CHAPTER NINE ARSÈNE, SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER NINE

ARSèNE, SEVENTEEN

I was home for Christmas. Or at least, at the place technically referred to as my home. If it were up to me, I’d have stayed at Andrew Dexter. With that moron Riggs, who was probably looking for creative ways to set himself on fire or jump from roof to roof to pass the time. Or Nicky. Quiet and reserved and sad as he might have been, he didn’t make a bad companion. He wasn’t a complete idiot either. Always a plus in my book.

The truth of the matter was, these two orphans felt more like my family than the heartless creatures occupying this mansion.

Said creatures were now bursting into the dining room, completely ignoring the fact that I was sitting there eating my breakfast while enjoying an astronomy book.

“You’re a selfish bastard, Doug! That’s what you are.” Miranda sank her claws into the back of an upholstered dining chair, spitting fumes and fire at my dad, who—of course—had chased her here.

“Takes one to know one, honey. What’d you think, that I’d just let you hand over that estate to your mother?”

Uh-huh. Miranda crossed a line here. Never mess with a Corbin’s property without permission. We were a stingy bunch. I flipped a page in my book.

“She had nowhere to live!” Miranda shrieked.

“We could’ve rented her a place. I have people leasing the property! Paying customers. What were you thinking?”

In other news, they were still completely oblivious to my presence. Not that I was surprised. I wondered where Gracelynn was. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet since I got there, no doubt thinking of ways to kill me without leaving traces.

“I was thinking I’d have my husband’s support! Sue me for making the assumption.” Miranda grabbed a vase from the center of the table and hurled it at him. He dodged artfully—expertly—reminding me that throwing objects at one another was a daily occurrence in this house, akin to passing the jam across the table at breakfast.

“Well, you now stand corrected. I used to care. I no longer do. You’re not even half as beautiful as you were when we met, and twice as temperamental and problematic. I’m done.”

I suspected Miranda and my father were on the brink of divorce. Not because she was terrible to him. She’d always been that. But because he was starting to notice, for a change, and it didn’t look like he was as agreeable to her mood swings and demands.

Miranda stared at him with a combination of panic and disbelief. I sat back. I was enjoying this. Why shouldn’t I? This woman had been nothing but horrible to me, and it looked like she was finally getting hers. As for my father, he was no angel, either, and watching him grow old alone was a sight I’d relish.

“What are you saying, Doug?” Miranda inhaled.

“I think you should spend Christmas away.” He pushed off the wall, heading toward the door.

“Are you serious?” She rushed after him now.

“Yes. The kids can stay with me. The cook’s making a big enough meal, and I don’t want the food wasted.”

Ho, ho, ho. Merry fucking Christmas.From my dysfunctional family to yours.

“One of them is sitting right here,” I said blandly, highlighting a passage in my book. No one acknowledged me. “Speaking of food, you’re ruining my appetite.”

“I’ll ask Gracelynn what she wants to do. I bet she wouldn’t want to spend the holiday with you!” Miranda said spitefully.

“Don’t be so sure,” Doug replied, already halfway through the door. “She’s fond of me, and I know for a fact she hates your guts.”

Oh, lookee here. Trouble in paradise?

It was comforting to know that Gracelynn’s childhood had ended up being just as fucked up as mine. Miranda lingered in the dining room, panting, when I took a bite of my oatmeal and flipped another page.

“I’m sure you’re just delighted with this whole scene.” Miranda pivoted my way with snark, trying to pick a fight.

I swung my gaze from my book to her, smiling. “I’m amused more than delighted. Glee is such an acute feeling—I doubt you could do or say anything that’d prompt me to such emotional heights.”

“Ah, you and your stupid riddles. I never understand what you mean.” She bared her teeth. “You’ve always been odd and awkward, just like your mother.”

To this jab, I gave a full-blown laugh. “She was weird, awkward, and the first lawful wife of Douglas Corbin. The mother of his firstborn. His sole heir. And she might be dead, but these facts? They fucking kill you, Miranda.”

“Tell me.” She leaned forward, toward me, her eyes dancing in their sockets. “Why are you happy about all of this? It’s not like you’re having a bad time at Andrew Dexter.”

Sitting back, I drummed my fingers on the back of my hardcover, giving it some thought. “Guess I enjoy seeing karma in action. You convinced this man to throw his son—his own flesh and blood—to the curb. And you expected him to stick around for you? Loyalty is not a tree. It doesn’t grow with time. Either you’re a loyal person or you’re not. Douglas isn’t loyal. What’s more, I bet he isn’t faithful either.”

She still stared at me as I picked up my empty oatmeal bowl and my book and left the room, knowing that she wanted to hurt me but that she no longer had the power to do so.

Dad turned out to be right. Gracelynn decided to stick around at the mansion for Christmas while her mother ran away to our Hamptons house, surrounding herself with her New York divorcée friends.

The benefit of this whole thing was that over the years, I’d relocated my residence whenever I was here for vacations, and I now lived in a separate wing of the house, far away from her. It was entirely possible for me not to see her at all if I wished to.

And I did wish to, because she was a pain in the ass.

I managed to avoid her the entire duration of the holiday, save for Christmas Day itself, on which the three of us exchanged gifts.

Dad got me a 1966 Shelby 427 Cobra and my stepsister a vintage tiara—the real deal, full of diamonds. Gracelynn got me funny socks and a sweater. I gifted Dad an engraved cigar box and for Gracelynn, arctic mice—snake food from PetSmart. The gift drew an awkward giggle from her and an annoyed hum from him, but he was too preoccupied with the collapse of his marriage to chide me for it.

I endured the day, hour by hour, minute by minute, until it evaporated into the night and I was able to breathe again.

Another day passed, and then another. It was a beautiful thing to look at the calendar and see that tomorrow I was going back to Andrew Dexter, and Miranda was still not here, and Gracelynn, who was here somewhere, was as miserable and lost as I’d felt my first two years at Andrew Dexter.

The occasion called for a celebration, and I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen in the middle of the night to raid the wine fridge. I hadn’t planned on drinking tonight, but I’d bring some bottles with me to the dorms. Riggs and Nicky would appreciate it, and we’d have enough alcohol to hold us over until Easter.

I made my way downstairs barefoot, opened a garbage bag, and started filling it with expensive bottles. Then I walked into the darkened pantry and began shoving junk food into a separate bag. That’s when I heard a soft huff behind my back. More of a hiccup, actually. I turned around, thinking it was one of the staff, to find my stepsister standing right in front of me, looking like a ghost of her former self.

We stood in the pantry, staring at each other, the faint light from the range hood outside the room the only thing illuminating our faces.

“Are you crying?” I sneered. Her eyes were shining; her face was wet.

She wiped at her cheeks hurriedly, letting out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I cry?”

“Because your family life is nonexistent, you have no real friends, no particular talents, and once your average beauty fades, you’re pretty much toast?” I offered chivalrously.

She let out a cackle that sounded like a nail scratching a blackboard, before breaking down in a feral wail. I didn’t understand it. Any of it. She’d won. She was here, and I was gone. I hadn’t forgiven her, no. In a sense that I’d still deliver vengeance, if and when the opportunity called for it. But I had accepted the situation for what it was over the years. And I never let her see how upset I was by it. Letting someone know you have an emotional reaction to them was the worst thing you could do for yourself. Especially if you didn’t trust them with said feelings.

“You’re such an asshole, Arsène, no wonder your dad likes me better than you!” She pushed at my chest, but she was still crying, almost hysterically, and we both knew this was just a weak attempt from her to save face.

I flung the bags of junk food and alcoholic beverages over one shoulder, shrugging. “Well, enjoy your meltdown, sis. See you next year. Unless Doug decides he’s finally had enough of you Langstons.”

I tried to sidestep her, but she shoved herself between the door and me. “No! Don’t go.”

This goddamn menace .?.?. I glanced at my watch. It was late, but even if it weren’t, no time was a good time to listen to Grace bitch and moan.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I grunted.

“Actually.” A slow smile spread over her face. It was a pleasant face, I had to admit. She had grown out of her awkward phase. And not only was she hot, but she was also completely off limits. Which, of course, spoke to my adolescent cock. “I could think of better uses for our mouths, seeing as you’re about to leave here in a few hours.”

I swallowed, watching her under half-lidded eyes. The self-respecting man in me wanted to tell her to go ride her own fingers in the shower. The hormonal teenager in me couldn’t wait to know if she’d put that virginal tongue of hers to good use since we’d last kissed.

I arched an eyebrow, downplaying my interest. “I’m gonna need you to be more specific than that.”

She grinned, masking her pain. “Like, tell you what I wanna do to you?”

“A demonstration would be best.”

“All right, cowboy.”

She closed the door behind her. I flicked the light on. I wanted to see everything when it happened. A part of me didn’t believe this was happening (hormonal teenager). Another thought I was insane for letting her teeth anywhere near my cock (self-respecting man).

But as I was pushed back by my stepsister, my spine colliding with tall glass bottles of imported sparkling water, I decided to take the chance. Gracelynn dropped to her knees and worked quickly at tugging my pants down my legs. She didn’t even want to kiss. My cock sprang free from my sweatpants. It was long and hard and engorged, having listened to the conversation between us and knowing the score.

She grabbed it by the base, looking a little hesitant. I was pretty sure this was the first time she’d come face to face with a cock. She looked up at me, under thick lashes.

“Do you sometimes think about me? When you’re there, at boarding school?”

All the time. And not good things.

“If you’re asking if I wanna fuck you, the answer is this.” I thrust my hips her way, my cock poking her cheek.

“No, not fuck. Do you want more? Do you .?.?. do you like me?” Her eyes were pleading, but I knew better than to think she was genuine. She was just hurt. Messed up about our parents. If I showed her compassion, she would use it as a weapon against me.

I ran my fingers through her hair, moving it behind her ear with a smirk. “Gracelynn, I’m not here to tell you you’re pretty. If you want to suck my cock, be my guest. If not, move along and let me get out of here. This is too little, too late.”

This, ironically, made her spring into action. She became hot and needy for me. Turned on by the idea of trying to win me over. Her lips covered my crown, and she went to town on it. I tipped my head back, a grunt escaping my mouth. I’d enjoyed a few blowies in the past, but never with anyone I’d known. This felt different. Like submission. I decided seeing Grace submit to me was even better than making her cry into her pillow by being mean to her. Because when I hurt her—she only hated me. When I used her—she’d hate herself afterward too.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew what we were doing was extremely fucked up. Wanting her to hurt. Putting myself in harm’s way. All of it.

“Is this good?” she asked around my penis.

“Deeper.” I grabbed her hair and tilted her back a little, shoving more of myself inside her. She gagged. I chuckled.

She gave it her all, and when I felt like I was about to blow my load, I said, “If you don’t want my cum down your throat, now’s a good time to pull away.”

But she shook her head, giving me one thumbs-up and the green light to go to town. I did. It was a beautiful thing, watching Gracelynn on her knees for me, and I decided I liked it so much more than watching her cry.

I didn’t know why she was doing what she was doing. All I knew was that when I came in her mouth, when her lips were wrapped around me, wet and inviting, I stopped thinking, I stopped hurting, and I stopped being mad.

The best antidote to love must be pleasure.

She pulled away, then clawed her way up to me, her fingers all over my chest, leaving marks. My cock was still half-mast, damp from her mouth and my cum. She kissed me hard, and I let her.

“Your turn, bro.” She grinned into our kiss.

“Fair.” I pushed her against the marble counter. The back of her head knocked over a few cereal boxes, and they rained down on us. I was between her legs in no time. I’d watched enough porn to know what I was doing, and by the quivering thighs wrapped around my ears, I knew I’d made her come.

“Just remember I don’t do feelings.” She squeezed my head between her legs.

“Way ahead of you in the sociopathic department.” I bit her inner thigh. “Mark my words, Grace. No matter what happens, a part of me will always, always want to ruin you.”