Cruel Prince (Royal Hearts Academy, #1)(98)

“How did you…where did you…”

I can’t formulate words because my brain doesn’t want to know how my baby sister got her hands on porn.

Bianca takes a bite of her pear. “I went into Dad’s room last week looking for some of Mom’s nail polish. I didn’t want to go back downstairs to paint my nails, so I turned on the television and the movie was on.” She pouts. “I didn’t get to finish it though. I ended up spilling the polish on the carpet right when the lady started praying.”

Cole and I exchange a glance.

“Started praying?” Cole questions.

“Yeah.” Bianca shrugs innocently. “Why else would she be on her knees?”

“Because she was b—”

I shoot Cole a death glare.

“Praying.” He coughs. “Bet she was praying real good.”

I force myself to breathe again. With not one, but three older brothers, odds are Bianca won’t start praying until she’s eighty-five.

I’ll make sure of it.

I flip the pancakes and check the clock. It’s barely even eight now, but I know Liam prefers the first two pancakes out of the stack. According to him, the rest are never as fluffy and they don’t taste as good.

“Can one of you go upstairs and get Liam? Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Not it,” Cole and Bianca say at the same time.

Yeah, I should have seen that one coming from a mile away. “Fine—”

The rest of my sentence falls by the wayside when I hear the front door open.

You can cut the tension with a knife the moment my father steps into the kitchen.

After placing his briefcase on a nearby chair, he looks around and smiles. “Oh, wow. What’s all this?”

As if I don’t make breakfast for his children most mornings. “What does it look like?”

“Right, well. It smells really good.” Averting his gaze, he playfully messes Bianca’s hair. “Thank you, Jace.”

I don’t need him to thank me for doing what he should be doing.

I need him to either get out of my way or step the fuck up and be a dad.

“Whatever.” I toss the spatula on the counter next to the stove. “I’m gonna go wake Liam up.”

I overhear his piss-poor attempt at making conversation with Bianca and Cole as I make my way up the staircase. From the sounds of things, they’re over his bullshit too.

Good. Fuck knows I’ve been over it for years.

I pound on Liam’s door harder than necessary. “Time to wake up.” When he doesn’t respond, I try again. “I know you’re mad at me, but put it on hold for a few because I’m making your favorite breakfast.”

No response.

I’m not dumb enough to think pancakes will fix things between us, but the least he can do is respond.

“Come on, man.” I pound on his door harder. “For fuck’s sake, just answer me.”

Yell at me. Tell me I’m the worst brother in the world again. Something.

I get nothing.

I go down the hall and check the bathroom. Empty.

An ugly feeling crawls up in my gut and I bang on his door again. “Liam.”

This time when he doesn’t respond, I turn the knob.

The ugly feeling in my gut snakes up my spine when I take in his empty, made-up bed.

He must have woken up before me. Shit.

My brain’s trying to conjure up all the places he could have run off to when my eyes land on his closet door.

It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.

Rope.

My eyes track the rope’s path from around the knob to where it’s wedged between the top of the frame and the door.

Why would Liam have rope…

It hits me like a brick to the head and my knees buckle.

No. No. No. No.

A guttural sound rips from my throat as I run across the room to the closet.

“Dad!” My voice is so shredded I hardly recognize it. “Dad, I need you. Something’s wrong with Liam!”

God, please tell me I’m wrong.

Tell me he didn’t do what I think he did.

Tell me my little brother is…

My worst fears are confirmed when I turn the knob, and whatever was left of my heart after my mother died…

Shatters into a thousand tiny little pieces.





My mother was wrong.

Some things can’t be fixed.

A new day doesn’t always bring new chances.

Sometimes it just brings pain and more grief.

Liam had already been dead for hours by the time I found him, but I didn’t need the paramedics to tell me that.

His lips were blue. His skin was blue. The fingertips digging into the rope were blue.

Even the basket he kicked over was blue.

Everything was blue.

Ironic that a shade representing the best things in the world—the sky, the ocean, the color of Dylan’s eyes—also symbolized the worst.

My once favorite color…now made me sick to my stomach.

Almost as sick as the fact that my siblings and I were downstairs, talking and acting like everything was fine…while our brother was hanging from a rope.

All alone in a closet. Discarded like an ugly Christmas sweater.