“May I be excused?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
I get out of my seat, but before I leave the dining room, Dick calls out to me.
“Easton, remember what I said about staking your claim,” he repeats once again, glancing over to my mother before his deep-chestnut eyes focus back on me. “If someone is fucking with what’s yours, make sure they live to regret it.”
I give him a stern nod and rush out of the house, and before I know it, I’m at the Turner residence.
Just like Lincoln’s home, the mansion used to be an old Richfield plantation house, revamped for a more modern look. But while Lincoln insists on living alone—Finn and Stone being the only ones keeping him company—this house is always filled with lively chatter from Colt’s three sisters and ballbusting mother.
“Good evening, Mr. Price.” The butler greets me at the door. “I’ll call Young Master Colt to join you in the living room.”
“I’m not here to see Colt. I’m here to see his father. Is he in?”
“Yes, of course. He’s in his study. Right this way.”
I follow behind the penguin-looking servant as he ushers me into the study room. When we get there, Owen’s eyes are fixed on the fireplace as he drinks a chalice of malt brandy.
“Master Owen, you have a guest.”
When he sees me, a vainglorious grin crests his lips, not one bit surprised with my unexpected visit.
“Easton Price, as I live and breathe,” he states with a deep southern drawl that irks me to no end. “I was wondering when you’d pay me a visit. Please, have a seat.”
The mocking grin plastered on his face has me imagining how it would look if my hands were wringing around his stupid neck. I bet the fucker wouldn’t look so smug then.
He dismisses his butler, asking him to close the door behind him to ensure our little conversation isn’t interrupted.
“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, his laid-back composure only pissing me off.
“I’m not here to drink with you.”
“No, of course, you’re not. If I’m not mistaken, you’re here because of Scarlett. Am I right?” he questions, completely relaxed, as he takes a seat in his armchair next to the burning fire.
“You know I am.”
“And just what are your intentions with my goddaughter,” he retorts, confusion slapping me across the face with that one remark.
“Goddaughter?”
“Yes. Didn’t Scarlett tell you?”
“No, she didn’t.” I seethe.
He must be fucking lying. Colt would have told me if Scarlett had any type of connection to his family the minute we got the first letter from The Society. He wouldn’t like me messing around with her if this is true. So either Owen is lying through his teeth, or Colt doesn’t know.
“I didn’t know you two were that close.”
“Most people don’t. Scarlett and I prefer it that way.”
The gentle way her name falls off his lips makes my blood boil.
“So, is that all she is to you? Your goddaughter?”
“Is that really the question you came all this way to ask?”
“No. In fact, I thought I came here to get answers from you when, in reality, I need none. But I do have a demand.”
“Is that so?” He arches an amused brow at me while sipping his brandy.
“Yes. I came here to tell you to back the fuck off.”
The fucker has the audacity to laugh in my face.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that won’t be happening. Scarlett is part of my life. I will protect her in any way I can. Even against suitors that may not have her best interests at heart.”
“You have no idea what my intentions are,” I growl, fisting my hands to the side, ready to knock his teeth in.
“Don’t I? And before you respond, I’d think long and hard about what you are about to say next, Easton. I don’t do well with liars.”
My rage subsides as I sense an underlying meaning in his words. There is a stretch of silence between us as I try to decipher what he’s really implying with that ominous statement.
He couldn’t possibly know what The Society ordered me to do to Scarlett. Could he?
“Colt doesn’t know. Why?” I ask, instead of answering his landmine question.
“That’s my concern. Not yours.”
“Keeping secrets from your family, Owen?” I taunt, hoping my aloofness knocks him off his self-assured ass.
“Are you transparent with yours? Aren’t some secrets best kept hidden from the people you love, for their own welfare?”
The hairs on the back of my head stand on end. It’s the second time I feel like he’s talking about The Society.
The fuck?
“Are you screwing her?” I blurt out, rather than voicing my suspicions.
Owen’s face morphs into something possessed, making me instantly relax at his anger. His pissed-off rage I can deal with; his other vague remarks, not so much.
“Watch your tone with me, Easton. I won’t let you disrespect Scarlett in my presence.”
“That isn’t a no.”
His chiseled jaw ticks in anger—a mannerism Colt inherited from him—but as the tense seconds pass by, I watch his unnerving calm returning to him.
“Hmm,” he hums before taking another sip of his hard liquor. “Has Scarlett ever told you about her mother?”
I shake my head, not knowing where he’s going with this.
“I see.”
“Why?”
“You remind me of how I used to be at your age—detached one minute, filled with rage the next. The only person who could soften me was Scarlett’s mother, Angela. Even though we came from two very different worlds, we grew up together. She was the reverend’s daughter, you see? Far from the Northside elite that I was accustomed to. But my parents made sure that I helped our community through the church to keep me humble. As you well know, wealth can make you forget what is truly important in life sometimes, and my parents were diligent that I didn’t become another privileged, trust-fund baby with no heart. By doing so, Angela and I formed a close friendship. One I treasure to this day. I guess you can say she was my better half.”
“You sound like you loved her.”
“I did. Very much. But she never saw me in that light. Or, at least, she never gave any indication that she did. She was my best friend, and I did my best to keep my feelings to myself to prevent ruining our friendship. When she moved to Vegas in search of a music career, I did everything in my power to make her dreams come true. Much like Scarlett, she had the gift to move people’s hearts with her voice alone.”
“What happened to her?”
“Like most pure souls, she was too giving to people who didn’t deserve it. Grabbed the attention of others that she shouldn’t have. Angela sang her heart out on stage, completely unaware of the monster lurking in her audience,” he explains somberly, slanting his sight off me to focus on the fire at his side. “At first, it was innocent enough. He sent her flowers, expensive gifts, and jewelry—all the things a man does to win a woman’s heart. But Angela wasn’t looking for love. She was content with her life, just singing and taking care of her young daughter. That was enough for her. She was happy.” He takes a pause, drinking the rest of his brandy in one go, and then throws the glass into the fire. His atypical action doesn’t even startle me, since I feel the next part of the story has a dreadful end to it and merits such action.