Page 4 of Potent Desire 5
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Maddox
Hours pass and my hopes only grow weaker.
No word from Isabella. No word from Father. I feel lost, adrift a sea of my many failures and disappointments. Maybe Father was right. Maybe I’m really not cut out for this life. These games we play, slowly fucking one another over for some inflated sense of self-worth.
Who can I trust? The people who are meant to follow me have all been scorned by the Braddocks, one way or another. I’m usually the main culprit in their sacrifices. I’m a King. Supposedly a god among men. But who would stand beside a god who’d forsaken them so many times before?
To hell with titles and respect. I am no King. I deserve no respect. I am a man, lost in love and my love is lost.
Christ, Maddox, get a hold of yourself. Isabella’s out there, scared, alone, and suffering.
I drive my fist into the firm wooden table in front of me, indenting the surface. The ache in my hand is overshadowed by the sting in my heart. But my determination will not let me give up. No. I will stand and fight, sword in hand, like a good knight for his queen. I am no dog, as I once considered myself to be. I am hell’s righteous fury.
My phone rings, breaking me from the melancholy poetry I write in my head. I barely have time to read the name Father before it’s against my ear.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I demand an answer.
“Maddox. My boy. My eldest. My beautiful son,” Father replies. I know, from his boyish tone, that this conversation isn’t going to go well. He’s too chipper for a man that missed my meeting. I may be his son, but there will be consequences. No favoritism. Not even towards kin.
“Yeah, sorry boy. Couldn’t make your little breakfast get-together with those stuffy old bastards. I think I’d slap the man-tits right off Quincy if I saw him. He always did rub me up the wrong way.”
I can’t begin to imagine the expression on my face. It feels funny, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, and irritated; yet ready to burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. I’m glad no one’s here to see it. I pinch my thumb and index finger against the bridge of my nose, attempting to calm down.
“Do you…” I choke on my words, clear my throat and try again. “Do you have any word on Isabella?”
“Isabella? Romani?” Father snickers. “Yeah, I spoke to her this morning. She’s doing good. A little worse for wear from the accident, but she’s not dead. That’s a bonus, right? I’d say two or three days, and she’ll be fighting fit.”
It takes me a moment to process what he’s just said. I repeat his words over in my head.
“You’ve spoken to her?” my voice comes out in a husky, hushed whisper.
“Yes, I have.”
Betrayed by my own father. I shouldn’t be surprised. From youth, he’s taken every scrap of anything beautiful away from me. Stripped me of every blissful delight I’ve ever accumulated. Today the stakes are too high for me to back down. Isabella is not some lost puppy I found on the street, nor a flower I picked to place on Mother’s grave.
I’d never known what love was until she entered my life, and without her, I don’t suppose I’ll ever feel it again.
“You’ve spoken to Isabella?” I need to hear him say it again. I need to be sure I’m not deluded or hallucinating this entire conversation.
“Sure, I have. Is there something wrong with your ears, son? Or are you having a little dim-wit moment?”
I can picture that smug grin on his wrinkly old cheeks. The way he’s holding a lit cigar in his free hand, playing with it like a conductor, watching the smoke plumes dance. Cross-legged with the top button of his suit undone. Worst of all, I can picture the eyes. His predatory gaze, as I squirm beneath his thumb.
I’ve seen it too many times to count, before every involuntary order.
“Where is she?” the words come out sounding more defeated than I’d like.
“She’s taking a nap. I think the hit to the head and painkillers made her a little drowsy,” says Father. “But enough of this little game. Isabella’s safe, for now. And she’ll continue being safe until tonight; let’s say, seven o’clock. You’ve got a history of being late, Maddox. I’d be careful to be punctual this evening, if I was you.”
“What do you want from me?”
I can’t process what I’m hearing. My heart sinks but returns to a thunderous pace from fury.
Isabella’s safe. That’s good.
Tonight she won’t be. That’s bad.