Page 123 of House of Marionne

Jordan groans.

His father glares so sharply I brace for his next words to cut. But his virulence isn’t fired at me.

“Jordan. The Dragunhead is eager to meet you next week to discuss placement. I hope I don’t have reason to hesitate when your name is brought forward.”

“You don’t. And you won’t.”

“Perhaps.” He meets his son’s glare with a challenge. Jordan’s jaw tenses, but he stays quiet.

“Lena, we’re leaving, and you”—Mr. Wexton points at me—“watch yourself, young lady.” He departs, and Mrs. Wexton follows with no more than an awkward glance between us.

“My son’s honor won’t be stained by the bastard child of some prodigal— ” he says to his wife as they storm off.

“Quell, I’m sorry. Ignore him. Ignore them both. I try my best to.”

I stuff down my rage the best I can as Jordan steps in front of my line of sight.

“Please.”

“What is he talking about anyway?” I fold my arms.

“Once I leave here, I’m being looked at to run the Dragun brotherhood under the Dragunhead himself, which is unheard of for someone of my age. But because of my skill and my taking on a mentee to demonstrate leadership, my chances look good. My father’s promised to endorse me as well.”

“So what’s he suggesting? He’s not going to support you anymore?”

“Getting involved with people is highly frowned upon for Draguns.” His words are measured with the calmness of a brewing storm.

“He would seriously take all that you’ve worked for away?”

“He’s warning me to not let us . . .” He looks off. “Get out of hand.”

His parents have disappeared in the crowd and he glances in their direction. “I have to go deal with this.”

“Do you?”

“I should.”

“You shouldn’t. He is entirely out of line.” I want to be angry, but the only emotion I can tap is pity. Mom and I might not have had much. She is far from perfect, but she’d never manipulate me like that. Hold things over me to control me. She gave up her entire life to protect me. I wish that for him. That kind of love.

“You wouldn’t understand, you don’t have—”

“Parents?! Is that what you were going to say?” I reach to shove him right in the chest. But he catches my wrist, and I realize I’ve missed his touch on my skin.

“I was going to say you don’t have to deal with Dragun politics.”

“Don’t go after him, Jordan. Don’t play his game.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” My pity morphs into frustration rekindling my annoyance with the way he’s been. “Jordan, for once in your life do something for yourself.” I snatch my arm away and leave.

* * *

Evening has wound down. Its golden pink glow dips below my bedroom window, and a yawn scratches my throat. With no response from Nore, and the irritation from earlier still stinging, I retreated to my room to bury myself in what matters: Cotillion studies.

An expected soft tap at my door stirs me from my covers. Grandmom never caught up with me; I was done with my entire list before she’d finished her tea brunch. There’s no way she was thrilled about that. I pull open the door and fold in a curtsy when I spot polished men’s shoes.

Jordan.