I continued storming forward, needing to find my father as quickly as the scorching wrath racing through my veins. Strong fingers grabbed hold of my arm and jerked me back. "Stop! You've got to c-calm down."

I whirled around to face Valarie, slapping her hand from me as I snarled, "Calm? How the fuck can I be calm? Dad shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have screwed me over by arranging a union with Irma!"

Her braid swung over her shoulder as she took a quick step back. "There's no use going after Dad while you're so m-mad."

"Why the fuck not? He got me into this mess."

"B-Be smarter than this, Varen."

Smarter was for Valarie. The only smart I knew were my fists. They were the ones that did the negotiations for me.

"What about you, Val?" I cruelly taunted her, stepping closer to get right into her face. It was stupid and wrong but I wanted to lash out. It wasn't just me going down, she was too. "You think you have any control over your life?"

"I know I have absolutely none. If Byron doesn't want me, there'll be someone else Dad will arrange f-for me to marry," she snapped back, matching my surly scowl with one of her own. "Like you, it won't m-matter if I want them or not. There's no use fighting it. It is what it is. What it's always been like for us."

"I don't give a shit. I'm not doing it!"

Valarie hissed through clenched teeth. I guess she'd read me well enough to know that I was going to go after my father with my fists.

I spun sideways, bolting through an archway carved into the gallery's wall, and down a short hallway. I took the steps two at a time, my footfall echoing up a spiral staircase with candles lit in medieval scones and scattered light dusting the curved stone.

I reached the next floor and quickly stalked its length, drawing nearer to familiar voices coming from within our dining room: Sander and my father.

Memories, unbidden and unwanted, chased me. The memory of Gratian's infectious laugh ricocheted inside my mind. Laughter came easily to him, and the boisterous sound had often echoed down the hallways, or floated along inner balconies and stairwells, rippling outside when we strode along the ramparts. Gratian had brought vitality and life to our home. He also knew just how to appease our father when he was in one of his fucking shitty moods.

Addie had idolized Gratian, and right this minute she was doing to me what she'd always done to Gratian, slinking through the shadows, stalking me. I was aware she'd poked her head out from behind a floor-length tapestry. Her black hair with its textured ends reminded me of raven feathers, and they ruffled with the movement as she stared my way. It wasn't curiosity that scratched along my skin, but her blatant revulsion and the fierce flames of her hostility would have incinerated me if it was tangible.

She'd never voiced her loathing for me because she hadn't uttered a single word since Gratian's death, but her smoldering eyes spoke when her voice failed her.

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.

Jeroen's broad hand slapped my arm downward and his calloused fingers encircled my wrist like a fucking handcuff. He jerked and twisted my arm up behind my back, and used my momentum against me. He slammed me up against the front of the godsdamned china cabinet. The antique plates and tea sets rocked and rattled and chinked as if an earthquake trembled the Keep. The side of my face—lips and teeth—smeared the glass before I'd even had time to blink. Fiery pain set my joints ablaze.

"What the hells do you think you're doing?!" he bellowed.

"You went behind my back to the Szarvases!" I roared, struggling against his strength to free myself.

My father's grip on my arm tightened and twisted harder.

I gritted my teeth against the intense throbbing as he twisted my arm higher.

Fuck!

He barked, "Because you didn't announce the betrothal—"

"Gee Dad, I wonder the hells why?" I interrupted bitterly. "Jurgana awoke starving, and she feasted on us like we were fucking hors d'oeuvres. Sorry if I thought it wasn't the right time to make a polite announcement to all the Houses. But you know what? I sure as hells aren't going to marry Irma and you can't make me!"

I fought pathetically to get myself free, but he had me pinned tight. I was practically eating glass. "For years you two were headed for marriage." He moved closer and spoke so quietly, I knew no one else would be able to hear him hiss into my ear, "So what happened, Varen? Did she spread her legs for someone else?"

All I saw was a haze of red descending across my vision. "Fuck you!"

I snapped my head back and reverse-headbutted him, hard and fast. The back of my skull cracked into his nose. He roared in pain, stumbled backward, and I tore my arm free, instantly spinning around. The room filled with my rage, the sound a vicious unearthly bellow, and I threw a punch—

Jeroen ducked, easily avoiding the wild strike. He rose, nose bleeding, and shoved me back with a shoulder to my guts.

I slammed up against the china cabinet. This time fragile china and porcelain shattered; glass cracked like spider webbing.

He fixed me in place with an arm across my throat. My airway was blocked and I struggled to draw in oxygen. His face was an inch from my own and black dots started to dance across his image. "You are my son. My heir. You will be Head of this House. And as I haven't relinquished my hold on my position to you just yet, you will do as I say, as I see fit, anything that is necessary to elevate our House!"

"Jeroen?"

I jolted. My gaze slid sideways and I met my mother's terrified gray eyes, the same hue as the stormy sky outside. Her lank, brown hair hung down her back and over her slight shoulders. My mother cried my father's name, Jeroen, once more, muffled behind her hand.

Shame hit me hard to see my mother's bewildered expression and red-rimmed eyes from crying too much. I should have fucking thought this through. I shouldn't have confronted my father when my mother was about. My sweet mother with her broken heart.

"Isobel—" my father grunted. I wasn't sure if he was about to apologize, because my mother cut him off.

"The Contract of Intentions," she breathed. "You went ahead with it?"

My father at least looked a little abashed when he nodded, blood streaming from his nose. He eased the pressure off my windpipe and pushed away. I sagged as air burned my throat while I greedily sucked down oxygen.

For the first time, in what seemed like forever, my mother saw me. Worry flitted across her gaze. Thin blades of guilt cut my flesh in response to that unwanted concern.

"You don't want to marry Irma?" she asked, surprise lacing her tone as if she'd never heard this before or realized it. Maybe she hadn't. Everyone else in the family knew I'd grown distant from Irma.

I shook my head, my messy long hair ruffling with the motion. "No, mamãe."

She drifted toward me, raising her arms, hands stretching to touch me. I shied away from her touch, her motherly concern. She froze, almost flinching at my rejection. Her wavering voice was thin and confused. "Varen?"

I loved her. But I was the one who caused her heartache. I dropped my gaze to my muddy boots and shifted my weight from foot to foot, unable to hold her gaze. Everything I'd endured caught up with me. Everything was too hard. Even holding onto anger. It was a bitter taste across my tongue but it slowly faded as my rage at my father drained away.

I heard my father's rough low voice. "Isobel."

I glanced up. My father wiped the blood from his swollen nose and chin with a cloth handed to him by one of the servants. He handed back the white cloth soaked in crimson and spoke my mother's name once more, distracting her from me.

She slowly swung her perplexed gaze to my father, dropping her hands to her sides.

Sander stood close to Valarie, who was frozen, staring at my father in her dusty and sweaty armor. Addie slunk into the room, silently shifting through the shadows to stand not too far from my siblings. Her eyes gleamed bright like a night hunter in the dim room and were fixed on me.

Foreboding slithered across my skin, icy and uneasy, making my heartbeat skitter. She looked like a wolf waiting patiently upon a craggy peak watching her prey enter the ravine.

I suddenly felt exhausted beneath Addie's sinister stare. Every inch of my body was bone-tired and I swayed on my feet, tearing my gaze from Addie to my parents.

My mother tilted her head and scanned Jeroen's stony expression. Her silver-threaded eyebrows slowly nudged together as her mind ticked away. "We'll be raised to an Upper House by Master Sirro if an alliance is forged between our family and the Szarvases," she said slowly, carefully, as she pieced it together.

"No necessarily true," I grunted out, rotating my shoulder to ease the stinging ache from my joints. I wearily rounded the table to stand closer to Valarie. "Sirro's considering the Drakes."

My father's cold, calculating eyes cut to mine as fast as a snake strike. "The Drakes?"

I angled my chin petulantly. "It's either us or them he's considering shifting into the position of a new Upper House to hunt others for the Pelans."

My father didn't break eye contact. However he was no longer looking at me, he was processing what I'd just said. I didn't like the way his gaze darkened or the vein throbbing in his forehead.

Dread frosted my blood.

What have I done?

I shouldn't have said anything about the Drakes. There was something sly in the way my father's mouth curved into a small smile. I wondered what kind of maneuver had crossed his mind to rid our family of the competition... What might happen to the Drakes?

Jeroen chewed through the distance between himself and my mother. She looked up at him. A lost expression played over her features. "Aren't we happy enough as we are, Jeroen? Do we need to keep striving for a new rank?"

Though the dining room was opulent and filled with treasures of gold and silver that sparkled and gleamed, it was like every other room in the Keep—depressing. We'd made modernizations to the fortress in recent years, however, it still remained oppressive and dark, even with cutting into the adamere stone and boring channels downward, lining them with mirrors and magic to bounce sunlight inside. Right now, with only candlelight to illuminate the room, and not nearly enough of it to keep the shadows at bay, it reflected perfectly my mother's misery.

A harsh line deepened between my father's eyebrows at the top of his arrogant nose. "You know it's my family's purpose to reclaim the mantle that once was ours by right."

"This is your family, Jeroen, not mine."

"It's yours too, Isobel."

"I know what I was to you—an advantage..."

"You were always more than that."

"Then let our children have the same choice you had," she whispered.

"I wasn't heir then, Bel, and I still wasn't given a choice. You and I, we were simply lucky," he said gruffly. More matter-of-fact, rather than comforting like a husband or partner or lover.

My mother searched his face, looking for something, perhaps a crack of vulnerability in his iron-like facade. She spread her hand across his chest and smiled up at him. A small smile, tentative and new, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

I hadn't seen her smile in half a year. Neither had my father. His features slowly slackened in surprise and a touch of awe as he blinked down at her.

"You forget why your family abdicated in the first place, Jeroen," my mother said in her soft, gentle voice.

A heartbeat later, my father's features hardened. His tone lashed like a whip. "Because they were weak and foolish."

My mother's smile faltered and her hand dropped away, but she appeared to remain strong in her conviction when she tipped her chin up and replied, "No." Her brown hair shimmied as she fervently shook her head. "I don't agree. I think what they did was brave, Jeroen, and they did it for the most worthy reason of all. Your family stepped down for love."

My father's mouth curled into a snarl as he loomed above her. "And look what happened to them, Isobel. They stepped down to become a Lower House and years later they were slaughtered. My House, my ancestors that had ruled since the birth of the Horned Gods, every single one of them died but for one. Only their son survived. A child standing amongst the bloodshed, covered in muck, with daggers as his only weapons. And he was cast out to become a nobody in a nothing rank."

"And look where you are now," my mother urged, lifting her hand, palm upward, gesturing to us all, to our home, the Keep, we managed to take back.

"Where are we, Isobel?" A rhetorical question, sneered. "We're a Lower House, at the beck and call of others, breaking bones and snapping our fangs at everyone else for the scraps of power the Wychthorns toss our way."

Jeroen twisted his tall physique, corded with muscles from our daily drills, away from my mother to face us, his children. He half-leaned over the table, one hand braced against the polished wood as he turned cold, ruthless eyes upon each of my siblings, one by one—Sander, Addie, Valarie. His gruff voice boomed, "Each of you will marry for advantage. We are not like the Malans nor the Lyons or even the Qillisans who allow their offspring to make their own choice!" His fearsome gaze sliced to mine just as he slammed his fist onto the tabletop. China and silver and bronze and crystal jolted with the force. "We are Crowthers and we will fight every single day to take back the position we once held!"