It was dead silent in the dining room but for my father's harsh breathing.

Tension strummed through the air. My father's expectations, his demand for unquestioning familial loyalty and marriage for advantage—despite whether we wanted it or not—had been etched upon us from birth. And from the swift warning my sister silently gave me, an almost imperceptive shake of the head, it was stupid of me to even try to fight it.

Sander and Valarie, whose attention was now focused on my father, shared the same expression that dragged through my limbs: resignation. Addie was the only one who simply didn't give a shit. She was too young and caught too deep in her loss of Gratian to care.

Beads of beeswax melted from fat candles and dripped down the bronze candelabras to pool on the table. Addie shifted her weight and the soles of her shoes wisped against the stone. Candlelight shimmered over the short black dress she wore, and the gray and white striped leggings that were tucked into soft calf-high boots. She had her head ducked to the side, and she wasn't staring back at our father, she was still glaring up at me beneath drawn eyebrows. Contempt simmered in her slitted eyes.

I had nothing, absolutely nothing with which to defend myself against that blatant loathing.

Jeroen jerked up from the table and the sudden movement drew my attention away. He straightened his posture and kept his steel-eyed gaze on me as he smoothed his shirt with a flattened palm. His deep voice, rough and gritty, lacked remorse. "It is done, Varen. The negotiations with the Szarvases will be concluded within the month. Then we'll decide upon a wedding date."

I briefly closed my eyes as my breath quietly left my lungs, my shoulders falling.

We'll decide, in truth meant he'd decide.

The shock of silver hair and eyebrows contrasted against Jeroen's tanned weathered skin and severe features. He radiated coldness and authority. He didn't exude power—he was power.

He jabbed a forefinger toward us all and hissed, "Now, sit down, all of you!"

There was a rustling of noise as we moved to obey him.

I definitely had a thing for wallowing in pain, because I couldn't help but greet my kid sister as she stalked around the table. "Hey, Addie..."

She stared back at me, her face expressionless but for those hateful eyes.

Nothing. Not even a blink to acknowledge I'd spoken to her.

It stung. But I also couldn't blame her.

Sander brushed past with a holy-shit-you-so-pissed-off-Dad look. Casually dressed, as much as our father allowed it, in tan slacks and a button-down shirt, he pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down at the position our mother once preferred. She'd sit directly across from Jeroen, Gratian would flop down in a chair beside her, and Addie then would claim the seat next to his.

Sander arranged his lanky legs beneath the table. I sat down, almost sighing in relief to be off my feet. It was then, as Valarie slipped into a chair beside me and Addie sat down across from me, that I took in the placement of us all around the table.

My throat thickened, and grief was sharp and painful and made it impossible to swallow. The stupidest, smallest things would have sorrow darkening the edges of my world like a vignette. We'd always eaten together at a table with odd numbers. Two of my siblings on one side, three on the other. Now, without Gratian, it was two on either side.

For six months Mamãe refused to sit in her favored position. She couldn't even bear looking in that direction. But as I slowly turned my gaze toward her, now she was. She stared with moisture glistening on her lashes where Sander sat and the empty place next to him. Her golden skin lost its luster, and the atmosphere in the room went as briny as an overcast morning on the ocean. The salt of her tears permeated the air with her heartache and desolation.

My father finally noticed his wife cast in despair. His expression softened by a mere degree, and there was a faint apology in his clipped tone. "Isobel."

My mother quickly brushed away her tears as Jeroen moved closer and untied her nightgown's belt which hung loosely at her waist.

She skimmed her appearance and blinked rapidly. Bewilderment played across her tired and wan features as if she'd awakened from a dream and realized it was evening and she'd spent the day in her nightclothes. "I should change..."

In the past few months, my father had tried in his brusque way to take care of my mother, to bring her back to the world of the living, to remind her she had children that were alive and breathing and still needed her. With deft fingers, he reknotted the belt tighter and adjusted the satin folds to sit better on her thin frame, before gently tucking a lock of brown hair streaked with gray behind her ear. "It's fine," my father murmured.

Since Gratian's death, a bleak shroud had been cast upon us all as we dealt with his passing, alone and in our separate ways. At night, when I couldn't sleep and the soft sobbing from my sister and Sander drove me to the ramparts, I'd walk to the top of the Keep where the wind blew a hollow moan, as hollow as the space inside my chest where my heart drummed a melancholy beat.

It had only been in the last month that life was breathed back into me and Valarie, Sander too.

The dining room's door quietly opened and our supper was carried in by servants, a feijoada, one of my mother's favorite meals, and mine too. My stomach growled in protest when the stew's rich aroma wafted through the air. I wasn't even sure when last I'd eaten. I was fucking starving.

Jeroen took my mother's hand and assisted her as she sat down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs next to him. He took his own seat, all the while not letting her go. He was cold and effectual, also economical with his emotions, but he did have his moments. Glancing down at his big calloused fingers, nicked with knife wounds and burns, that engulfed her small and delicate hand, he gently brushed his thumb pad over the large blue diamond set in her wedding ring. He tilted his head as faint concern quickly washed over his face. With a ghost of a smile on his thin lips he urged softly, "Bel, you need to eat something..."

She lifted her free hand and covered his with her own. The bracelet with its wooden beads gently chinked and caught dim strands of candlelight as the loops around her wrist swayed. "I'm not hungry, Jeroen"

"Isobel, you must," my father said in warning, then nodded to the servants in a silent request for them to proceed.

My family obviously wasn't expecting me and my twin home in time for us to join them. When I'd first barged into the room, only four place settings had been laid out on the polished table, and now servants quickly added plates and cutlery, and glasses for both myself and my sister. One handed me a damp cloth, which I used to clean my hands and face free of dirt and sweat, while another filled my crystal glass with red wine.

Servants merged in and out of the background as they served us our meal. The smoky smell of black beans and spices and cured meat drifted in the steam curling up from the piping hot stew as it was ladled onto my plate. My mouth watered as Kale was dished up next, along with fluffy rice, and orange slices to cut through the heavy, rich sauce of the feijoada.

The servants finished and returned to stand against the wall in a neat row, patiently waiting for a moment when we had need of them. Their faces were expressionless as if they hadn't heard a thing that had transpired between us all, my father's bellowing or my mother's silent tears, nor the fight that had wrecked the china cabinet that they'd have to clean up after our supper was concluded. Glancing around my family, I noticed that they didn't acknowledge the servants' existence either, they'd already faded from their minds the moment their duties had been performed.

Shame twisted my insides to think that was Tabitha's life, and that I'd never really given her or anyone else in her world of servants much consideration. I knew our Warband, but I hadn't given any thought to our house servants who cooked and cleaned and picked up after us. And I resolved myself to learn what their lives were like, if my family treated them as fairly as we should be doing, as perhaps Sirro had earlier impressed upon me.

Valarie picked up a fork, shooting me a quick, grateful glance. She looked as tired and hungry as I felt.

Surreal. That's how it felt to be seated at the dining table. I clutched the silver fork and knife in my hands. Sitting there in my dusty armor, for a moment it felt so strange that I didn't know what to do with the cutlery. I was at a loss as to how to use them. It was as if I'd been living in the wilderness like a savage animal and dragged into civilization.

I scooped up a forkful of stew and thanked Zrenyth when I took my first bite of food, chewing on a mouthful of robust sauce full of black beans and pork.

Oh my fucking gods...

Delicious.

I almost fell upon the rest of my meal like a feral dog.

The room filled with quiet chinking and scraping of silver cutlery on china, polite chewing and sipping on wine or water. Shadows danced around my father as he finished his mouthful and spoke to me and my siblings. "We'll be attending the funeral at the Deniauds' tomorrow."

My mother, who had been absentmindedly shifting food around on her plate with a fork, froze.

Jeroen placed his hand over hers. "There's no need for you to come, Isobel." We all knew this would be too much for my mother to endure. His rough voice grew louder as he withdrew his hand from hers and addressed me and my twin. "You'll both accompany me. You as my heir..." he said to me, his voice lowering into almost a barking tone. "And this time play nice with the other Heads. I don't want the same shit happening all over again, like the last meeting I took you to. If the Pelans are creepy-as-fuck, there's no need to actually say it to their faces. Nor tell the Troelsen's their idea for how to ensnare more mortals is as stupid as gathering water with a sieve."

I clicked my tongue and quashed the desire to roll my eyes.

Sander tried to muffle his snicker and failed. My father's glacial eyes snapped my younger brother's way. Sander abruptly cut his laughter short, coughed, then snatched up his glass of wine and swilled half of it down.

"You need to run some kind of filter on that mouth of yours," my father glared, poking his knife my way, "and learn to think before you speak."

My lips parted to protest, which I suppose was the point Dad was trying to make with me. His furious glare had me snapping my mouth shut.

Then, surprisingly, he relaxed his posture and heaved a sigh through his nose. Lowering his knife, he yielded. "Despite the fact that I do agree with you."

This time I allowed the swift grin. The Troelsen's idea was stupid and Aldert Pelan in particular was creepy as fuck, especially now his family had some sort of advantage over the rest of us with Sirro.

My mind speared to Tabitha, excitement racing through my veins. I shifted in my seat, straightening my spine. I wondered how wrong it was to want to see her at a funeral, for fucks sake, and if she could even speak to me with the divide between our ranks. If she'd even want to speak to me after what I'd pulled earlier, blackmailing her into one night with me.

My father pointedly stared at my twin. "And you'll accompany me too, Valarie, to keep Byron's interest."

"Byron Wychthorn?" My mother's red-rimmed eyes darted from my father to my sister who sat directly across from her.

Valarie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "He's n-n-n-n—" my sister began to answer, her stuttering worsened by the trace of irritation flashing through our father's dark violet eyes.

Valarie blushed and stared down at the table. "B-Byron isn't interested in m-me in th-that way..."

"Yeah, okay..." I interrupted sarcastically without thinking about it, like a fucking dumbass. I scooped up some more feijoada. "That's why he was hanging on every word you said and you guys ki—"

My sister kicked me under the table, hard.

Holy shit!

Pain cracked down my shin, and I shot Valarie a quick look of oh-my-fucking-gods-why-would-you-do-that?

My sister stared back with a vacant, innocent expression. "Byron seems n-nice. He was k-kind enough to offer me a r-ride to the Szarvases', since...Well, Irma, I g-guess, took my spot in your car and there wasn't enough seats for b-both of us." She turned her attention to our parents, explaining further. "He m-mostly asked me questions about the other g-girls, and he asked about M-Marissa a lot."

It was an effort to keep my mouth from falling open.

Valarie lied.

And I remembered what she'd said on her way to the hole in the ground.

I want to see him and get to know him better. But on my terms, not Dad's.

My father's shrewd gaze sharpened on Valarie as if he was weighing up whether or not he believed what she'd said, but he didn't challenge it. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and addressed us all. "We've got a few busy days ahead of us. We'll be meeting with that crazy Australian..." he made a little circle with this fork, his eyes narrowed as he mentally stumbled for the name.

"Bazza," I reminded my father, before taking another bite to eat. Bazza, the crazy-assed-Australian leader of the Tipo'deans.

My father grunted, leaned forward, and stabbed a chunk of ham hock with his fork. "Iban wants us to introduce his grandson to what we do for them. We might as well break you in too, Sander, and show you the ropes of keeping those who work for us in line. Bloody your blade if need be." He lifted an accusing eyebrow and directed the rebuke at me. "Since your brother decided to go for the Yakuza single-handedly."

Sander was instantly alert. His gray eyes lit up with excitement before he feigned indifference. He ran a hand through the fringe of his Don Johnson mullet and his lips twitched from side to side. Maybe his wanna-be Tom Selleck peach-fuzz mustache was tickling his nose, but I think he was just trying to tame his eagerness. He was desperate to learn which of Iban Novak's grandson's Dad was referring to. He spoke to Jeroen with a fake-bored expression, yet his voice went up and ended on a squeak. "Yoran?"

I rolled my eyes and I heard my sister stifle a snort-laugh behind a hand.

Sander's exhilaration wasn't about being brought into the fold with the Houses and the duties we performed, but working alongside Yoran Novak. My brother had a crush on him.

Jeroen's gaze honed curiously on Sander before he nodded.

"Okay... Cool..." my brother replied, before quickly shoving a massive forkful of rice into his mouth to hide the impulsive wide grin.