Page 54 of Envy

I turn, plucking her from the back of my motorcycle like the little fox she is, and slide her around until she settles on my lap. Her legs straddle me as I remove our helmets—hers first, then mine—until I can stare into her big brown eyes, ringed in red and glistening with unshed tears.

“You are mine, Evie,” I say gently, cradling her head in my hands. “You are safe. Whatever that piece-of-shit half-brother did to you. It’s over. He can’t reach you anymore.”

I thought my words would calm her, ease the tension radiating across her shoulders, but something in her gaze cracks. Sobs rake her chest as the tears she’s held so carefully at bay fall. Evie presses into my chest, and I wrap her in my arms.

She’s breaking. And I can do nothing but whisper words of comfort as I hold her tight. On the outside, I’m soothing and calm, a peaceful refuge for her.

But inside?

My blood is boiling. This isn’t some passing slight or sibling spat dressed in religious trauma. Evie’s entire body is shaking. The perfect mask she’s been forced to wear is splintering, like the first crack in an overflowing damn, and now water is rushing, bursting through all the lies.

I feel her pain as acutely as if it were my own. Worse.

Because I accepted my fate a long time ago. I’ve willingly sacrificed any hope for a peaceful future to ensure Morana is found and Tempest is safe.

But Evie?

Fuck, Evie never had a chance.

One thing is certain: I’m going to hunt down that motherfucker—half-brother or not.

And when I find him, I’m going to make what happened to Mark look like child’s play.

35

SILAS

We stay there, under the stars in the driveway of my ridiculously expensive home. Tempest insisted on a place Morana would love, ensuring the property had enough space for the Seven to stay whenever they want. It’s always felt too big. Hollow. But as I hold Evie, watching her tears dry and her breathing even out, I wonder if the home might feel brighter with her in it.

“We should probably go inside,” Evie says, glancing toward the illuminated windows practically vibrating with music. I can already see Dominic, Adrian, and Bane raiding the liquor cabinet as they string together a party, but I don’t feel like a crowd tonight.

“We could go in with the others,” I start. “Or…”

“Or?” she whispers, licking her lips as her gaze dips to my mouth.

“My studio is to the left.” I tilt my head toward the small path off the driveway tucked between gnarled olive trees.

My studio. The one place I can sit and think. Breathe without worrying. Even with my brothers, I’m vigilant. Always watching. Forever assessing as I wait for the next attack.The subsequent sliver of information that will inevitably lead to another person I need to hunt down and kill.

I’m always angry. Endlessly envious of my brothers’ easy conversations and their ability to live while all I do is exist. It feels like I’m caught in an endless torrent of revenge and rage, unable to form relationships like a normal fucking person.

Until her.

“I’d like that.” Evie’s words are soft and dripping with kindness. She’s never asked to see my art. Not after that night. And maybe that’s why I want to show her. That, and everything she’s just shared with me. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The type of tears she shed were potent. Purging.

Still, I have every intention of asking Noctis to report on every fucking second of Jonathan’s life. But right now, I want to stay in this moment, drinking in the feel of her body next to mine.

Evie’s warmth thaws the plates of ice around my heart, exposing the ragged, fleshy organ beneath. The bands of muscle burn under the scrutiny of her light—flames licking the tendons and sinew—but instead of running, of searching for a way to put out the raging fire, I’m basking in the inferno, sending a prayer to the fates, or gods, or whatever the fuck is out there, that this hellish torment never ends.

The room is dark when I open the door. My boots echo in the large space as I kick them off and stride across the floor, eclipsing the softer pad of Evie’s footsteps behind me. She lingers barefoot by the door like a stranger, as if she’s not reflected in the dozens of canvases strung about the room.

“If you run, I’ll catch you,” I warn in a deceptively soft voice a moment before my finger flips the switch.

“Why would I…”

The buzz of electricity hums, illuminating the specialized lights. They’re designed to replicate the sun on a cloudy day, providing the perfect blend of light and shadow while I work.Little did I realize, all those years ago when I constructed my artistic haven, that I’d prefer to paint in the dim glow of cheap tea lights crisscrossing the wooden beams overhead.

I watch my little fox as words fail her, noting the way her eyes widen and her beautiful fucking lips part—like she’s been led into Hades’s realm only to discover the Underworld is more holy than any place promised to her before.