Page 1 of Fractured Loyalties

One

IVY

“Welcome to Woods’ Estate, Miss Christianson.”

Oh shit.

I startle backward as the black, gothic door swings inward, and the deep voice comes from seemingly nowhere. My eyes jump back to the Uber that brought me here…

But it’s already pulling away.

It’s too late to escape.

“Um…” My gaze returns to the towering shadow now filling the doorway. I give him a terrified smile, my heart pounding in my ears. “Hi… I…”

I’ve obviously forgotten how to speak.

The man, who wears a black suit, lifts one brow, and steps to the side, gesturing for me to come in. “Mrs. Woods is waiting for you.”

Well, that would be a first.

I purse my lips and clutch the handle of my suitcase as I follow him inside the castle-like house. It’s the first time I’ve ever been here, despite my mother having been married to the esteemed Robert Woods for almost all of my life.

The man with the booming voice leads me through the entryway and into a sitting room, and with every step, I feel more unnerved. The entire house seems to be decorated with creepy statues and odd art, depicting goblins and whatever else might haunt the average child’s nightmare.

No wonder she didn’t want me to live here. I almost laugh at the thought. I don’t think she kept me away because of Robert Woods’ taste in art. Let’s be honest, it’s not that she didn’t want me here; she just didn’t want me anywhere, period.

“If you’ll take a seat here,” the butler directs me toward a blood-red, velvet-covered couch. “Mrs. Woods will be right with you.”

“I thought you said she was waiting for me,” I say, rolling my suitcase to a stop and meeting the man’s chocolate eyes.

“She’s always waiting on someone,” he retorts, a twinge of amusement in his expression. He looks about ten years my senior, but there’s something kind there in his regard—something very different from this place.

I wonder if he does everyday things, like normal people…or if he’s perpetually stuck in the gothic era of this rich shithole.

Either way, sucks for him.

“What’s your name?” I ask, as I plop down onto the couch and brush my blonde hair out of my face.

“Edward,” he answers, his eyes taking in my black leggings and baggy white T-shirt. “Please, don’t go anywhere. You might get removed from the premises accidentally.”

I nod at the civilized warning, and Edward ends his pleasantries at that, exiting the room. I straighten my posture, and try to refrain fro picking at my leggings while I sit on a foreign couch, in a foreign house, waiting on a mother whom I haven’t seen in over ten years.

Honestly, she might as well be foreign to me, too. And that thought kicks off all the intrusive, ever-lingering questions.

Why is this happening? Why did you have to leave me, Dad?

My chest starts to tighten as grief squeezes my body. I’ve just turned eighteen a few months ago. I shouldn’t have to live with my mother . I should be staying with a friend, a teacher, anyone …

Anyone, but her.

“Ivy,” my mother’s clipped, yet sultry voice echoes in the empty room, startling me… again .

I guess this is going to become a thing here.

I look up to see my mother filling the threshold of the room, backlit by the pale gold light of the hallway’s sconces.

She looks almost statuesque in her cream suit.

The skirt stops an inch above her knees, the jacket is cinched tight to emphasize a waist she’s probably paid a small fortune to maintain, and her hair is the same shade of ashen blonde that I remember, cut perfectly around her chin.

I stand as she approaches, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest. She doesn’t step forward to hug me. Instead, it seems that she wants to avoid getting too close. She folds herself into the armchair opposite the couch.

“Sit, please,” she says, her tone borderline annoyed.

I obey, planting myself on the very edge of the couch, my hands folded in my lap. Silence blooms between us, vast and echoing, like the rest of this creepy house.

She clears her throat. “So, you got here without incident?”

I nod. My jaw is already tight, as if my teeth are glued together. I can’t find any words. I have no idea how to talk to this woman.

“Hmm.” She scans my clothes and my ratty Converse trainers. Her own shoes are eggshell leather, pointed and spotless, even in this weather. “Is this your usual…?”

“…Traveling… attire…” I supply for her. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, feeling embarrassment seep into my face with a blast of heat. She’s going to think I’m an imbecile, and for some reason, I do not want that. I want her to like me–even though she was the one who completely abandoned me.

She gives a single, sharp sigh through her nose, then glances at her phone, which she produces from nowhere. She flicks it once, then tucks it away again.

“Your father would have told you to dress more appropriately for this meeting.”

My blood feels as if it has frozen in my body.

“Yeah,” I mutter. He would’ve come here with a fucking flaming torch and pitchfork.

“Your father’s. . . unfortunate passing has created a difficult situation for all of us,” she continues, putting exactly the right amount of distance in the pause as she meets my eye. “But we’ll make the best of it. I’m sure.”

I nod, and then wait for her to ask if I’m okay or something… She doesn’t.

“I understand this is a difficult transition for you,” her expression unmoving, “But I do want to tell you that certain standards must be upheld while you are here. Robert and I expect a show of decorum from all members of the family, and that extends to you, now.”

She examines the tips of her fingernails, which are perfectly oval and light pink, as she speaks. “Tomorrow, you’ll have orientation at Woods Private. Uniforms are provided. We’ll have dinner as a family tonight. And, for the love of God, Ivy, dress appropriately—not whatever this is.”

Every sentence hits harder than the last. I stare at the pattern in the carpet as she stares at her phone again, watching the tiny knots swim in and out of focus.

I try to keep my voice from cracking. “What about my stuff from home?”

She glances up, clearly irritated at the interruption. “Your belongings will be delivered later. There are storage lockers on the lower level for anything that doesn’t fit… If you need something immediately, I suggest making a list. I’ll have them brought up for you, I suppose.”

“Okay,” I say, my mouth full of sand.

“You’ll have a room here in the main house, as well.” Her expression is completely blank and devoid of any affection. “But understand this, you are not a guest, Ivy. This is your home now, and we expect you to conduct yourself accordingly.”

Yes, ma’am,” I nearly whisper, my whole body just aching to go back to my real home.

She smiles, though it’s brittle. “Good. That’s settled, then.”

My mother stands, already back to tapping away at her pocket screen. “I have a call to make. Edward will take you to your room, or if you’d like to freshen up before, there’s a guest bathroom at the end of the hall.”

She’s already half-turned to go before she hollowly adds, “We’re glad to have you here, Ivy.”

I watch her walk away, with measured, unhurried steps. The heels of her shoes make no sound at all on the carpet. Once she’s out of sight, I realize I haven’t unclenched my hands since she walked in. Deep crescents are pressed into my palms and, as I stare at the little half-moons…

I fucking lose it.

Tears stream down my cheeks, and I immediately slap a hand over my mouth and nose to try to stifle the noise.

I hate this.

I’m sure my mother would say I was not acting accordingly. I don’t think the woman has ever cried a tear in her life.

But then again, I wouldn’t know. I barely remember her. I do remember her packing her things when I was seven years old, while my dad begged her to change her mind. She gave him the middle finger and told him to go fuck himself.

She hated us. She still hates us.

“You really shouldn’t cry here,” a gravelly voice drawls, abruptly interrupting my thoughts. I don’t startle this time, but it sends chills down my spine. As I look up, I see an intimidating, dark figure step out of the same hallway where my mother just was.

And he puts the creep factor of the fucking butler to shame.

I part my lips, but stay silent as he emerges.

He looks as if he stepped right out of one of the pictures that are hanging on the wall, with his jet-black hair slicked back and his steely and unsettling blue eyes.

Tattoos line his arms, inked depictions of violence and gore that disappear up the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

I stay locked in a stupor for a second or two before my mind connects the dots.

Roman.

“Ah, so you’re mute,” he smirks, taking a couple of steps toward me. He’s tall and broad as he hovers above me, his biceps looking as if they’re perpetually flexed.

“I’m not mute,” I sniffle, suddenly feeling beyond self-conscious. I try to meet his gaze and fail, my eyes dropping back down to his black engineer boots.

“Welcome to the house of wayward girls,” Roman says, the toe of his boot lightly kicking my Converse. His voice is low and rich with something I can’t quite place.

Disgust, maybe. Or amusement.

“I hope you like rules, regulations, and fucking misery,” he intones.

I look up at him again, surprised, but before I can say anything back, there’s the sound of a throat being cleared from somewhere behind him.

“Ah, Roman,” my mother says, her voice painfully bright. “You’re home. Why don’t you show Ivy to her room? I can’t find Edward anywhere.”

“He’s probably fucking the new maid,” Roman shoots back at my mother, his gaze never leaving my face, boring into me. It’s… villainous.

And I think all the oxygen has been sucked from the room.

My mother gives him a look that could peel paint. “Roman will be happy to show you around.”

He flashes her a glance, breaking the tension. “I’m not a tour guide, Irena.”

I look at my hands, and the faint red marks from earlier are still there. “I won’t get lost,” I say, but my voice is full of apparent false confidence.

Roman grins, but it’s not a genuine smile. It’s the kind of tooth-baring you see in predatory animals when they’re daring you to run. “Oh Ivy, you will get lost. Everyone does, the first time.”

My mother ignores him and turns to me. “You’ll want to get changed before dinner,” her voice sharp. “Ask the staff if you need anything.” She gives Roman one last glare, and then she’s gone again, her footsteps fading to nothing.

I’m left alone, with Roman, who’s now fully invested in staring at me as if I’m a puzzle with a missing piece. “So,” he says finally, “you’re the charity case.”

My face is burning, but somehow, I manage a shrug. “Guess so.”

He tilts his head, considering this, and then he leans forward. “Do you know why you’re really here?”

“To finish high school,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him as my stomach knots up. “So, I’m not, you know, homeless .”

“That’s cute.” He snorts and then stands again, unfolding himself in a smooth motion. He turns and shows me his back as he peers out the window. “The truth is, Irena’s actually into sacrificing young women to maintain her youthful look.”

I can’t muster a laugh.

He turns, glances at me, and, for a brief second, I see something like annoyance in his face. I think he expected me to giggle at his stupid joke. But honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this guy is my… what… my stepbrother ? I’ve only ever seen him in pictures.

It hardly seems appropriate to call him family–any of these people, actually.

Roman shrugs at my silence, a motion so elegant it’s almost a complete gesture. “Seriously, though, it’d be best if you kept your head down here. Fit the fucking mold and all that. They don’t like surprises. They don’t like people who can’t be shaped .”

For some reason, this makes my chest hurt. I miss my home. I miss the way my dad never cared what I wore or how I dressed. He laughed warmly and hugged me when I cried. He was the opposite of whatever this hellhole is.

Roman gives a short, pointed laugh as new tears begin to roll down my cheeks, and then he crosses to the door in three strides. He pauses with his hand on the knob and looks over his shoulder at me. He holds my gaze, his icy eyes pulling my body into an invisible chokehold.

“I don’t bite, Ivy. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

But there’s something there, beneath the softness of his voice, that tells me…

I absolutely should be afraid of him.

And he probably does bite.