Page 7 of Mistress of Lies
They were two sides to the same coin, right down to the cold, calculating mind that he learned at his father’s knee and hid behind his scoundrel’s persona.
“Good morning, Anton,” she said, pouring them both tea. “Rough night?”
Anton slinked over to the table, taking his cup as soon as she finished dressing it the way he liked. A bit of milk, a pinch of sugar. He downed it in one scorching gulp, then poured himself another. “Is it true, then? About Father?”
Shan couldn’t help herself. Her smile was soft and cruel. “The Funeral Ball is tonight.”
Anton winced. “Shan…”
Shan leaned back in her chair as a pair of serving girls entered, carrying their breakfast in on trays. There would be no more wasteful spreads of food—just what she and her brother could reasonably eat—and no more bland breakfasts of toast and kippers.
The girls set the bowls down in front of them—steaming rice, freshly fried eggs, spiced sausages in the way their mother had made them—and quickly departed. Food that their father had loudly banned years ago, that they had to sneak just to have a taste of, now proudly displayed on their dining-room table.
She leaned forward, nudging the bowl closer to him. “Eat up, Anton. We have a long day ahead of us.”
Anton immediately snatched his fork, digging in with an aggression that had Shan rolling her eyes. If there was one constant about her brother, it was that he would never turn down food, even if he was angry.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Shan said, not bothering to hide her displeasure.
“He’s our father,” Anton muttered, and, damn it all, there was still a bit of pain there. Despite everything, every cruel word he spat to her brother’s face, the way he tried make them hate each other, turning each of Shan’s successes into a weapon against Anton, her brother still cared for the man, and it broke what was left of Shan’s heart. Their father had deserved what had come to him, and if it took her the rest of her life she’d prove it to Anton.
“Was it you?”
Shan looked up from her tea, staring into Anton’s eyes—dark, like hers, but fearful in a way that she had never seen before. Jutting her chin forward, she met his gaze without shame. “Of course,” she said, giving him the truth so he would not ask for more.
It was her plan, her scheming, her will. But still, her brother could never know of Bart’s involvement. There were some things that even she was not cruel enough for.
Anton let out a low hiss of pain. “How could you?”
“How dare you ask me that,” Shan whispered, the venom all the more potent for it.
Anton ran his hand through his hair, over the shorn sides and tangling it in the dark strands like he was trying to wrench the words straight from his head. “Please say it wasn’t because of me.”
“It was for us,” Shan replied, even though the truth hurt him. She had grown up in a web of lies, and the only guiding light she had left was that she wouldn’t lie to him. Not when asked directly. “But, yes, I murdered our father to protect you.”
Anton stood abruptly, not caring that he knocked his chair to the floor. Shan didn’t flinch as he stared down at her, as he snarled, “Don’t do this. Don’t become a monster like him.”
Shan laughed. She was already the monster. Their father had seen to that with years of training. Why not use it to protect the one thing that mattered?
But she would never be like her father—he tried to make her a weapon against the one person she loved without reservation, and for that she had cut him down.
“Come on, Anton,” she said, turning back to her breakfast. “Don’t let your food get cold.”
Anton slammed his hands down on the table, causing the plates and glasses to rattle with the force of it. “Look at me, Shan!”
Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head to him, her eyes narrowing as she took in his ragged breathing, the wild look in his eyes, the raw, heartbreaking pain that twisted his expression into something she could barely recognize.
“I am not a child,” he said. “I do not need you to keep meddling like this.”
Shan placed her fork down, squaring her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap, creating the perfect image of serenity. Then—and only then—did she speak. “I will not apologize for what I’ve done, Antonin.” She threw their shared name in his face, a reminder of what their father had wanted of him. Anton had never been more than a means to a legacy, and when he had been born Unblooded, when he revealed that he was disinclined to continue the family line and their name, her father decided that he had no son at all.
She considered going further, flinging every little cruelty they had lived through back at his face, if only to make him understand. For years their father had kept Anton locked away, a shame too great to speak of, a child left to grow in the shadows.
Neglected. Abused. Abandoned.
Sometimes, Shan thought it was worse than what had been done to her—she had been the favorite, special and perfect, struggling with all the weight of cruel expectations. She could never know, but at least it was over.
Her brother was at last free of that burden, and though he might never forgive her for it, that was a weight she was willing to bear. For him, she would do anything.