RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 71

Addie hated me.

She hated me for letting our brother die the way he had.

I entered the small and intimate dining room. It was part of our family's private quarters, a place where we could dine away from our extended family who we often joined in the Banquet Hall or more casually within our Great Hall with everyone else who wished to eat with us—be it a family member or servant.

Jeroen had his back to me. He spoke to my younger brother Sander, asking about the whereabouts of my mother. Jeroen liked punctuality. He liked things orderly and on time. My mother wasn't fond of either of those things.

"Mom's doing what she's always doing," my brother replied quietly, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets which drew his shoulders inward. He momentarily glanced away and cleared his throat in an attempt to get his emotions under control.

My mother was a living ghost. She wandered the Keep barefoot in flowing nightgowns, mourning the death of her son. We all knew where she'd be. Since Gratian's death, nothing had been touched inside his quarters, and his room was a shrine at which she prayed every single day. My mother would be sitting on his bed or on the couch in his living room with all his trophies of lesser beasts hanging on the walls, clutching a piece of his clothing while softly keening.

Guilt slapped me in the face, but not hard enough to douse the fury at my father, which twisted mercilessly.

"Someone will escort her here like they usually do," Sander said.

My father grunted in reply. One hand was braced on his hip, while the curled knuckles of the other hand swiped beneath his chin in annoyance.

A storm of rage swept ahead of me and it was so easy to imagine tempestuous wind rustling the overhang of the crisp linen tablecloth and guttering candles in the candelabras—rather than the natural cold draft that came with living in the airy Keep.

Quick footsteps behind—Valarie. She tried to grab hold of my arm but I shook her off.

I had one goal: to shove my fist down my father's throat and rip out his spine.

Was that goal a little over the top?

Just a smidgeon.

In truth, Jeroen could keep his spine, I just wanted to sucker-punch him right into the next millennia. Sander's gaze shot swiftly over my father's shoulder. His eyes flared wide and his mouth rounded into an 'O' when he met my wrathful expression.

I pulled my arm back, readying to strike.

I wanted my father's face, slack with surprise, imprinted in my mind. I was greedy for his stunned bark to be chased by the sound of splintering bones and the squelch of blood. I was desperate for those sick sounds to drown out the heartbeat drumming in my ears and soothe the fury charging through my veins.

My fingers latched onto my father's powerful shoulder, intending to spin him around as I smashed my fist forward in a punch he didn't see coming. I eagerly anticipated the pain of crunched knuckles, and the agony of split and bruised skin.

Except... It didn't happen.

My cunning father had been onto me before I'd let loose my fury with a single punch. Jeroen was the Crowther who led the brutal drills we ran every single day. My father didn't sit behind a big fucking fancy desk and order others to deal with the crime syndicates. He went in there himself, wielding crossbows and blades to intimidate soulless crime lords or shadow a convoy of mortals we were delivering to the Horned Gods as tithes or sacrifices or fucking snacks.

Jeroen dipped his shoulder—

Swiftly sidestepped, spun around, and came at me from behind.

Sander, a streak of speed, slid out of the way. My sister fell back with a startled cry.