Chapter 2- Eighteen now

The SUV was late.

  I’d been standing by the window so long my forehead left a greasy smudge on the glass. I didn’t wipe it off. I just stood there, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve until my thumb went numb.

  Then, the sound of tires on gravel. Gritty. Loud.

  I didn't breathe. I just watched that black hunk of metal roll up the drive like it owned the dirt. It looked out of place. This house was all white stone and pruned roses, and that car looked like something that lived in an alleyway.

  The door opened.

  My heart did this stupid, jagged little skip in my throat. I hated it. I hated him before he even stepped out.

  It was Xavier. But it wasn't.

  Three years ago, he was a kid with a bad attitude and skinny ribs. This guy? This guy was solid. He stood up and the sun seemed to get blocked out. He was wearing a suit, sure, but it looked like he wanted to rip out of it. He looked Good.i hate to admit that.

  He didn't look at the front door. He looked up. Right at me.

  I didn't jump back. I couldn't move. His eyes were like two dark holes in a pale face. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just stared until I felt like I was standing there naked instead of in a five-hundred-dollar dress.

  "Astrid! Get down here!"

  My dad’s voice. Always shouting from another room. Like I was a dog he was calling to heel.

  I forced my feet to move. My legs felt like they were made of steel .I walked down the stairs, my heart thumping a rhythm that hurt my chest. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  By the time I got to the bottom, the front door was wide open. The heat hit me first that thick, sticky summer air that makes your hair frizz and your skin feel itchy.

And then I smelled him.

  He didn't smell like the expensive soap my dad used. He smelled like cigarettes and something sharp. Like maybe tobacco.

  "Xavier," my dad said. He actually sounded happy. It was gross. He clapped Xavier on the shoulder, and for a second, I thought Xavier was going to swing at him. He didn't. He just stood there, stiff as a board.

  "Lyrien," Xavier said. His voice was deeper. Rough. Like he’d spent the last three years screaming or not talking at all.

  Then he looked at me.

  I stood on the bottom step so I wouldn't have to look up at him quite so much. It didn't help. He was still a mountain.

  "Look at you," my dad bragged, gesturing at me. "Eighteen today. A woman."

  Xavier didn't say anything. He stepped closer.

  I wanted to move. I wanted to run back upstairs and lock the door. But I stayed still. I wasn't going to let him see me shake.

  He reached out. His hand was huge. His fingers were calloused, not smooth like a rich guy's. He didn't touch my face. He grabbed a chunk of my hair near my shoulder and gave it a small, mean tug.

  "Eighteen," he muttered. He leaned in close. I could see a tiny scar on his lip. I could smell the mint on his breath. "You still have that look in your eyes, Astrid. Like you’re waiting for someone to hit you."

  "Don't touch me," I snapped. My voice came out high and shaky. I hated it.

  He didn't let go. He twisted the hair around his finger once.

  "I'll touch whatever I want in this house," he whispered. It wasn't a threat. It was just a fact. "I’m the one watching you now. Your dad’s tired. He’s handing over the keys."

  He leaned even closer, his mouth right against my ear. His stubble grazed my skin, stinging a little.

  "Happy Birthday, Velvet," he breathed.

  The name felt like a slap. It was our secret. A stupid thing from when we were kids. Hearing it come out of his mouth now, with that dark, heavy voice... it felt like he was reaching inside my chest and squeezing my heart.

  He let go of my hair and stepped back, looking at my dad like I wasn't even there.

  "Let's go to the office, Lyrien," Xavier said. "We have things to talk about."

  They walked away. Just like that.

  I stayed on the bottom step, my skin crawling where he’d touched me. I looked at the smudge on the floor where his boots had tracked in mud.

  He was back. And the air in the house suddenly felt like it was running out.

  I looked at the East Wing, the shadows stretching across the lawn like fingers reaching for the main house. He was back.

  It’s a strange thing, having a brother who isn't yours.

  Xavier isn't a Mattoe by blood, though he carries the name like a curse. My father married his mother, Elena, when I was barely four. I don’t remember much about her just a blur of red lipstick and the smell of expensive cigarettes—but I remember the day they moved in.

  I remember a ten year old boy with knees that were always scraped and eyes that looked like they were constantly looking for a fight. He didn’t want to be there. He hated the silk wallpaper. He hated the way the maids curtsied. And most of all, he seemed to hate the quiet, lonely girl who followed him around like a shadow.

  We aren't related. Not a single drop of shared blood.

  That fact used to be my comfort when he’d pull my ponytails or hide my dolls in the garden. It meant I didn't have to be like him. It meant his darkness didn't have to be mine.

  ​Now, hearing him call me Velvet a name born from a whispered promise in a dark attic ten years ago—that lack of blood felt less like a comfort and more like a threat.

  ​"Astrid?"

  ​I jumped, my heart slamming against my ribs. It was Martha, the head housekeeper. She was standing at the end of the hall, her hands folded over her apron, her face etched with a pity I didn't want.

  Your father wants tea brought to the study," she said softly. "And he said you should go to your room and prepare for dinner. He wants it to be... a celebration."

  ​"A celebration," I repeated. The word tasted like ash.