The Last Housewife (77)

“Maybe they are,” I said, trying not to visualize.

“What he means is that the feminists are far more agreeable than they used to be.” Angelo smiled. “The third-or fourth-or whatever-wavers are practically Paters themselves. Empowering women to bend the knee if it feels right. It’s delightful. They’re never suspicious because they always think they’re in control.”

“Let them think they’re in charge,” said the head wolf. “Doesn’t make a difference to me, as long as they keep giving me what I want.”

“It’s one point on which I disagree with our great leader,” Angelo said. “We don’t need a culture war. We’re already winning.”

“No,” growled the Lieutenant. “The Philosopher is right. There’s no living side by side. We need to take back control. There are people who need us to free them.”

My heart raced, practically lifting out of my chest. This was the bigger thing—Don’s ambition, what he was really after. Some sort of culture war that ended with the Paters in control. But how? When? Control of what? This had to be how real journalists felt when the story started coming together. A hit of pure dopamine, an electric buzz—

A prickling sensation ran down my neck. I recognized the feeling: I was being watched.

In the midst of the conversation, the three wolf men’s attention had silently turned to me. A smile snaked over the loudest one’s mouth. “Tell me, new girl. When I chain you in my basement, will you think you’re in control?”

They were tightening the space between us.

Over Angelo’s shoulder, I spotted a flash of red on the faraway country house balcony. A woman, standing alone, arms spread over the railing like a figurehead on the bow of a ship.

Nicole.

A lifeline.

“Excuse me,” I said, twisting my arm from Angelo with a little too much force. “I see a friend I need to speak to.”

“No,” said the Lieutenant, his eyes dark. “No more slipping away.”

I had to obey. Even if I tried running out of the sculpture garden—blowing my cover—there were five of them. They’d catch me.

That feeling again: I was trapped, backed into a corner. Already, I could feel my mind trying to dissociate. I worked to tether it back, keep steady.

“Don’t listen to him,” Angelo said, waving a hand. “It’s more fun to chase you. Go.”

I felt an intense rush of gratitude for him, surely as dangerous as any fear. I didn’t wait for anyone to disagree. I bolted from the garden, feeling the Lieutenant’s gaze burning a hole in my back.

By the time I made it inside the house and up to the balcony, I was out of breath. Still, the sight of Nicole’s bright hair and slim silhouette calmed me.

“Nicole,” I called, then stilled when she turned around.

There was a cut across the bridge of her nose. A purple bruise on her cheek, long and dark as a lake.

“Jesus.” Without thinking, I hugged her. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” I expected her to pull away, but she didn’t. This close, I felt each breath she exhaled. “My Pater doesn’t want me coming to gatherings anymore, but I’m doing it anyway. When he catches me, he gets a little carried away.”

I drew back to study her. “Nicole, you know this has to stop.”

She smiled. “Call me Nic. It’s been forever since someone’s called me that.”

“You have to stop seeing him.”

She shook her head. “I’m so close. He met with the Philosopher just a few days ago—the Philosopher, Shay. They’re planning something big. Whatever it is, my Pater is going to be rewarded, and so will I. I’ll go to the Hilltop.”

“If your Pater doesn’t even want you attending gatherings, why would he give you up to the Hilltop?”

She blinked at me for a moment, looking very young, and I wondered for the millionth time how old she was. Then her eyes narrowed and she withdrew, leaning back against the railing. “Worry about yourself. You’re the one who’s in trouble.”

“Meaning?”

“I heard the whispers.” She swept her long hair over her shoulder. “The Incel told the Lieutenant you refused him.”

I should’ve seen this coming. I’d run away from a man whose ego couldn’t bear the smallest slight. “What’s going to happen?”

“You’ll be punished in front of everyone, like Cynthia. Remember?”

I pictured the blood blooming across Cynthia’s back as the Disciple whipped her. The piano music swelling.

“Apologize,” Nicole said. “Go back to Manhattan and give the Incel a weekend. Whatever it takes to appease him.”

I thought of what that man could do to me in a weekend, and the feeling left my face.

“At the very least, hook yourself to another Pater, and fast. They say Cynthia still can’t walk.”

I gripped the railing next to her, eyes traveling over the festive grounds.

She peered at me. “Something’s off.”

I turned. “What do you mean?”

“You were so eager to join. Desperate, even. But now that you’re here… Where’s the girl who wanted to get hurt? I would’ve thought you’d jump in with both feet, but I haven’t seen you with anyone. Now you’re acting like me playing rough is a sin. What’s your deal?”