Page 2 of The Bastard (Filthy Trilogy 1)

That’s not going to happen. The question is, do I want any part of aiding in its success? I must. Why else would I be here? “Orian. Buy big. Buy fast.”

“You want in?”

“Yeah. Anything you made for me, put it in.”

“You got it. When do you have that meeting with your father?”

“Tomorrow after this godforsaken launch party.”

“Call me after it’s over. Just remember you owe him nothing. You paid for your own school and you have a brilliant financial mind. He needs you. He knows it. Don’t let him convince you it’s the opposite.”

“Right. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

We disconnect and I stick my phone back inside my pocket before pulling a mini Rubik’s cube from my pocket, rotating the puzzle in my hand, and thinking back to the psychologist who’d placed the first one in my hand. My father had hired him to try to “normalize” my behavior. A savant, the physiologist had said, needs a focal point, a way to slow the data in my head, and he was right.

I scramble and solve the cube three times, settling my mind into a place of reckoning, and then shove the cube back in my pocket. The bottom line: I don’t belong here. I never belonged here. I stand up and walk to my father’s desk where I sit down and think about those words: You owe him nothing.

Not exactly true. My father took me in when my mother died. He petitioned to get me into Harvard based on my academic record, which had been dismissed because of my trailer trash background. I owe him, but I don’t want to owe him anything more. I’m not going to work for my father. I’m leaving. I grab a pen and a piece of paper and write a note to my father:

In payment for the whiskey I just drank and the roof over my head. If I were you, I’d invest big in Orian and do it quickly. —Your Bastard Son.

I drop the pen and stand up, walking toward the door, my decision made. I’ll stay for the meeting tomorrow, simply because he did give me a roof over my head, even if it was to push Isaac, which meant shoving us at each other like a dog fight on repeat. That’s what he wants now, to use me to drive Isaac, but Isaac is vicious and not all that smart. I’ll eat Isaac alive. I just don’t want to anymore.

I exit to the hallway, and when I look left, Harper is exiting the bathroom. I don’t even hesitate. I walk toward her while she freezes in place. I don’t stop until I’m standing directly in front of her. She looks up at me, the scent of roses lifting in the air and apparently I like roses a whole hell of a lot more than I thought I did because her scent is driving me wild. I don’t know what the hell happens, but my hand slides under her hair, and I lean in, my lips next to her lips.

Her hand settles on my chest and grips my lapel, that perfect mouth of hers tilting toward mine as if she’s offering it to me. “What are you doing?” she demands, sounding breathless.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Kissing my sister.” My mouth slants over hers and my tongue slides right past those perfect lips, and with one deep stroke, she moans, and I’m undone. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone more than I want to kiss this woman right here, right now. I deepen the kiss and press her against the wall, my

free hand at her waist, her hand on my hand. Her tongue meets mine for every lick and stroke until I pull back and stare down at her.

Voices sound nearby and I take that last few minutes and decide to do her a favor and be honest with her, like no one else in my father’s world will. “He’s using you, just like he’s always used me. We’re the ones who push Isaac to keep him sharp. You’ll never inherit. You’ll never be anything but The Princess standing next to your King and brother. And just for the record. I’m not your fucking brother.” I release her and walk away, making a fast path through the kitchen and out of the house.

Once I’m in the midst of the crowd, I cut through the mess of people and find my way back to the path to my cottage where I enter and have every intention of packing up and getting the hell out of here. I’ve barely shut the door when the bell rings. Who the hell followed me to the cottage, because someone sure as fuck did. I fling open the door to find Harper standing there.

“Because why would anyone think that I have anything real to bring to the table, right?” she challenges, as if we were still in the middle of our prior conversation, her beautiful blue eyes sparking with anger. “Because all my time with my father, learning his business, taught me nothing.”

I grab her and pull her inside the cottage.

CHAPTER THREE

Eric

In about thirty seconds, I have the door shut and locked, and Harper pressed against the wall, my thighs shackling hers. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do,” she hisses, as if she doesn’t notice that I’m about double her size and presently the one in control.

“How old are you?” I demand.

“What does that have to do with anything?” she snaps back, not even close to backing down.

“How old?” I repeat.

“Twenty-three, but I still don’t get why that has anything to do with this.”

“How long have you been out of school?”

“Just because I’m not a thirty-year-old literal genius doesn’t mean I have nothing to offer, and the suggestion that it does makes you an asshole.”

“I’m not suggesting that you have nothing to offer. I’m telling you it doesn’t matter to him. I thought it did, too, way back when. I thought if I was better than Isaac, I’d have a place. It didn’t. I won’t.”

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