Sinclair (Acquisition Series) (6 page)

“It’s blood.”

He shrugged and wiped the red from his lips. Disgusting.

A whoop sounded from the end of the table near Cal. It was Red Witherington. “Fuck yeah!” He laughed.

Cal grinned at him and then glanced around the table. When his eyes landed on me and stayed, the hairs at the back of my neck stood on end.

“One more.” He didn’t look away. Others caught on and began to stare, waiting for the reveal.

There was no way out, no way to stop the inevitable. I eased the spoon into the cake. It slid easily. No filling escaped as the edge of the spoon tapped against the gold beneath. I twisted the spoon slightly. A stream of blood flowed around the silver and pooled on the gold.

It sank into the grooves of the invitation and put the letters in sharp relief. There was no mistaking the words that had been cut into the golden surface, now darkened with crimson. Sinclair Vinemont, Acquirer.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
STARED AT THE
ceiling. I’d been doing it for the past few nights—ever since Cal’s dinner. The rules played over and over in my mind as I traced the corners of the room with my gaze. Three Acquirers, one victor. Winning would cement the Vinemonts at the top of society. Wealth, privilege, and the freedom to live our lives in any way we chose.

Losing. I closed my eyes. I wouldn’t think about losing. Tossing the sheet off, I stood and strode to the shower. Mr. Rousseau’s sentencing was set to start in two hours.

I left the bathroom light off, soaking up the darkness as the warm liquid cascaded down my body. In the inky black of the bathroom, I couldn’t tell if it was water or something worse.

Red hair, green eyes, fair skin—Stella floated along the river of blood that ran through my mind. I’d wanted her for myself. I’d wanted to claim her on my own terms, to master her and break her my way. The fire that burned inside her lured me closer because I wanted so badly to feel the burn. But the game was no longer my own. I’d wanted her before. Now, I needed her.

Would the fire that burned inside her be enough to see her through the trials?

I soaped up and rinsed off, ready to put my plans into motion. After I shaved and dressed, I headed into town. Specifically, to Judge Montagnet’s chambers. He waited inside, his law clerk nude and on all fours on the floor. A thin trickle of blood ran down the young man’s thigh, and I ignored his tears as I sank down onto the judge’s sofa. He puffed on a cigar and blew the smoke into the sniffling clerk’s face.

“Got my morning started off right.” Montagnet smiled. “Get dressed and get out.” He kicked the clerk, who hurriedly dressed and escaped into the adjoining office.

“I heard about Cal’s selections.” He took a hard drag on the cigar, the tip flaming orange.

I nodded and smoothed my hands along my thighs. “Yes.”

“You picked who you’re going to acquire?”

“Yes.” I pulled a sheaf of paper from my pocket and handed it to him.

He glanced it over and smiled. “Smart boy.” He rose and shuffled to his desk. Drawing out a fountain pen, he signed the document with a flourish, then folded it up. He used his lighter to heat a small nub of wax, pressed it to the paper, and then affixed his seal to it. “All done here.” He handed it back.

I blew on the seal. He watched me and licked his lips.

Once satisfied it was cooled, I placed it in my pocket next to its counterparts.

He sank back down and rubbed his knees. “Damn, these floors grow harder the older I get.”

I nodded in empty agreement despite my revulsion.

He zipped his robe all the way up, his appearance of fairness complete. “I guess we’d better hop to it. Time for the sentencing to start.” After lurching to his feet, he lumbered to the door leading to the courtroom. He peeked over his shoulder, his eyebrows high. “So,
Counsellor
, you think you’ll get her?”

I stood and followed him through the door, my mask firmly in place. “I know I will.”

CHAPTER ONE

S
INCLAIR

I
N THE HEART
of every man is a darkness. Primal. Instinctive.

At its most basic, it’s a desirous nature—one that covets, demands, takes. Most men brick it up behind a wall of self-control. They invest time and effort in maintaining the separation. These men, good men, control the darkness until it withers away and becomes nothing more than a shadow haunting their innermost thoughts. Something easily forgotten, dismissed, erased.

I've never been a good man.

My darkness is neither restrained nor buried. It lives right at the surface. The only thing that hides it is my mask.

My mask is the law, the light, the pursuit of justice. It is forthright and airy. It is the appearance of righteousness in a fallen world.

The mask I wear is purely the act of a predator. Theater. Pageantry. Deceptive and lethal. It allows me to get close, and closer still, until it is time to strike.

I stalk so near that my prey can feel the tickle of my breath, the coldness of my heart, the depth of my depravity. Only a whisper separates me from what I desire.

Then the mask falls away, and all my victim sees is darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

S
TELLA

T
HE DISTRICT ATTORNEY
sat completely still at the dark, polished table across the courtroom. My father sat in front of me at an identical table, but he was full of nervous energy. He shifted, ran a hand through his silver hair, and leaned over to whisper to his attorney.

I clasped my hands in my lap until the ring on my index finger dug into my flesh. This was the last chance my father had for freedom, the last day he would be able to throw himself on the mercy of the court. My gaze wandered back to the district attorney, the one who had my father arrested. Investigators scrutinized every last cent the old man ever invested or borrowed. And, just like that, my world became a smoldering heap of ashes. All because of one man.

Sinclair Vinemont was unmoving, like a spider poised on a web, waiting for the slightest sensation of movement from a hapless moth. My father was the moth, and Vinemont was about to destroy him. The investigation and prosecution had been the careful work of a master. Vinemont had woven the cocoon tighter and tighter until my father was caught from all sides. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to try and hide from Vinemont’s poison. Dad was being systematically dismantled by the silent monster in a perfect suit.

I wanted to crumble. I couldn’t. Dad needed me. No matter the long list of allegations and the even longer list of evidence against him, he was my father. He had always been there for me. Always protected me, stood by me, and encouraged me. Even after what my mother had done. Even after what I had done.

I would not leave his side. He was staring down a hefty prison sentence. Even if the worst happened, I would visit him, call him, write him, and keep him company until the day he got out. I owed him that, and much more.

I stared at Vinemont so hard I hoped he would burst into flames from the sheer heat of my hatred. I’d wished for his demise for so long it had become like second nature to me. I hated him, hated every slick word from his mouth, every breath he took. Vinemont’s downfall was stuck on replay in my mind. As I glared at his back, he remained tranquil, completely at ease despite my father coming apart with worry at the table next to him.

I forced myself to drop my gaze, lest anyone see me glaring at him with embittered rage. I couldn’t bear for my father to suffer any further torment, especially not if it was based on any of my actions. My hands were pale in my lap, a white contrast to my dark pinstriped skirt. I took a deep breath and settled myself. It would do no good for me to fall apart now. Not in the face of my father’s sentencing. I let out my breath slowly and looked up.

Something was different. I darted my gaze to the side. Sinclair Vinemont sat just as still, but now his eyes were trained on me. His gaze pierced me, as if he were seeing more than my exterior. I refused to turn away and, instead, gave him a matching stare full of righteous anger. We were locked in a battle, though not a word was said and no one threw a punch. I wouldn’t look away. I wouldn’t let him win even more than he already had. I perused his appearance more fully than I had ever dared. He would have been handsome—dark hair, blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He was tall, broad, fit. The perfect man except for the ice I knew coated his heart.

The internet had told me everything I needed to know about him. Single, old money, career in public service, and at twenty-nine years old, he was the youngest district attorney in parish history. The only thing I didn’t know about him was why he would dare look at me, why he thought he had any right to pin me with his gaze after he’d ruined my life. I wanted to spit in his face, claw his eyes, and make him hurt the same way he’d hurt my father and me.

The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the judge entered, a stark, elderly man in black robes. Vinemont finally turned away, vanquished for the time being. Everyone in the courtroom stood. The judge shuffled to his seat behind a high wall of wood and state insignias, far above the spectators and lawyers.

“Be seated.” Despite his apparent age, his voice boomed, echoing off the dusty shutters and up into the gallery above. “Counsellor Vinemont…” He trailed off, sorting through the papers on his desk.

My father sank into his chair and turned to grant me a thin smile. I tried to smile back to give him some sort of comfort, but it was too late. He’d already faced forward, watching the judge. I willed the judge to let my father go, to suspend his sentence, to do anything except take him away from me. I had no one else. No mother. No one except Dylan, and I refused to rely on him for anything.

Vinemont stood and fastened the top button of his suit coat before stepping from behind the table. He was tall, and like so many dangerous things, effortlessly beautiful.

The bespectacled, bearded judge was still rifling through sheets upon sheets of documents when Vinemont spoke.

“Judge Montagnet, I have several victims lined up to speak against Mr. Rousseau.” His deep Southern drawl was an affront to my ears. Even so, words spilled off his tongue with ease. He could charm the devil himself. As far as I was concerned, Sinclair Vinemont
was
the devil.

I wished we’d never left New York, never travelled to this backwoods bayou full of snakes. Vinemont condemned my father with airy ease every chance he got. No one spoke against him. No one countered his venomous lies other than the ham-handed defense attorney my father hired. So many of the people we’d met in this town were good, forthright souls—or so I’d thought. They weren’t here. They didn’t sit on my father’s side to give him support against Vinemont’s false charges. They hadn’t come to testify that my father’s sentence should be reduced or that he should be granted mercy. It was only me and rows upon rows of empty, cold pews. We were alone.

On Vinemont’s side of the courtroom, two rows full of people, maybe twenty in all, sat and glared at Dad and me. Most of them were elderly men and women who had invested with my father. They blamed him for losing their money when all he did was invest as they requested. He had no control over the market, or the crashes, or the resulting instability. My father wasn’t the monster Vinemont had made him out to be.

One of the women, gray and wrinkly, met my gaze and made the sign of the evil eye. I only knew what it was because she’d done it before, the last time I’d seen her in court during my father’s trial. I’d looked it up and realized she was cursing me. With each movement of her hand, she was willing destruction down on my head. I looked away, back to the true reason for my father’s disgrace and my desperation. Sinclair Vinemont.

The judge nodded. “Bring up your first witness, Counsellor.”

I steeled myself as one by one, the alleged victims walked, limped, or wheeled past me to testify against my father. Their tears should have moved me, their tales of trust broken and fortunes lost should have forced some shred of empathy from my heart. All I felt was anger. Anger at them for getting my father into this mess. More than that, anger at Vinemont as he stood and patted the ‘victims’ on the shoulder or the arm and gave out hugs like he was running for office. Every so often I could have sworn he leered back at me, some sort of smug satisfaction on his hard face.