Chapter 8 The Last Silent Battle
Dorian walked out, left the building, took the fastest path to his villa, and cursed the whole way. He needed to get out of this building. Out of this town. Out of this life, but that wasn’t possible yet, so he’d settle for a drink, a bowl or two, and a lot more pussy.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Punk motherfucker.
“Dorian, you—“
Dorian whirled around, slamming Vincent against a wall.
Heather gasped from somewhere down the hall, but she didn’t approach. She knew fucking better than to get involved now. Vincent’s hazel eyes stared back at him first in fury, but it bled into shock. Tendrils of fear crept in.
Dorian watched and waited for him to open his mouth.
The flimsy lock Dorian had on his fury, the door that kept the desire to beat the shit out of him for years, was barely hanging on, waiting for him to tap it before the fury came pouring out.
He waited, pleaded with every god of the Society that today was the day he’d break Vincent’s face.
Time stalled. The whole corridor was silent as they stared at each other, unwilling to break or give ground. The silent battles they’d waged before drifted through Vincent’s eyes. It must have been on his face that Dorian wasn’t going to let this one end in a draw.
Back down or square up.
Vincent would never admit that it was what he deserved. He’d never be man enough to take the hits the way Dorian had for years.
So he looked away.
Fucking coward.
Dorian let him go, leaving him to slump against the wall before turning away.
“You’ll understand one day,” Heather said.
Dorian came to a stop and looked back at her. “So will you.”
He left more pissed off than he had been when he came.
Fuck them.
Fuck the Society.
Fuck all of this.
He should have punched Vincent in the face. He should have punched his grandfather when he’d had the chance to.
Next time, yielding wouldn’t be enough, and as soon as he walked in his front door, he knew there would be a next time.
A folder bearing the Society’s crest and his name on the front lay on the side table just inside the foyer. He didn’t open it. This wasn’t the first time they’d presented him with a slide deck for his life. The list of acceptable places for dates probably hadn’t changed, the timeline, the gestures, the appearances—they had a whole plan for how he was supposed to perform falling in love with some airhead from a decent family.
He dropped onto the couch, glowering at the pile of clothes, the scent of stale liquor and old food coming from the kitchen. What the fuck was the Resort doing? The Society owned all of this shit. They knew he had an appointment and a guess for when he was supposed to be gone. They didn’t think to send the fucking maid back?
He went to the panel in the kitchen and typed in a strongly worded service request. His phone chimed from the living room. Shuffling back, he grabbed the phone and couldn’t have fought the smile taking over his face if he tried.
“Hey, Princess, how goes the land of academia?”
She laughed, her sweet voice like a windchime. Becca’s laughter had always been contagious. She was the best thing in his life, and every moment she spent halfway across the world was one more moment he could ignore the mounting resentment he harbored for the fucking sport that had given him his own wealth and a way out of a life dictated by slide decks and faceless men and women he’d never meet under normal circumstances.
“You sound pissed off.”
Dorian scoffed and dropped onto the couch, sprawling across the length of it.
“You’d know. I’m serious.”
“I am, too. What’s going on? Mom and Dad?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s talk about something else. How is it? Written any brilliant novels yet, or… whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing?”
“Dorian,” her voice softened, chiding him just enough for the guilt to sting his eyes.
This was his baby sister. He took a deep breath.
“Sorry. It’s… just a shitty day. Not even fucking noon and…” He huffed. “I’ll be alright. Go slum it at Ani’s or something.”
“That sounds dangerous, especially after the photos of you drinking out of the Cup that showed up on my timeline.”
He grinned. “Well, four out of five. I felt like it was time.”
“So unsanitary.” She clicked her tongue. “Academia is fine. I got access to some opportunities I didn’t think I’d want to take, but I am, so things are taking an interesting turn.”
He frowned at her tone. It was light, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, uncertainty, or a lie—maybe all three—in her words.
“What sort of opportunity?”
“Well, you know I was supposed to go to Japan, for that exchange?”
He sat up. “I also remember you freaking out because you don’t speak the language.”
Not that she couldn’t learn it. Becca had always been gifted with language. She spoke Russian, and he’d been told Russian was hard as fuck. They’d learned Greek together when they were younger, but she’d kept up with it into college. She was still fluent, he was pretty sure. It was the only thing she’d taken from Fortuna when she’d left for college, swearing she was going to college and never coming back.
Well, she hadn’t said that, but Dorian had prayed for it for her own sake.
“Well, the program actually got canceled. I ended up accepting a deal for a gap year before my exchange year.”
Dorian nodded. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. Aren’t you going for your interpretation license soon?”
“I am, but I… well, maybe I should tell you when you’re in a better mood.”
“I don’t think I’ll be in a better mood any time soon. Fucking help doing a half-ass job then not coming back to finish it—“
“You sound like Mom.”
Dorian grimaced. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It’s about to be one of many. How many times have I told you not to be an asshole just because you’re having a bad day? You’re going to be pursing your lips and thrusting your nose in the air, wearing pastels and shit before you know it, or worse.”
Dorian snorted. “The great evil. Is there something worse than pastels for you?”
“Dad’s pinstripes.”
He laughed, remembering the day she declared to the entire family that it was the last time she was wearing pastels. Heather had a fit, but she’d learned quickly that Becca had as much of the Knox stubbornness and sneakiness as any member of the family after she’d donated her entire wardrobe, down to the last pair of pink heels to charity. She’d donated all of Vincent’s pinstripe suits that day, too.
Dorian scoffed. The doorbell chimed, and he got up, grumbling.
He reached the door and opened it, and froze as clear hazel eyes like his looked up at him.
“Becca?”