Page 76 of Frozen Hearts
“Well, go on and enjoy the rest of your day, sweetie.”
No one has ever called mesweetie. They know if they did, I’d rip their heads off, but Tammy helps take care of one of the only people in my life who I genuinely give a shit about, so I let her get away with things I wouldn’t allow anyone else.
Wishing her a happy Thanksgiving, I stride away from the reception desk as my phone pings. Noticing a text from Royce, I open up our chat and stall halfway out the door as I stare at the photo he sent.
One in which Riley James—the girl responsible for all the shit that has gone wrong in my life—is staring off into the distance with a radiant smile.
In this captured moment, with the sun shining on her face, she looks so innocent. Virtuous. Angelic.
However, I know it’s all an act—one big, fat lie.
She couldn’t be farther from the wholesome girl she pretends to be.
Beneath that virtuous exterior is a woman who doesn’t care who she has to trample over to get what she wants. She paints a pretty picture of innocence, of docility. But she’s intelligent and cunning, and when she sets her sights on a target, she sinks in her claws and doesn’t let go until her prey is dead and lifeless in her hands.
Which is exactly what she did to my family. She hunted us. Picked us apart until she knew our weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Then she pounced. Caught us in her maw and shook until our necks snapped.
The phone creaks precariously in my hand, my anger bursting at the seams, demanding release. Forcing my grip to slacken, I tear my eyes from her face, instead lowering them over the rest of her body visible in the photo.
She’s dressed in lycra leggings that stop at her knees and a loose, floaty top that does nothing to hide her sports bra underneath. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, flyaway hairs sticking up everywhere, and her face is red. Based on the way the sun is reflecting off the glass and the grubby wooden floors and dated interior visible in the background, I’m guessing Royce stalked her to the dance studio she attends near her apartment.
He’s been doing a lot of that recently—stalking her.
Which is ideal. Since Logan can’t stand to look at her, and for obvious reasons I can’t let her see me. Not without kick-starting our plan, and I need the downtime and isolation of winter break for what I’m planning.
My eyes trail over her slim figure, usually hidden behind clothes two sizes too big when she isn’t at Lux. Today every curve is on display. Every trim line so familiar and yet so foreign. Sliding my gaze upward, I hover over her face. Her green eyes and freckles always took my breath away. They still do.
When she and her mother lived with me and my father, she spent most of her time squirreled away in her room while I was always out with friends or at some party. We weren’t around one another often, but when we all sat down for the odd family dinner, I felt her presence like a beacon calling to me. She’d steal all of my attention without even trying.
However, at that age, two years felt like a huge age gap—not to mention that she was my stepsister—and I had plenty of less complicated girls I could lose my time in. So, besides the occasional admiring of her body over a Sunday roast, she didn’t exist in my world.
Until she placed herself front and center.
Dragging my eyes up to her face, my appreciation for a hot body twists into something harsher, harder, tarnished. Her eyes are shimmering with a vibrancy they have no right to contain, and the corners of her lips are pulled up in a slight smile that somehow still shines with radiance.
I want to rip that smile from her face.
She has no right to smile after what she did. No grounds to feel even a single moment of happiness.
Soon, I remind myself. Soon, she will face the consequences of her actions. Soon, she will understand that her deeds did not go unpunished. That the Devil always comes to collect.
Soon, my brothers and I will have her all to ourselves, and by the time we’re done with her, she’ll be nothing but an empty shell incapable of smiling.
That notion hasmesmiling, and I feel lighter than I have all day as I climb into my BMW i8 and start the engine.
I’ve just pulled out of the parking lot when my phone rings, the sound coming through the car’s Bluetooth. I heave out a sigh at the caller ID before accepting the call.
“This is a prepaid call fromBertram,an inmate at Springview Federal Correctional Center. All calls are subject to recording and monitoring. Do you accept this call?”
“Yes,” I state the second the robotic voice has finished speaking, more than familiar with this song and dance by now.
A moment later, heavy breathing fills the line before my father’s voice echoes throughout the car. “Davidjust stopped by. Mentioned some new contract you signed with a renewable energy company.” His voice is the picture of calm, but I hear the barely contained anger punched into each and every word. I can mentally picture him standing in his gray jumpsuit, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he struggles to keep his cool.
It’s one of Dad’s weaknesses—his anger. It’s always gotten the better of him, especially when he’s blindsided, or something doesn’t go his way. He rages up a storm, throws a temper tantrum, then storms off to cool down, and when he comes back later, he’ll apologize for losing his temper and be more reasonable to talk to.
Except, when you’re in prison and only get one phone call a day, it makes it difficult to return later.
If only fuckingDavidwould keep his goddamn mouth shut and letmedecide the right time to deliver news like this to my father. Asshole can’t wrap his head around the fact thatI’mthe one in charge. The dickhead is always trying to undermine me. Arguing every little suggestion I bring to the table, voting against me at shareholder meetings, and now running to my dad. Fan-fucking-tastic.
