Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(29)

“He just worries about you,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. The black sweater she has on drapes off, revealing more of her pale, freckled skin, and she resituates the cashmere as we walk outside.

Boyd’s red Audi sits at the curb, and he pops the trunk, rounding it with my luggage. He traded in his motorcycle for the sedan, citing safety concerns, but I secretly think it’s because he’s trying to ease into settling down.

They say a man’s toys are the first to go.

People mill about the sidewalk, some slowing as they enter the airport, openly gawking at us. For a moment, I don’t think anything of it—it’s hard not to feel temporarily stunned by Fiona’s effortless beauty, and people often try to get a look at her before Boyd notices.

But these stares feel different, more pointed somehow, and with a sickening feeling sluicing through my blood, I realize they’re still looking at me.

Muscles tight, I bow my head slightly, leaning in to speak to Fiona in a low voice.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on? Why is everyone looking at me?”

“Are they?”

Her eyes dart in a circle, pausing briefly on the two teenage boys sitting on a bench closer to the parking lot. She flips them off, tossing her hair back, and they quickly avert their gazes.

“Don’t even pay attention to them. People just don’t know how to mind their business in this town.”

“Yeah, but… what business are they minding of mine?”

“What do you mean? Obviously, people are—”

“Fiona Ivers, I swear to God.” Boyd slams the trunk shut, voice sharp.

She huffs, crossing her arms. “What? I’m not doing anything.”

“Not here. Get your pretty little ass in the car so we can go home.” His eyes cut to mine, though it feels like they look right through me. “You too. Now.”

I stand there for a few extra beats, trying to understand what exactly is going on. Clearly, something has the two of them on edge, and immediately I’m flooded with apprehension, as irrational thoughts and fears resurface in my mind.

With a shaky hand, I pull open the back car door and climb inside, hunkering down low while Boyd shifts gears and takes off.

We speed through King’s Trace at a speed that feels illegal, though no one would ever dare give my brother a ticket. Even if he didn’t have more money than most of the residents here, the police are bankrolled by the Italian Mafia, the boss of which is a client at Ivers International, Boyd’s security firm.

Well, technically, the firm belongs to Fiona’s family, but still. Boyd’s pretty much the lifeblood of that place.

All of which I know only because I interned for him over the summer, familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of cybersecurity—and the personnel files, when he wasn’t looking.

Pine trees whiz by the windows as we weave through traffic, passing downtown as quickly as we enter it. King’s Trace really isn’t much—a dirty little conglomerate of poverty, with a couple of groceries and a host of different small businesses, all centered around the unnavigable Lake Koselomal.

It’d be quaint, if it wasn’t plagued by secrets, crime, and death.

When we pull up to the white bungalow we call home, my nerves stretch thin. Somehow, in the time I’ve been gone, I’ve been able to put off the bad memories associated with this place.

But my mother’s ghost hangs around like a woman scorned, looking for souls to blacken with her talons. She’s behind me as I slip from the back seat, fitting an invisible noose around my neck, cinching until I can scarcely breathe.

And then I’m reminded about last night. What it felt like to indulge in a man’s attention, let him want me for a few minutes while I pretended not to hate myself.

But I do. Always have, and if my mother’s presence is any indication, I probably always will.

Boyd opens the front door, and we head inside to the place where time seems to stand still; the walls are the same bland shade of beige, the brown afghan draped over the arm of the sofa just so—arranged by Fiona, whose obsessive-compulsive disorder keeps things particular.

Not clean, as the dirty dishes in the sink suggest, but in order.

I head for the stairs, gripping the rail in one hand, when Boyd stops me.

“Riley. We need to talk.”

My chest hollows out, air suddenly impossible to retrieve. Spinning around slowly, I see him and Fiona sitting at the oak dining room table. His hands sit in front of him, fingers interlocked, while she has a hand on his wrist, rubbing her thumb in small circles.

The gesture is inherently soothing, and it sends a spike of sourness through me. Biting down on the inside of my cheek, I abandon my suitcase and meander over to them, gripping the back of a chair.

“What’s up?”

“You tell me,” Boyd grinds out. “Want to explain what the hell you did last night?”

My eyes widen, flickering to Fiona. Resentment burns in my throat as she shifts, her eyes moving down to study the table.

Swallowing, my tongue darts out, tapping the edge of the scar on my mouth. Grounding myself in the present, rather than allowing the sudden pulsing coming from the ink on my thigh to distract me.

“That’s it, pretty girl.”

Delight hums through my veins at the memory, Aiden James’s praise forever seared on parts of my soul I hadn’t known existed.