I stare into her honeyed eyes, not looking away. Letting her see the truth there.
“She tried it. And for a moment, I considered letting her, but only for a moment. Nothing happened, ma,” I reiterate.
She releases a shuddering puff of air, and it teases me. I slick my tongue over my lips, catching that whiskey-and-sex taste. Her eyes flare wide, her pupils dilating. I stiffen, for a moment, believing she’s going to force-feed me that sweet smoke and fruit air.Do it, li’l baby. Give it to me.The rough growl in my head reeks of desperation and demand. Hunger and hope.
And when she withdraws from me, backpedaling until she reaches the desk, rage and revulsion screwing up her face, that growl transforms into a howl that holds nothing but anger and frustration.
And loss.
“I don’t really care,” Ember lies. The room stinks with that lie. I saw her face in that hallway. It’s branded on my brain. “All of it—your bitch, the wives at dinner, and some of the conversation—drove home the hell that awaits me, and you can threaten me and my people, but it’s a no for me.”
Everything inside me stills, goes dangerously quiet.
“What’s a ‘no’ for you?” I murmur, warning her with my carefully even tone that she better tread real fucking lightly.
“Tonight, I had a preview of what my life would be likechained to you. Having a courtside seat to Marcus and Michelle’s happy union all these years clued me in, but I never saw the side chick up close. At least as far as I saw, Marcus kept the hoes away from his wife. But no, I had to sit at a table with yours.” She shakes her head, those beautiful, thick curls brushing her cheeks and shoulders. A sneer rides her mouth, and she lifts her hand, palm out. “That’s what I mean by ‘no.’ Marcus shackled me to this life with guilt, duty, and the foolishly stubborn bits and pieces of love. And you want to do the same thing—chain me to a family, an organization that bears my name but has never bore no love for me. I almost left after leaving that dining room.” She waves a hand toward the library door and the rooms beyond it. “But then I decided to stay so I could tell you that you’re no better than Marcus, but this time, I’m not handing over my life, my future, myfucking everythingto you.”
I’ve never experienced panic before.
Not when Michelle sat me and Kareem down and informed us that Dad was in the hospital and it didn’t look good.
Not when she beat Ember so badly that she couldn’t move for a week.
Not when the security at Marcus’s ho pad called and said they’d called several times and couldn’t reach him.
So no, panic isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with, which may explain why I don’t immediately recognize it. But I’m fast becoming intimate with that burning, pressurized tightening of my chest, relieved only by the sensation of razor-sharp claws sinking into my skin.
Only years of battle-won self-control keep me from revealing the chaos roiling inside my body, my head.
But that same control smothers the panic—no, not smothers. It morphs it into something cold, hard like steel. A sword to cut whatever bullshit argument she’s about to give me into so many pieces, she won’t be able to reassemble them.
She doesn’t have to hand a fucking thing over to me.
I’m taking it. Stealing it by any means necessary. Just like I did her inheritance. Don’t shit about me say I play fucking fair. Not when it comes to her.
She should really start paying attention.
“You’re right.” I cross my arms and lean a shoulder against the bookshelf behind me. “I’m not better than Marcus. I’m worse. He gave you some concessions because you were his daughter. I don’t possess even an iota of those sentimentalities.”
She snorts. “What house did you live in? He didn’t give me shit.”
“He didn’t kill you. I don’t have those constrictions.”
“Marcus had the paternal instinct of a quokka,” she says, rounding the desk, and despite the lingering dregs of anger and disquiet at her threat, I almost laugh. She ain’t lying. That muthafucka would launch his own flesh and blood in the path of a gotdamn herd of roaming hyenas if it meant him getting away without a scratch. “I’ve had time to think about our”—she scoffs—“negotiation yesterday. Tonight only solidified my decisions. You bullied me when I was a girl, but you won’t be doing that to the grown woman.” She opens and closes several of the drawers until she finds a sheet of paper and a pen and slaps both on top of the desktop. “I would get Sam here to be my legal advisor, but since you know very well he’d kill your ass if he had any clue what you’re up to, I’ll be my own counsel.”
I arch an eyebrow, thoroughly amused. “You think I’m scared of Sam?”
“You should be. It’d be a mistake to underestimate him.”
“I don’t underestimate him or anyone; only fools are arrogant enough to do that. But, ma, Sam don’t put no fear in me. No one does.” I dip my chin toward the paper and the pen in her hand. “And I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
She sinks into the leather chair, and unbidden, the impression of a beautiful Black queen sitting on her throne invades my mind. Regal. Indomitable. Powerful. And that’s how she stares atme with that almost haughty expression and tilted chin—like I’m a peasant beneath her feet.
“You need me more than I need you. House of Cross needs me. Fact. And there’s no getting around it,” she states. I don’t argue with her because we both know it’s the truth. “I’m not staying with you.”
I tilt my head, maintaining my composure, but in reality, I’m seconds away from jumping over that desk. “The fuck you’re not.”
“Go ahead, Asad. Go ahead and threaten Perla, Gus, and Jaq. That’s not going to work this time.”