Vicious Prince (Royal Elite #5)(8)

We go out of my room and take the marble stairs. Our mansion — no, the Astor family mansion — has stood here for centuries, since the time of Henry V.

There are two sweeping stairs that split the entrance hall. Portraits of my dead ancestors stare back at me with snobbish haughty expressions. We all share the nose, which is Dad’s pride and the reason he knew I’m without a doubt his son.

His words, not mine.

I smile at them, too. What? Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some love.

As Lars said, everything is in place. The kitchen staff buzz around the dining room carrying utensils and whatnot. The whole house smells of jasmine, of Mother, of her spring presence and all that jazz. It’s the only scent I don’t resent too much.

Aside from weed.

John runs in the entrance, catching his breath. He’s Lars’ assistant, and yes, Lars is prim and proper and needs assistants and calendars and order.

“His lordship is here,” John shouts, like in some play.

And just like a play, the scene shifts with a shuffling of feet, and everyone stands in a line, like they’re in the military or something.

I plaster a smile on as the double doors open and in comes my father in all his lordship glory.

Okay, that’s a lie — there’s no glory, just the title. And okay, maybe the glory follows the title.

He was right to say I’m his son; it shows. We’re about the same height, but I’m a bit leaner. His face has gained a lethal edge over the years, giving him an older masculine look, nothing like some of the boyishness still scattered on mine.

We share the eyes and the proud Astor nose, as he calls it. I’m a replica, a carbon copy.

The future of the witch coven. Sorry, I mean the clan.

A tiny woman has her frail arm in his, seeming so little in comparison to his otherworldly existence, but the expression on her face is anything but little.

She’s listening to something he’s saying, and her face shines with compassion, affection…love.

Fuck how much she loves that tyrant. How much she went through just to be with him, leaving not only her country but also her family to be by his side.

Lord Astor’s face remains blank as he talks to her, no expression, no smile, no nothing. We agree that Dad is a robot, and by we, I mean Lars and me.

Fine, Lars just listened with a judgmental expression while I informed him of that fact.

The staff bows upon my parents’ entrance. It’s been…what? A few months since they graced me with their presence?

They’ve been doing this a lot lately, disappearing to go to conferences, or more like my father dragging my mother with him to the other ends of the world like India and fucking Australia.

They used to do that when I was a kid, but I thought it was over around middle school. Nope, they’re back at it like a druggies searching for their high.

Not that I’m complaining. After all, I get to throw all the parties I want in this mansion every night. Win-win.

The moment Mother’s eyes fall on me, they brighten and soften. I almost imagine she appears too weak and thin, or is it only her pale complexion? She releases my father and runs towards me, ignoring her long dress.

“Mon chou!”

Both Dad and I reach out for her when she trips, but she catches herself at the last second and squeezes me in a tight embrace. I have to lean down so she can rest her cheek on my shoulder. She smells of jasmine, of warmth.

Safety.

“I missed you so much.” She speaks with a slight French accent that she hasn’t been able to lose even after living in England for twenty-three years.

“Missed you, too, Mother.” And I mean it. Maybe I missed her more than I’ll ever admit.

Her absence triggered something I don’t even like to think about.

There was no safety or jasmine — just like that time.

“Mon petit ange.” She pulls back to cradle my cheeks with her frail hands. “Although you’re not little anymore. I should start calling you mon grand.”

“That’s right. Have you seen these muscles?” I grin, and this time it’s not automatic or forced.

“Oh, I have. You’ve grown so much, and I wasn’t there.” A sob tears from her throat.

“Mother…?”

“Charlotte.” My father is by her side in a second, wrapping a hand around her shoulder. It’s his way to control her, to have her act the way he likes.

As if he pushed a button, she straightens, wiping under her eye with her thumb. “It must be exhaustion from the flight.”

Or your husband’s controlling fucking nature.

“I’ll freshen up before we receive the guests. I’m so happy you decided to do this.” She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek, her lips trembling before she pulls away. “I won’t leave this time, mon chou, I promise.”

“Charlotte.” Father warns her in his usual Do it my way or I’ll throw you in the highway tone.

“I’ll be right back, mon amour.” She kisses him on the cheek, too, before heading to the stairs.

Father motions for Lars to follow her, and he does so with a nod. The rest of the staff scatter like ants with another motion of his finger.

Mon amour.

That word leaves a sour taste in my mouth. How can he be her love? He’s her tyrant.