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Chapter Four

Webber

“How do I look?” I ask, turning and smoothing my hands down the front of my jacket.

Cleo turns. The admiration that pours from her eyes above the soft smile she reserves for me fills my chest with a warmth the midday Tuscan sun could not duplicate. The soft suck of air she takes fills my chest with gratitude. Her heels click against the tiled floor as she comes to me, her chin tilted up. “Humans can stop breeding now. We’ve reached the pinnacle of perfection, both inside and out. Your body and face are as beautiful as your soul, Webber Wallace.”

Cleo’s unfailing honesty leaves me no other choice but to accept her words as truth. She slides her arms under mine. Careful not to wreck the artfully arranged waves of platinum hair cascading down her back, I rest my hands on her shoulders and press a soft kiss to her forehead. Her face is barely made up at all, nothing more than a light dusting of powder and sheer rosy tint upon her cheeks and lips.

She looks confident and bored, like a well-traveled, obnoxiously spoiled, rich bitch who’s experienced far more than girls her age should. Her body is a svelte machine composed of tender, succulent flesh while her shuttered eyes silently promise the kind of experience that transcends trust funds and titles. When her slender, bejeweled fingers catch the light, and the sparkle of her simple adornments catches the eye, her victims turn a blind eye to her razor-sharp nails and the translucent web she’s already begun to weave around their wallet.

Cleo is nothing but a tool for our mother to wield. She’s a lure, drawing the fat, pulsating, meaty accounts of over oiled, fiscally crowned demons into my mother’s lair. Mother is the only thing Cleo and I disagree on. Cleo believes I allow the sticky film of Mother’s weaving to cloud my eyes. I disagree.

Mother has been traumatized.

I know, deep in my heart, in the pure place that loves, that I can save her. Mother has been crafted by the men who’ve used her. Her pain has bent and twisted her into a villainous parody of who she was meant to be. I mean to free her, and in doing so, free Cleo and myself. Once Mother is safe from the men who prey on her. Free of the webs of the damage inflicted upon her, she’ll stop using Cleo and I as pawns. Once Mother feels safe and secure, once she can truly breathe freely, she’ll give up her games.

The corners of my mouth dip into a brief frown, causing Cleo’s brows to pull in. “What is it, my love?” she asks. Her instant concern trips tendrils of guilt that reside deep, layered atop the broiling anger I have no right to feel .

“Nothing,” I answer. Reversing expressions is easy as I convince myself that I’m not lying to her. We’ve sworn never to lie to each other. “I’d just rather spend the evening with you.” Her brows follow suit, smoothing once she sees me smile.

I cannot tell her I struggle with the hatred I feel for Mother every time she sends Cleo out. I willingly do Mother’s bidding, trusting her plan. When Mother promises me that we will all retire eventually, I see the sincerity in her eyes. Truth reverberates in my ears. When Mother deems our future secure, the time for rest will come. Doing the work that comes so naturally to me feels good. Using my innate talents to support the women I love feels even better.

My chest puffs a bit as a surge of primal male instinct swells. Cleo picks up my hand and brushes her fingertips over my palm. You’d think my hands would be soft, but they aren’t. They know more than moisturizer and the satin of pristine cunts and cocks. Mother says it is rare that cock or clit would choose a cushion over a callus. That’s why she insists I find a job with some sort of manual labor every time we move.

And I’m grateful to her for it. My body is strong. Honed and sculpted, my back and biceps are ready when my hands grip a hammer or a shovel. I use the pittance I earn to buy trinkets for Mother and Cleo. Mother indulges my whims as long as I maintain a healthy balance between both jobs.

Cleo laces her fingers through mine. We only have a few more minutes before Mother will want to do a final inspection, so I understand when Cleo’s hushed whisper sounds rushed. “Webber, before we go out, I have to confess.”

“Mm,” I grunt, encouraging her to go on. She carefully snuggles into my chest, burying our clasped hands between our bodies. Her other hand rests on my shoulder, and slowly, we begin swaying in place. Dropping my chin lightly on the crown of her head, I let my eyes drift closed. Cleo’s heart beats rapidly, erratic under the heel of my thumb.

“Last night,” she begins, then swallows hard. I try not to, but I sigh. She’s going to confess how much she hates our mother. Cleo went to bed with no supper. Mother locked her in her room. I hate when that happens. I’ve tried to sneak her food in the past, but Cleo insists Mother always knows and punishes her more down the road. I believe Cleo, but I confess, I don’t see it.

The echo of Mother storming to the front door, her face a cold mask of fury, rings in my ears. Cleo took her berating silently. Only this time, her shoulders weren’t quite as slumped in defeat. Muted defiance hovered in the edges of her pale irises. Her downcast lashes swept away the hard glint I saw right before she bowed her head against the onslaught of Mother’s panic. My heart sank with pity for both. Cleo’s failure and Mother’s fear create a potent mix of emotion that subdues even my buoyant nature.

“I had him last night. At least I think I did,” Cleo rushes out.

“What? What do you mean? You aren’t sure?” Cleo’s words make no sense. We’ve been doing this for ages. We both know the instant we’ve hooked a mark, and the moment we lose them. “Stop thinking about him. Today is a new day, tonight another mark.”

“I left him the number.” I rear back to look at her. Her eyes are squinched shut. Pressing my lips to her forehead, I exhale slowly until her face relaxes against my mouth.

“That’s my girl,” I croon, still swaying, not displaying an iota of the rage I feel. She left a mark our secret number. The one we keep from Mother. The one we only use in dire emergencies or on the rare occasions we are both away from her. If Mother ever found out we kept secret a means of communication she couldn’t monitor, she’d be devastated. So shattered she’d lose her delicate hold on her composure. No one could blame Mother for that, but I’d hate to see Cleo endure yet again what she doesn’t understand. I tamp down the flash of anger. “Tell me more,” I urge gently.

The hand clasped in mine squeezes, as if to lock me in place. Her body trembles as she struggles to finish confessing her sin. “I wanted him. I desired him. I’ve never wanted a mark like that. My body…I reacted to him on a visceral level. Webber, we’re going to find him tonight. I want to have him with you.”

I continue dancing in place with her as I mull over her admission, her demand, and the way her body quaked as she forced the truth from her diaphragm. I’m not jealous. Cleo and I have shared many times in the past, regardless of gender. Our discernment is fiscal, not physical. It’s a job. But there is nothing wrong with eking a bit of enjoyment out of work. I’d gratefully share an evening with her and her conquest, especially if she managed to negotiate a larger tip for our services. “Cleo,” I begin, carefully modulating my gentle reproach. “You can’t possibly have thought I’d be anything but happy you’ve found one of our new friends pleasing.”

She cocks her head, her powder-blue irises jerking back and forth as she examines my face. “Don’t feed me what you think I want to hear,” she protests sotto voce , her eyes dropping .

“Do you want me to be jealous?” I ask incredulously. “Because I’m not. I’m more interested in why you gave him our private number.” She knows how dangerous giving out that number could be. I let go of her hand and step away from her. She shivers. The lack of desire to pull her into my side to warm her is hollow. I grip her chin and yank her face up. Her eyes fly to mine. Through clenched teeth I hiss right in her face. “Do not ever lie to me. Our secrets will not survive the light of day.”

Her arm swings, her palm slapping my wrist and forearm. I release my grip and let her smack my hand away. My blood heats, my cock rising as her anger stirs. “I was getting to that,” she snaps, eyes now blazing. Good. I’ve pissed her off and pushed her out of the mute, meek kitten role she plays when we are in the same vicinity of Mother.

“I gave him the phone number,” she hisses, “because I think—”

The door bursts open and Mother sweeps in, her nares flaring as she takes in our posture. It’s blatantly obvious Cleo and I are having an argument. Mother’s eyes narrow as she focuses on Cleo. I’m marinating in shame as my shoulders slump in gratitude that Mother chooses to focus on her. My fingers roll up, my hands clenching as I watch Cleo’s entire body stiffen and her face harden. Defiance flashes across her face, but her resistance disappears in the space of a blink, her porcelain complexion settling into bland plastic as she faces Mother.

Mother leans in, her nose almost touching Cleo’s. “If you come home empty handed again tonight, you’re sleeping on the street. Pull your fucking weight or starve.” Mother curses so vehemently that her breath knocks a length of glossy silvery blonde hair back to Cleo’s shoulder.

“Understood,” Cleo answers dully. I hate when Mother forces Cleo into meekness. That isn’t who my sister is. Anger simmers under my skin. I know Mother loves Cleo. She’s hard on her because she wants her to succeed. When Cleo wins, all of us win. And I can’t bring home the kind of men that Mother needs. Only Cleo can.

I just can’t help thinking Mother might be going about managing Cleo the wrong way. Cleo might bring her bigger, juicier flies if Mother tried finessing her with the same honey she uses on me.