Page 65 of Gravehouse

“Good girl.” He kisses the top of my spine, removing his hand. “Ground rules moving forward. One? Don’t fuck my brother, Two? Don’t fucking blow it or I have to move to other measures, and three? Do what you do every time you take a job.”

His eyes stay on mine. “Play house.”

What.The fuck. Have I gotten myself into?

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

ASHER

If we allmake it out of this alive, I know there’s no way I’ll be able to part with Asher’s presence. I’ll be tied to his name, his legacy, the damn spotlight that comes with it, for the rest of my living days.

I won’t be able to resurrect the legends of Mariée de la Mort even if I want to.

As soon as I’m back in the living room, it’s obvious the seating has changed. Camille relocating beside Asher doesn’t surprise me as much as it annoys me.

It’s desperate. She’s desperate.

Fuck it all. If this is truly the way things are going to go down, then I guess I will play.

“Are you feeling okay?” Elea asks, squeezing my knee.

“Yes.” I smile, side-eying Atlas when he stretches an arm along the back of the sofa behind me. “I think I’m just jet lagged.”

“Mmm.” She pops a grape in her mouth. “I’ve done that very flight multiple times throughout my life and it is not kind.”

My smile doesn’t fall. Not a single slip. Fucking robot, that’s all I am. A robot with real feelings that have been twisted and trained, played with by everyone but myself.

Atlas’s thigh brushes mine and my scalp prickles. Asher wants me to play house, but this isn’t my script.

Wait. Did he say play house or did I imagine that?

Elea’s attention shifts back to me. Up close, the similarities between her and her sons sharpen. “Ivanya...Dubois?”

My last name drops from her lips and my spine locks against the sofa.

She leans closer. “Interesting. Was it your father or your mother with that last name?”

Her shoulders are relaxed, eyes warm. It’s a genuine question.

“My father,” I reply honestly, welcoming the burn of alcohol down my throat.

At this stage, either I’m dying or all of them are, so there’s no point in hiding what I would usually lie to protect.

“Ah.” Elea nods, placing her empty glass on the small table. “Did Asher tell you we have French heritage too?”

He didn’t. Neither did Atlas. Hell, I barely know anything about this family except his grandfather’s billions and now his mother’s unsettling kindness.

That’s not forgetting his own special trick that makes me see red in less than five seconds, of course.

She waves the thought off. “Nothing too extravagant. Now, you!” Her finger lands on Camille, our conversation already lost. “When Khloe arrives, we cannot have another repeat of that Christmas. I get you and Asher have been friends since you were young, but we can’t have any more arrests.”

Camille ignores her, cleaning her nails.

Young? How young? In all the time I’ve seen Asher and her together, they’ve maybe been handsy a handful of times, none of them while we were on Veilarath.

Or maybe that’s just my self-preservation feeding me lies.