Page 55 of The Ashes of Summer

I lean down close enough that he can probably smell the violence on me.

“Summer isn’t here.”

Chapter 17

Michael Miller

Summer

Harris walks ahead of me and Donnie walks behind, and I keep myself pinned between them—close to the old man's back, close enough that his shadow almost swallows mine, as if a man who won't meet my eyes could somehow shield me from the one who won't stop staring.

The corridor is colder at night. The marble drinks whatever warmth the house pretends to have and gives back nothing but the flat shine of the wall sconces and my own reflection sliding along the floor beneath me, dark and small and out of place. Gold frames line the walls at careful intervals, each painting worth more than the street I grew up on, and every one of them makes my skin crawl. Beauty like this isn't beauty. It's a costume. The whole house wears it the same way Jackson wears that easy smile—something expensive stretched over something rotten, so anyone glancing in from the outside would see only the shine and never the thing moving underneath it.

The footsteps behind me quicken.

Then Donnie is there, too close, his breath hot and damp against the side of my neck.

"I can't wait to have a taste of that ass," he murmurs, low enough that the words are only for me.

My stomach turns over so hard I nearly gag on it right there in the hallway. Whatever hunger had been clawing at me a moment ago dies instantly, replaced by something oily and cold that climbs the back of my throat. I speed up without deciding to, closing the gap between me and Harris until I'm almost stepping on his heels, because fear doesn't care about pride. Fear doesn't care that shrinking toward a man who can't save me is pathetic. It only knows to look for the nearest wall to put at my back.

Behind me, Donnie laughs under his breath—a soft, satisfied sound that tells me he felt me flinch and enjoyed it.

The corridor opens into a dining room, and Harris steps ahead to draw one of the heavy double doors wide. My step falters at the threshold.

The room is obscenely large. White marble runs unbroken across the floor, cream walls climb toward a ceiling I can barely see, and gold-framed artwork hangs between tall windows that look out on nothing but black forest. At the center sits a polished table long enough to seat twenty. Everything about it whispers money—old money, the kind that never has to raise its voice because it already owns the room it's standing in.

Then the smell reaches me and my body betrays me before my mind can stop it. Something rich drifts in from the kitchen—meat, herbs, butter, bread still warm enough to fill the air—and my stomach clenches so hard it aches. I haven't eaten properly in days, and it knows, even while the rest of me is coming apart. I hate that I'm hungry. I hate that anything in this house can reach into me and pull a response like that, as if my body hasn't yet understood where we are.

Jackson waits at the far end of the table.

He turns when Harris clears his throat, and he smiles at me—actually smiles. Not the cold, amused curl I've learned to brace for, but something that looks almost warm, almost real, and that is so much worse. Monsters aren't supposed to smile like that. They aren't supposed to stand beneath soft golden light in a beautiful room and look pleased to see you. It scrambles something in me, makes the fear harder to hold onto, and I think that might be exactly the point.

Harris draws out a chair for me. My knees have gone so unsteady I half expect them to fold before I reach it, and by the time I lower myself down I'm trembling, fine and constant, like a wire pulled too tight. Jackson moves at once—not to the seat across from me, but to the one beside it, close enough that I can feel the heat of him along my arm without a single point of contact.

"That'll be all, Donnie," he says calmly.

Donnie stalls behind us. "But⁠—"

"I said." Jackson doesn't raise his voice. He never has to. "That'll be all."

The temperature in the room drops as if someone opened a door into winter. Donnie's jaw works. "This is bullshit," he mutters, and then his footsteps retreat and the door shuts behind him, and the breath I've been holding leaves me in one long, shaking rush before I can stop it.

Of course Jackson catches it. Nothing gets past him.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly. His hand slides across the table toward mine and I recoil before I've thought about it, jerking back like his skin might burn. Something flickers behind his eyes—not anger. Recognition. As if he expected exactly that, as if every flinch I give him is another small thing he gets to keep.

"Tell me." His voice gentles, and gentle from him is worse than a raised fist. "Did he hurt you?"

My eyes lift to his on instinct. "No."

"Did he threaten to hurt you?"

I shake my head, fast. Not to protect Donnie—I'd hand Donnie to whatever's waiting behind Jackson's calm without blinking. I shake my head because I've seen what this house does, and I'm suddenly, sickly afraid of setting it in motion.

Harris shifts by the door. "Sir... if I may."

Jackson's gaze slides to him.