The Perfect First (Fulton U, #1)(61)

“Persephone is quite an exceptional talent.”

I winced, the muscles in my body tightening. Was he a freaking vampire or something? What was with sneaking up on people like this?

“She is. I’ve never met anyone like her before.”

“And you never will. Her potential for growth is above and beyond what she’s already accomplished.” He lifted the bottle of red and poured a small bit into the glass, swirling it around.

“I’d say she’s already accomplished a lot.”

He shot me a look over the top of the glass. “She can do more. She can do better.”

My teeth clenched tightly and my hands tightened on the back of the chair in front of me. “She’s always trying her best. I’ve never met anyone who works harder.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat.

The kitchen door swung open and Seph and her mom walked in, pausing for a second when they spotted her dad and me in our mini standoff.

I plastered a smile on my face. “Let me help with those.”

Her dad didn’t make a move to help, just sat in his chair at the head of the table and scrutinized every move everyone in the room made. Once all the food was out, Seph sat beside me and I took her hand under the table, running my fingers over her knuckles.

“I’m glad you came.” She placed her hand on top of mine.

“I’m glad you invited me.” Even if only to be there to run interference for a little bit. Her hesitancy about coming back for Thanksgiving and about moving back to Boston permanently made so much more sense now. She didn’t think I wasn’t good enough; she was terrified of her asshole father. With each passing minute, it got harder and harder to hold my tongue. He was still her dad, and knocking him out on Thanksgiving Day probably wasn’t what she needed right then, even though I was jonesing to do just that.

I’d do whatever I needed to in order to prove to Seph that she didn’t need to prove herself to anyone, least of all the pompous asshole at the end of the table. Do this for Seph. Just get through the night.





23





Seph





I laughed and rested my hand on Reece’s arm. My mom struggled with the overly large platter of sliced meat. He and I both rose out of our seats to help her, and my hand knocked into an object right in front of me. The white wine glass teetered on its edge and crashed down onto the table.

The wine sprayed all over everything. Reece laughed. “Wild Child strikes again.”

I laughed along with him; wine glasses and I did have a rather terrible track record. Then it registered that we were the only ones laughing. I wasn’t at his parents’ house or at the Brothel. I was home. Every muscle in my body tightened and I cringed, grabbing a napkin.

“Persephone Elizabeth Alexander, it seems your time away has made you careless. Can’t you see what a mess you’ve made? You invite this friend”—the word was a sneer with disdain dripping from his lips—“and have lost all sense of how you should behave.”

He pointed at the alcohol pooled on the dark wooden table like I’d gotten out a can of spray paint and tagged it. The carefree air that had invaded the house was quickly suppressed. I’d forgotten where I was.

“Get a towel.” He slammed his hand down on the table and the glasses rattled.

“Arthur, it’s—” Mom put her hand on his shoulder, but he shook her off.

Reece’s hands balled up in his lap. His jaw was so tight, I swore he’d crack a tooth.

I ran my hand over his. “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.” Hopping up from my seat, I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a towel from under the sink along with a bottle of disinfectant spray. Raised voices came from the other room. I made it two steps when there was a bang so loud the plates in the china cabinet rattled. Rushing back into the dining room, I saw Reece’s seat was empty.

“Where’s Reece?” My head whipped back and forth.

My mom opened her mouth. Her eyes darted to the front door.

My father stood at the head of the table with his hands pressed into the wood. “Your friend needed to get some air.” He said friend like it might as well have been a dirty word and sat back in his chair so hard it shot back a foot.

I dropped the bottle and towel and ran out after him.

“Persephone, get back in here.” My father’s voice followed after me as I rushed out of the house without even closing the door. Snow crunched under my shoes, and the freezing air sliced right through my sweater. Wrapping my arms around myself, I looked down the street. Panic rose in my chest, barely ebbing as I spotted him halfway down the block.

I called out his name.

He stopped mid-stride. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he’d left without his coat. Turning, he wore a look of misery so strong I could see it from this far away. It was one I’d worn often, growing up in my house.

“What happened? Why’d you leave?” Like I didn’t already know. Like I didn’t want to run away down the freezing, dead-quiet street with him.

His gaze darted back toward my house. “I couldn’t breathe in there. I needed to get some air.” His jaw worked overtime, the muscle and sinew bunching and relaxing.

“My dad can be a bit of a control freak sometimes.”