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PROLOGUE

BRIAR

The rumble of thunder shakes me awake.

Stumbling from my bed, I grip the edge of my comforter, glancing around with fearful eyes. The dark shadows flicker in and out as lightning flashes outside my windows. Nothing moves, but there’s something heavy in the air, weighing on my chest.

I wait, expecting a monster to jump from the corners, but all remains still.

Tentatively, my fingers reach toward my desk. The broken electronics flicker beneath the chaos of the storm. Wires run off the edges, and copper bits hide beneath. Maeve thinks I shouldn’t play with such things at barely eight years old, but I can’t help it. Numbers and codes, putting machines back together, is fun for me. I understand networks and mainframes. Little numbers that dance on the screen speak to me and calm my mind.

It’s everything else that doesn’t make sense.

Pitter-patter of fat raindrops splatters across the glass, and I sink to the floor, catching my breath. It’s a big storm. Thunder crashes into the walls, and the ceiling groans against the pressure. I’m not a little kid anymore, but they still make me uneasy.

I could get back into bed—but that’s pointless. I won’t fall back to sleep with all this noise.

Grabbing a sweatshirt, I slip it over my head and leave my bedroom. I sneak through the dark halls of my family’s mansion, as the soft red carpet squishes with each step. Suits of armor, vast canvas paintings of decrepit fountains, and elegant sconces hang from the walls. In the shadow of so much wealth, it's hard to feel big.

Ending at the stairs, I lean forward, head hidden under my hood, and look down. No guards are on the stairs, nor by the front door. The singular Tiffany lamp on the foyer table shines a golden-green halo, a dejected spot of light, onto the dark floor.

This huge house, with so many people, seems empty, but I know better.

Especially as the noises filter out through my father’s cracked office door.

His angry outbursts echo throughout the floors, rumbling under my feet like the thunder outside. I shudder with each word, every punctuation a slap. He’s mad. Something big happened. A failed plot, an impeded shipment? Anything sets him off. I stay away from him like this—which is pretty normal. I’ve seen what his anger can do.

A hand drops onto my shoulder, and I jump back. Killian’s dark eyes peer down at me, his locks soaked, rain dripping down his chin. Why would he be in the storm at this hour?

“What are you doing out of bed?”

Killian Linwood has been in our family for only a few months, but I like him. He’s tall, strong, and above all, Pops likes him. Maybe he even loves him like a son.

I want to be like Killian when I grow up.

I scan his clothing—black bomber jacket, drenched jeans, and wet, shiny boots—and raise an eyebrow. “Where have you been?”

“Out.”

“Where?” I cross my arms, hip jutting to the side. “Any place fun?”

“Out, kid.” He pulls me away from the stairs, turning to look at my comic-book-character pajamas and bedhead. He ruffles my locks fondly, and I slap his hands away. “You should be asleep.”

“I was, but I…” I trail off, looking behind him. “Never mind. Do you know where Selena is?”

Selena is my nanny and is supposed to take care of me. She’s been here since before I could remember—back when Mama got sick, and couldn’t be there for me. Pops hired her, and it was her job to raise me. Maeve doesn’t like her, though.

Last week, my sister took me shopping for new clothes. It was her way of checking in. Maeve can’t just ask questions, like normal people, but has to do something. It’s kind of annoying, but I like the one-on-one attention.

Afterward, we stopped for ice cream. I never get ice cream before bed—Maeve’s rules. And as the eldest, she gets to make them. So, I was all too happy to tell her about how excited I was for the treat, and how she trusted me to get dressed on my own.

She didn’t understand what I meant. As a girl, the heir to our father’s empire, it makes sense; she never needs anyone to help her. I explained that Selena didn’t let me get dressed alone. She always had to touch, help, pull, something. I said I wasn’t a baby anymore, but she didn’t stop.

I hated it. The way she would watch me. The way she’d stand too close. The ripples of dread in my belly. It wasn’t normal.

She made me so uncomfortable that I tended to avoid her.

Maeve’s eyes got really dark, like when she gets angry, as I finished my story. She said she wasn’t, but I know that look. It’s the same one I got for knocking out the bully at school. He was pinching a smaller girl, and boys aren’t supposed to hurt girls.