2. Thomas

CHAPTER 2

Thomas

I let Clara Speare sit in frightened silence in the passenger seat as I drive us back to the Warwick estate. She keeps coughing and fighting to stifle it, and I want to reassess my understanding of the situation. But for now, I don't.

Clara was inside the house with Raleigh. Arson seems to run in the Speare family.

If I look over at her, I'll catch myself comparing the woman beside me to the teenager I remember. And that doesn't serve any purpose right now.

The drive to the estate is short, by design. I own every high-end custom house in this hilly neighborhood above the city, as well as the people living in them. Above it all squats the Warwick estate, a sprawling collection of buildings surrounded by walls and hedges high enough to shroud it from view. In theory, this was the safest place for Raleigh when she declared she was leaving the estate a couple years ago. The house I chose for her was far enough away to have as much privacy as this life could afford, but close enough for me to respond to an alarm faster than any emergency vehicle.

As I reach the massive iron gates, Iris's car pulls in ahead of mine. Clara's breath catches at the sight of the main house. All these years, did she think it wouldn't be rebuilt after her goddamn uncle left it in ruins? Or maybe it's the shock of entering a familiar estate, dominated by a whole new house, that has her mouth hanging open.

My hands clench a little on the steering wheel. I don't like thinking of this as a homecoming for her, not when she was part of the reason it was destroyed in the first place.

The only reason the Speare family wasn't crushed moments after its founding was because my father retreated. While he wasted months licking his wounds over the betrayal of his best friend, Morgan Speare solidified his connections and stole blocks upon blocks of the city from us. I told my father this more times than I can count, but he lost himself in blueprints and building materials and left the war to me. I've been fighting it ever since.

"The rose bushes survived."

I glance sharply at Clara. They're the first words she's said since she got in the car, and she seems to catch herself. She looks out the passenger window, avoiding my gaze with determination.

"My mom," she whispers, "really loved the rose bushes."

I remember Terra Speare watering the bushes herself, despite the robust group of landscapers and gardeners that maintained the old estate. As a ward of my father and the sister of his right hand, single mother to her only daughter after her husband was hit by a car and killed, she had the freedom to do whatever she wanted, but she chose to dirty her hands in the garden almost every day.

And she betrayed that freedom by walking out with her brother.

We cruise up the gravel drive and around the main house to the garage. I don't have to look at Clara beside me to feel her shrinking down into her seat. I'm glad she understands that there's no escape from here, but what's important is that she starts answering my goddamn questions.

As soon as we park, Raleigh is at my car door. "Tommy-"

"Iris," is all I need to say before Iris has her hands set firmly but gently on Raleigh's shoulders. "We'll talk later," I reassure my sister, who scowls at me as she lets Iris guide her into the house.

When I turn back to the car, Clara is staring at me from the passenger seat like she's expecting me to shoot her right there. I could tell her I wouldn't want to go through the trouble of scrubbing blood out of the upholstery, but I don't. Instead, I walk around the hood and open the door for her.

"Follow me."

Clara hesitates, but she knows there's nowhere else to go. She unfolds herself from the seat and shuffles behind me as I lead her into the house.

It's nearing three in the morning, so the moon lights our way through the quiet halls. When my father rebuilt the place, he stole the book from Frank Lloyd Wright and transformed a Second Empire-style house into a sprawling modern monstrosity. On its face, it's an intimidating crisscross of black and white beams and gray brick walls. Its interior is broken up by skylights looking down onto interior courtyards, and the walls looking out over the backyard and the rest of the estate are made entirely of one-way windows. I don't care for the style, but it did inspire my father to create the perfect room for less trustworthy guests, one I've put to use a few times over the years.

My room is located in the west wing of the house. One windowed side looks out on the backyard, and another looks onto a small courtyard cut into the side of the house. Across this divide sits another bedroom, a lavish guest suite with its own bathroom, dressing room, and snack lounge.

It's to this room that I bring Clara .

I can tell she's surprised when I open the door for her and she doesn't see a cell on the other side. She steps slowly inside, inspecting the polished wood floors, the huge bed, and the wall of windows looking over the courtyard. She sees the windows of my room, but she doesn't know it's mine, and she can't see inside. I watch her shoulders relax the tiniest bit, and know I've successfully lowered her guard.

I close the door behind me and lock it. The sound of it is loud in the moonlight and shadow of the room. Neither of us has bothered to turn on the light. Clara's arms are wrapped tight around her middle, but I don't let that show of fear deter me.

"It's been a long time," I say, softening my words. These are my first words to her since ordering her into the car. I don't want her to be afraid right now; I want her ready to open to me like a flower.

Clara still looks nervous, suspicious. Her shoulders hunch a little more. "It… has," she agrees. The ‘ten years' goes unspoken between us, and I let them. Right now, she's thinking about what else sits between us- the betrayal, the blood- and I let her. Let all of that rise to the surface, churning and confused, ready to be whipped into a frenzy by what I'm about to do.

I step toward her, and she flinches but doesn't bother backing away. "I can't believe I didn't recognize you the second I saw you. But there was a lot of smoke." I drag my eyes up her body, over her too-thin t-shirt and shorts. There's no bra under that shirt, and I wonder if the hunch of her shoulders is her attempt to hide that fact. I let my eyes linger on every new and old curve of hers. "And you've grown so much."

Her throat bobs with a swallow. I can't tell by the light whether she's blushing or not, but I'm fairly sure she is. "You… You're different too," she ma nages.

I give her a grin. "Different good? Different bad?"

That flusters her, and she loosens her grip on herself. "I-I, well…"

I don't give her a chance to recover. "I apologize," I go on, getting closer. "For my rudeness. I was only surprised to find out who you were. And given the circumstances, I couldn't be too careful. You understand?"

"I-I do."

I'm in her space now, and she takes a step back from me, but when I reach out and cup her cheek in my hand, she falls still. "If I'd known who you were, I wouldn't have been so rough." I frame her face with my palms, and her eyes are huge as they stare up into mine. "I have to say, you have no idea how much I've missed you, Clara."

Her breath catches, her eyelashes fluttering. "I… I missed you too, Thomas."

Got her.

I pull her into my arms, the hug all-consuming, and wait for the stiffness of her shock to melt. My hand cups the back of her head, protective, intimate. Slowly, Clara lets her face rest against my shoulder, but she doesn't lean into me. Her hands rest lightly on my back, but she's not returning the hug. There's hesitation still.

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again, you know. After the schism…" I let the words hang in the air between us, let them be blunted by the comfort of my arms around her. "I'm just so glad I found you when I did. That you're okay."

"I almost wasn't," Clara whispers. Her hands slide just a little bit more around me. I stroke her hair, and she shivers. I pull back so she can see my face. The softness in my mouth, and the intensity in my eyes.

"Clara…"

I step forward again, and she has no choice but to step back into the wall I've been guiding her toward. I've placed a careful inch between our bodies where heat is growing. Uncertainty and fear rekindle in Clara's expression- and a brush of my thumb over her cheek erases it. Slowly, I slide my hands over her shoulders. Down her arms where goosebumps rise at my touch. Her breath hitches again, and her breasts graze against my chest. I move centimeters closer to make sure she can't breathe without it happening again.

"I can't believe how much you've changed," I murmur, my hands traveling lower, tracing the length of her arms. Now I let myself look her over like I didn't in the car. I take in her auburn hair, longer than ten years ago, her bangs styled so they frame her square jaw better. Her lips have grown into their pout. Her eyes look sadder, more tired. It could be the hour of the night and the narrow miss with the fire, or something else. And her body… Her body is a woman's now. She's grown into her long legs. Once she seemed stick-like and too tall, but now she's gracefully slender. "You were always beautiful, but now…"

"Y-You think so?" she asks, and I answer with my body, finally pressing it against hers, lining us up like puzzle pieces. My knee pushes between hers, my thigh flush with her pelvis. The fabric of her shorts is very, very warm. My hands bracket her hips and slide up to her waist, lifting her shirt along the way.

"I've thought about you so often," I tell her. It's only half a lie. "I've wondered if you were okay, if you needed me, if you'd become someone I didn't know anymore."

As if I ever knew her. As if my father ever let me out of my room or away from my tutors long enough to get to know other children. But nostalgia is a powerful drug, and so are teenage crushes. I think about the last time I saw Clara Speare, in the garden with Raleigh, looking up at me through my window. I remember the way she smiled and blushed at me .

I ignore the memory of hiding my smile from her and wondering if I ever could get to know her.

Did she know then what her uncle planned to do? Or did he have to convince her after the fact that it was for the best?

Clara stutters, "Thomas-?" and I press my face into her hair to silence her.

She smells like smoke. I have to fight the sudden urge to recoil. Instead, I let the scent ground me. Smoke, like my father's cigarettes. Like the night my home burned down. Like Raleigh's home, burning all over again. Because of this woman and her uncle and their traitorous, grasping schemes.

"It's been so hard for me, you know," I breathe, close, so close, to her ear. "Thinking of us as enemies. Thinking of you as someone… forbidden. Do you think of me that way, Clara? Am I your enemy?"

She stiffens, just a little. Her breath is so shallow. Every push of her lungs is friction between our bodies. I tighten my hands on her bare sides. Press my lips against the shell of her ear.

"Is that why," I whisper, "you tried to burn my sister's house down with her in it?"