Page 99 of Broken Ties
My eyes narrow at her. “You called him here?”
Her mouth opens before she jolts again, and I feel unease at the skittishness that is so far out of character for her. Slowly, with the same sort of reluctant acceptance you’d expect from a death row inmate eating their final meal, she lowers her cell phone from her ear and switches the speaker phone on.
“Open your fucking door, Draven, because I’m not leaving without my Bond. And while you’re at it, tell your scumbag,rapistbrother that I will kill him the second I find him.”
My heart stops dead in my chest.
Anything but that.
I could deal with any attempts at a smear campaign from Bassinger about me, or even one of the other Bonds. I could handle just about any attack on Nox’s character because I already have—no Draven has ever been allowed peace. But for Bassinger to go so low, I could set my nightmares on the asshole.
Then I look at my Bond again.
In a sickening rush, every ounce of contention and fight in me evaporates, leaving a gut-wrenching clarity behind. My Bond stands there by the window, trembling as she stares at me, and I realize my resistance isn’t just to Bassinger’s accusation, but the conviction he’s said it with. I spend my life in council meetings listening to the performances of keen manipulators—that’s not what this is.
Bassinger believes what he’s saying.
Struggling to find a tone that won’t frighten her further, I finally land on one and murmur to my Bond, “Come downstairs, Oleander. I’ll let Atlas in while I speak to Nox.”
“Hurry the fuck up,” Bassinger snaps. His tone leaves no question about who he’s speaking to like that, but Oleander still cringes at it.
Every breath she takes feels different somehow, a thread of shame in it all, and I find myself enraged at Bassinger, only I cannot fathom that my brother could possibly be responsible for this. Hurting her? Lashing out and doing everything he can to distance himself from her? Definitely. Weakening her relationship with her other Bonds as an act of self-preservation? Also yes.
Butrape?
No.
Even if I thought he was capable of that, his trauma would never allow it. Even Gryphon is certain of that, his opinion holding a far less biased weight than my own thanks to his Gift.
After another moment, it becomes clear that my Bond is frozen in place. Her complexion rivals the ghostly tones of her hair, the tremble still visible in her lip, and it’s suddenly impossible to overlook the fact that she’s nineteen years old. That she was orphaned at fourteen. That her entire support system is made up of Bonds she’s wary of, at the very least, and outright tormented by if I’m completely honest. I’ve controlled all access to her, monitored all attempts at contact, and separated her from her own Bond when it didn’t fit into the parameters I’d put into place.
I’m sickened by myself.
In a gentle tone, I prompt her into moving. “Grab a sweater, the house is cool overnight.”
She doesn’t hit me with a fiery retort or even look in my direction, she simply walks over to that tiny duffle bag that I’m starting to think might truly hold every piece of clothing my Bond has access to, but she grabs out one that I know for certain is Gyphon’s. The way she bundles herself into it and then wraps her arms around herself has a lump forming in the back of my throat, like she’s physically holding herself together.
Whatever the fuck has happened, someone is paying for it.
Leading her down the hallway, she keeps herself at arm’s length from me as I maintain a slow pace for her to match. She doesn’t utter a sound, but when I also stay silent, there’s a pulse of power out of her. For a single second, I think it’s a Gift, but then my bond rushes to answer her and I realize it must’ve been her bond reaching out with a desperate plea for comfort and reassurance. Without being able to touch her, there’s very little my bond can offer her and it seethes under my skin with a vehemence that doesn’t bode well for Bassinger.
One wrong move and he may die tonight.
We step into the elevator together and the moment our gazes collide, she swallows roughly before her gaze drops to her toes. “I can talk to Atlas and sort this out. I just need a minute, you don’t have to intervene.”
The tears in her voice fill me with violence. “No, I’ll be getting to the bottom of this mess before it gets out of hand. There’s too much going on for me to deal with, without adding a feud in my Bond to the list. I will deal with Nox if that’s what’s required.”
If I was hoping to reassure her, it backfires spectacularly. By the time the doors open, she looks as though she’s going to be sick, her skin taking on an almost greenish hue. I pause for a moment as I consider calling this off and taking her back upstairs, to offer her whatever comfort I possibly can, but then I remember Bassinger is probably the only Bond who can help right now.
I have no choice but to lead her to him.
Rafe and two of the overnight staff are huddled by the front door, and my driver is instantly relieved the moment he sees me. “I’ve called the authorities and the HOA, we’re on top of damage control, sir.”
The man is a godsend and I nod to him. “Thank you, Rafe. I’ll take it from here.”
Stepping around them all, I open the door to find the extensive damage Bassinger has wrought as well as the Bond himself, his eyes boring into me with utter rage before he’s practically shoving his way past me to get to my Bond. Taking note of what he’s capable of—more than any of us had guessed—I almost miss Oleander’s response to him, the most damning evidence so far.
The moment his intentions to hold her become clear, she takes a step away to avoid the connection. To Bassinger’s credit, he slams to a halt without hesitation. He doesn’t look at me, not at the other men in the room, no one. Every tiny scrap of his focus is on our Bond, and I can almost feel his heart breaking in his chest but when I glance at her, the sound is drowned out by my own. She wasn’t rejecting him, or scorning his attempts at comfort. She’s terrified.