I meet De Léon’s flat eyes, which are colorless and washed out. I glance to my father, who gives me a victorious smile. I don’t take the pen. “Where is your daughter?” I ask De Léon.
“She is unnecessary. I decide for her.”
Is he trying to protect her, I wonder? Fatherly love? No, that’s not it. I know enough about the family to be certain of that fact.
The corners of my mouth lift into what I don’t think anyone would call a smile. “You don’t decide anything,” I remind him. He used to, but times have changed.
He gestures to one of his men standing by the door, but De Léon’s son, Odin, steps out of his corner and blocks his path.
“No need,” he says.
I turn to him. Odin is about eighteen now, three years older than his sister, Madelena. He’s almost as tall as me but thin, like he hasn’t quite grown into his height yet. He takes another step. I notice the limp, the tightening of his lips. Pain. Was he limping before tonight? I don’t recall.
“She’ll do as she’s told when the time comes,” he says.
“Get out of the way, boy,” the older De Léon says, but Odin doesn’t. He draws himself to his full height and, still blocking the door, looks at me—not his father.
“It’s been a hard day for her,” he says in an appeal to protect his sister.
I study him. No love lost between father and son, but he does love his sister. Noted.
“She was very close to our uncle,” he adds.
My gut tightens. I knew she was close to him. So was Odin. Their uncle was the last link to their mother. If there was any other way to do this, I would do it. The girl is fifteen, and I’m not that much of a monster. “It can’t be helped,” I tell him, because it can’t.
“Boy,” the father warns, making a move to come around the desk.
Odin sets his jaw. “No.”
I open my mouth, but before I get a chance to speak, the door opens. We all turn to find Madelena De Léon standing like she’d had her ear to the door all along. Her hair is wet, and she’s wearing different clothes than she’d worn to the funeral. She looks like she’s been crying for days. She glares at her father, then, without any hesitation, she shifts her gaze to me and holds mine. And I know in that instant, in the look in those eyes, that this girl will not bow meekly and do as she’s told. Not now. Not ever.
Odin steps toward her. “Maddy,” he says through his teeth. “I told you not to come down here.”
He’s protective of her. I would be the same if I had a sister—and there’s no way in hell I’d let her sign a contract like the one Madelena will be made to sign tonight.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she tells her brother.
I watch the two of them together. I know what she looks like. I’ve seen her before, although not often. Where we used to be the scum of Avarice, now Augustines and De Léons socialize in the same circles. Who’d have thought it? But all it took was one fuck-up. It had been inevitable. We only had to be patient. Because Marnix De Léon fucked up big. I know the cost of that sort of mistake well and he will pay.
She takes in the room while I take her in. Dark hair, sad eyes. Anger. Just behind it, there’s fear. I see it, smell it, even as she tries to mask it. But it would be stranger if she wasn’t scared. Standing in a room with the Augustine family can be a frightening experience, especially when you’re a De Léon. But like I said, I’m not a monster. And she is fifteen.
I hold out my hand, palm up, and beckon her with a curl of my fingers. No need to drag this out.
Odin takes hold of her wrist, but she looks up at him. A silent communication passes between them before she shakes her head and frees herself. I notice she’s barefoot when she steps toward me. It stands out, that little detail. The vulnerability of her pale feet. The vulnerability of her.
When I look back up, she’s near enough to take my hand. She studies it. This close in the dim light, I see the remnants of eyeliner hastily wiped away, the smudges of black on one temple. Finally, when she shifts her gaze up to mine, and I see the pain inside her copper eyes, I decide something. It’s not a conscious thought, but it’s decided all the same.
Her father should protect her. It’s the way it should be. But sometimes fathers don’t protect daughters. I know that well. Even though I will do what I am about to do, I decide that where her father has failed her, I will not.
She blinks, as if this thought, this oath hanging on the one we are about to make, has somehow communicated itself to her. As if the weight of it, of my protection, has been draped like a cloak over her too narrow, too delicate shoulders.
I gesture once more for her to give me her hand. Our eyes remain connected as she slips it into mine.
Her skin is cold to the touch, and I don’t miss the slight tremble of her small hand in mine. I hate that I have to do what I have to do.
My father clears his throat. There is no way around it, and she will survive. Hell, she has survived being a De Léon this long, I tell myself. She’s been through worse.
She walks at my side as we take the final steps to the desk together. There’s slight resistance, but she, too, knows that neither of us have a choice.
“Forgive me,” I tell her quietly. Her forehead creases in confusion, but before she can see what is coming—before she can be afraid—I slip the switchblade from my pocket, snap it open and slice a line into the palm of her hand.
She cries out and tries to pull free as tears fill her eyes. I hold her hand over the contract and, using the same knife, slice my own palm so that our blood drops in unison onto the sheets of heavy parchment.
“Blood joins blood,” my father says as I smear our thumbs through the deep red, hers and mine. I take the handkerchief from my breast pocket and press it into her palm. I’m not sure if her gaze is on the blood or the ring on my finger bearing the Augustine insignia.
Keeping hold of her hand to staunch the bleeding, I step away from the desk, taking her with me. We watch the two witnesses, one from each family, sign their names to the contract before our attorney applies the final seal. Once that is finished, my father stands back and, with that victorious smile playing on his lips, he looks at us. At me, at her, at Caius and finally at De Léon, his forever enemy. “It is done,” he declares.
I turn to the girl who is wiping tears from her face with her free hand.
“You belong to me now. Do you understand?” I tell her in a low voice so only she can hear.
She wrinkles her forehead, her lips trembling as she draws a breath.
“Do you understand?” I repeat.
She nods once.
“Good. Don’t forget it.”
The instant I release her, she runs from the room. I wipe the blood off my hand with a handkerchief Caius hands me as our attorneys collect the contract, briefcases snapping shut. My father gives me an approving nod and leads the way out. Our footsteps echo as we make our way toward the front door of the De Léon mansion, but before we reach it, something draws my gaze. It’s an irresistible pull and when I glance over my shoulder, I see Madelena standing at the top of the stairs, nursing her bleeding hand. Her eyes are locked on me and if looks could kill, I’d be dead.