me on guard instantly. I know a threat when I see one.
“Why are we really here?” I press.
There’s a glint in Lauren’s eyes, something sly and dangerous. “Your future bride is here and wants to meet us,” she repeats, unbothered.
For a moment, I can only stare. “What?”
“Well, not your actual bride.” Lauren rolls her eyes. “The bride’s sister. She wanted to meet us.”
My muscles tense. “What do you mean, ‘meet us’? You lied to me.”
“Oh, please. I improvised.” Her fingers dig into my arm as she steers me forward, her smile fixed in place while her eyes hunt through the crowd. In that moment, she looks unsettlingly like our father. “She’s over there.” Lauren tilts her chin.
I scan the room, searching for a flash of emerald, and then I see her. Blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. My heart stutters when she turns.
Olivia.
Jesus.
