Page 19 of Ruthless Game

“Get ready, Angel,” he warned. “Because now that we’re home, it’s only going to get worse.”

6

Emma

“Emma?” My dad stared at me from his spot behind the stove like he’d seen a ghost.

I didn’t blame him. I rarely came home. I’d been back a couple times last year, but only for brief visits. Visiting Gehenom—and Reina, where they both taught—was too painful. Instead, my family came during winter break to visit. I spent my summers at Oxford, teaching swimming, working at a pub, and studying. So seeing me in his kitchen must have been shocking. I was also shocked—that I’d gone along with Lawson’s threat. At that dark pub in Oxford, even on the airplane, when it felt like we were the only people in the world, it had seemed logical to give in to his demands. But here, with my family, everything that had happened with him felt like some blurry nightmare. This was real.

What the hell was I doing? Should I tell my parents the truth?

“Linda! Jeffrey! Guess who’s here!” my dad called out, taking big strides around the kitchen island to sweep me up in a bear hug.

I gave myself a minute to enjoy it, collapsing into his arms and letting tears slide down my face, glad he couldn’t see. Home felt alien, unfamiliar, especially with Lawson standing behind me, watching us. My father made me feel safe, even only for a moment.

Even if it was a lie.

“Emma? Emma.” My mother hurried into the kitchen, diving into my dad’s and my hug, squeezing me tight and stroking my hair.

“I don’t know what you’re doing home,” she murmured. “I don’t know if everything’s okay. And I’ll ask you after. But for now, I’m just so glad you’re here.”

After a long moment, both of my parents released me.

“How long are you here for?” my mom asked.

“I—” I paused, not knowing the answer. When would Lawson let me go?

“Forever, if I can help it,” Lawson said.

“Oh. That’s lovely,” my mom said. She had tears in her eyes, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think my dad was crying, too.

My father smiled through them. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

“I am too—but Emma, what about your internship?” my mother asked, concerned, and my stomach dropped.

Lawson froze. “Internship?”

My mom beamed. “Yes. We’re so proud of her—she got an internship with a think tank in London that’s working on policies for foster children around the globe. It was incredibly competitive. Emma, we don’t want you to miss out on that, it’s your dream.”

Is it, though? A voice whispered in my head.

It was. All I’d ever wanted to do was give back. To make my parents proud.

But don’t you really want something closer to home?

I banished that voice.

“You didn’t tell him?” my father asked, clearly concerned.

As I struggled to reply, a voice called out, “Em?”

I turned to look at my brother, who’d just entered the room. He was taller, broader, his head too small for his body. The last time I’d seen him was only about six months ago, and he’d been much thinner. My stomach sank. Lawson was right, my brother was using drugs to get ahead in hockey and who knew what else.

How had my parents not noticed?

“Hi, big brother,” I said, going to give him a hug, he accepted it, rubbing my shoulders, my back. Often when my brother hugged me, part of me wanted to recoil and I never knew why, so I dismissed it as some childhood trauma thing I must not have gotten past, despite how much therapy I’d done. I forced myself to remain in his arms, even when he squeezed the back of my neck.

“What is he making you do?” he whispered.