Page 15 of Hexed
The King of the Sea.
But there’s an underworld, the same way there is everywhere else, and it’s the true foundation that props up the Kingston legacy.
He always does this, though: gives me a task and then acts unhappy about how I handle it. He also frequently calls me “little one.”
Little.
Even though I’m twenty-four and have been taking care ofhismesses just as long as he’s taken care of mine.
I lean forward, grabbing one of his cigars and the stainless steel Zippo he keeps beside it. Puffing on the roll, I move the flame over the opposite end until thick smoke surrounds me, the taste of tobacco, earthy notes, and a hint of espresso dancing on my tongue. “What’s a woman gotta do to get a little respect around here, Uncle T?”
“You want respect, Venesa? Then stop disappointing me.”
My teeth bite into the cigar, and I puff one last time before dragging his ashtray to the corner of the desk and placing it down. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
Empty words to appease him. Or maybe to appease the biggest part of myself that’s desperate for his love.
There’s a smaller piece, though, one that whispers in the back of my mind, saying he wanted a message sent, and the messagewassent. Signed. Sealed. Delivered. It’s not my fault if he can’t see the vision.
Men.Their pride is always their downfall.
Uncle T blows out a breath, his eyes never leaving mine. I know better after all these years than to keep filling the silence with chatter, so instead I sink back and allow the quiet to surround us.
Classical music plays in the background, the soothing notes grating against my nerves.
When I was young, a few months after my momma died and I was sent here, I approached Uncle T and asked him why he always played that kind of music. He said it made him feel sophisticated, and although he didn’t particularly enjoy the sound, “you have tobehow you’d like to be perceived.”
And Trent Kingston has always wanted to be seen as a cultured, elegant man. Says it’s part of the family legacy.
I used to sneak into his office and curl up in his leather chair, the one that just sits there like a throne behind his big cherry oak desk, and I’d listen to Chopin or Pachelbel, imagining I wasn’t alone in a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house with nobody but housekeepers and a nanny, while my uncle went on family trips with his wife and daughter.
The music was always comforting, like a soft blanket on a cool night.
Now I hate the noise.
Just another reminder of everything Ialmosthave but don’t.
“I can hear you thinking.” Uncle T sighs.
My vision refocuses, and I look past him to where a large painting hangs, an ache blooming in my chest.
The painting has been passed down through the generations of Kingstons, from father to son, repeatedly, like a rite of passage.
It’s not even an actual pictureofthe family. It’s just seven empty marble chairs at the bottom of the ocean and a glowing trident floating in the middle. A representation of the seven kingdoms of Atlantis, which Kingston lore says we’re descendants of.
But I don’t care about any of that.
I just want it because it was my momma’s favorite thing in the entire world, so much so that her daddy gave it to her instead of upholding tradition of passing it down to the son.
It’s supposed to be mine now.
“You’re just like your momma,” Uncle T says.
My heart hurts the same way it does every time he brings her up.
How would you know?I want to ask. “So you always say,” I murmur instead.
He gives me a pointed look but doesn’t press the subject, taking another sip of his bourbon before setting it down. He grabs his own cigar, lighting it up and puffing until thick plumes of smoke curl into the air, clouding around him like a fog. “Your cousin’s home, you know.”
