“How’s school?” Achilles asks.
“It’s fine.”
“You like your classes?”
I nod, wondering where he’s going with this line of questioning.
“You’re a smart guy, Herc. Smarter than me and Orion put together. I don’t think Mom understands the gravity of that.”
My frown intensifies. “Me neither. What’s the gravity of it?”
Achilles scoffs. “Brute power doesn’t get us anywhere anymore. Those days are gone. We need brains, and you have them. That’s means if you’re unhappy, then the fucking plan needs to be…” He’s looking me in the eye. Then his eyes narrow a bit more. “Reconstructed.”
Achilles abruptly stands, but it doesn’t keep me from saying, “Can I ask you something?”
He turns his head slightly, and I know that’s his way of replying,What is it?
“Why me? I’m, like, the third in line to the fucking throne.”
He snorts. “I’ve been asking the same question. But here’s what I want you to do. Don’t sweat it. I’ll keep Mom and Contessa off your ass. Get good grades. And, um…” He widens his stance as he crosses his arms. “The girl you picked up last night—you don’t know who she is?”
I throw my hands up. “What the fuck did she do? Steal the china?”
He chuckles. “No. But she may have saved your life, for one thing.”
“And what’s the other thing?”
Again, his eyes narrow a smidgen. What the fuck is he hiding?
“Nothing, other than it looks like you had a lot of fun.” He messes my hair up. “I’ve got to go. Make sure housekeeping scrubs this place from head to toe. Eat something.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses my forehead.
“Shit, Achilles. I’m twenty-two. You gotta stop doing that.”
He shoots two fingers at me as he takes backward steps. “I’m going to always do that. As long as you’re my little brother, you get the kiss on the forehead.”
I wipe his extra spit off my forehead and then show him the middle finger on the way out. Achilles roars with laughter. The kiss on the forehead isn’t just a kiss. It’s a sloppy mess.
“Fuck,” I mutter and then stand up and get some paper towels to wipe his spit off.
At least I feel better. I’m going to listen to Achilles and trust that he’ll handle Mom and Contessa. Usually, he comes through. I hope he will this time. I need him to.
Six Years Later
Chapter Seventeen
Freedom Delayed
Paisley Grove
Max and I walk into the third-floor library and stop in the middle of the vast space. Tall windows usher in light muted by gray clouds, which casts its glow against old books that fill the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining each side of the room. Max asked me to take a farewell tour of the family home with him. This will be our last Thanksgiving dinner at the Carnegie Hill house. Since the dwelling isn’t equipped with the piping for advanced in-home sewer-treatment technology or smart walls that allow for easy, environmentally friendly temperature control, it’ll be torn down and rebuilt by the new landowners.
When I was younger, I never understood why my father insisted that we live here instead of a smaller, more practical abode not only fit for a three-person family but with the bells and whistles of modernization. Now that I’m older, I do understand. Grandpa’s death hit my father harder than his casual, calm demeanor showed. When we moved in, the decor remained untouched. My mom wasn’t even allowed to put her special twist on the place. Not that Heartly is much of a home decorator, but she would have hired Alana Norton from MIND, one of the most reputable interior-design companies in the world, to give it a major makeover.
Before we reached the library, Max finally admitted that selling the manor was long overdue. As proof, he now directs my attention to the red leather chair that looks like it belongs in a colonial museum.
“Once, I ran into Father sitting there, slumped and weeping,” he says.
My eyebrows flit up in surprise. “Xander, crying?”
