Bound by Obsession (Shadowed Souls #2)

8. Chapter Eight

I haven’t seen Ray since the evening I arrived, but the last two days have been pure bliss. Other than the small army of guards I’ve seen walking through the mansion, Charlton on occasion and the staff, I’ve pretty much had the mansion to myself. I just wish I could bring myself to enjoy it.

Stretching across the wide mattress from the ends of my fingers to the tips of my toes, I sigh heavily. When will the weight crushing my chest from the inside shift? When will the dull ache in my skull fade? Not as long as I keep waking up each morning I reckon.

A knock sounds at the door, announcing breakfast bang on time. “Come in,” I call and pull the cover higher around my waist. Rachel, the lady-of-the-house, pops her head around the door with a large smile. Nudging the way in with her hip, she easily balances a tray in one hand and a glass of cranberry juice in the other.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, her perfectly curled brown locks pulled into a ponytail at her nape. I nod to save face and accept the tray with thanks, perking up at the smell. Fried eggs on toast with sausages wrapped in bacon, just the way our cook Nancy used to make when I was a boy. Something I divulged over dinner on the first night, answering Rachel’s many questions about my preferences. She hands me the glass and produces two small tablets from her apron’s front pocket, stroking my hair softly as I pop them into my mouth and guzzle down the juice.

“That’s a good boy. Vitamins will help that cut on your head heal quicker.” Her kind smile brings my own out. I’m sure I’ve never heard of vitamins having healing powers but if she wants to take care of me, I’m not going to argue. I feel a sense of calm and peace in her presence.

“Ray would like to see you this morning, so make sure you freshen up and take your pick from the clothes in the wardrobe.” I nod again, enjoying the warmth in her smile. She seems genuinely happy to have me here.

It’s much easier to bury my head in the sand when I’m being plied with food and booze. I didn’t think of myself as fickle before, but I figure this way, everyone’s happy. The Shadowed Souls must be thanking their lucky stars that I’m no longer bringing them down. I was a drain on their happiness, now they’ve got her and I wish them good fucking luck. I’m on a new path, one that ends with finding answers.

Remembering the breakfast in my lap, I tuck in and moan in between mouthfuls. Rachel’s cooking isn’t exceptionally different from Nancy’s, but I don’t ever remember enjoying her food this much. Each mouthful is a burst of flavor, overriding my senses so I don’t hear the sexual noises I’m making until I’ve swallowed, the motion making my hair bounce upon my head.

As Rachel backs out of the room, I toss my head side to side enjoying the way my hair flops from ear to ear. I’ve never let it grow out this long before, but now I know why Garrett does. There’s freedom in not giving a shit. Man, he would love it here, being waited on with as much food as he could consume. My mood sours.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to think the Shadowed Souls don’t need me. Is Huxley fully healed, physically and mentally? Is Dax keeping up with his studies? Even during the holidays, he can’t afford to fall behind. My money is only good to him as long as he continues to pass his classes with straight A’s. And hopefully, Axel’s nightmares are a distant memory and Garrett isn’t eating everyone out of house and home.

Reaching over to the bedside table, I unplug my phone from the charger I was provided. I don’t know why I bother keeping it on since I can’t bear to look at, let alone answer, it. I pull out the drawer to grab my phone. Hundreds of missed calls, voicemails and messages blink back at me. I scroll down the list, getting the gist of every message despite flicking through quickly. Even Avery’s name is amongst them, causing my appetite to flee completely. She’s begging me to get in touch, pretending she’s worried. Even goes as far as to say she has something important to tell me.

All lies. I bet she just wants to kick me while I’m down, pull me back in just to prove that she can. She’s the root of my turmoil. And still, the thought of her large blue eyes, her golden hair and lithe body in lycra, her hand on my cock, has the covers tenting in my groin area.

It’s official. I’m sick, twisted, disturbed. Pushing the tray further away, I toss the phone onto the bed and rise. Crossing the room butt-naked, I enter the ensuite to shower. A punishingly cold shower.

Why does she have to crawl so deeply beneath my skin, taunting me with the life I could never have? I didn’t want her as an adopted sister and I definitely don’t want her as my fucking twin. I want her in the most forbidden way, the monster within stirring and clawing to be let out. I’m literally no better than the bastard who hurt her as a child, which is why I’ve decided I can never see her again. Pretend she doesn’t exist so I can actually move onto someone else, someone perfectly uncomplicated.

Stepping into the spray, my body barely registers the icy water that the dial says it should be. My skin is taut and numb. After working shampoo into a lather into my hair, I continue to wash my body with the remaining suds. Unnerved by the lack of feeling anywhere, I start to scrape my nails across my skin in various places to try to find a spot where I’m not completely desensitized. It’s useless.

Relenting, I wash out the shampoo and exit the cubicle. In the mirror hanging opposite, I assess the red scratch marks covering my body, some deep enough to draw pricks of blood. Yet I don’t feel a thing. My eyes are bloodshot with haggard bags hanging darkly beneath them, my whole face appearing aged despite the fact I’ve never felt better. Wrapping a fluffy towel from the warming rack around my middle, I go in hunt of fresh clothes.

The wardrobe is full of dry-cleaned items in plastic sleeves filling the top rail and rows of smart and casual shoes lined along the base, fortunately all in my size. Ignoring the various fancy suits, I opt for a white polo and the only pair of dark jeans. I rub the towel over my dripping wet hair until it’s in a damp mess. Smoothing it back, I shove some socks onto my feet before leaving the room.

As usual, the halls have more ghosts than tenants. I have to wonder why Perelli bothers keeping such a large home if there’s no one to fill it but his guards and staff. Roaming at my leisure, I follow the sound of music. An eccentric mix of jazz and the blues. Rachel is humming along as she saunters from a room with a basket of dirty washing in her arms. My lips curve into the wide smile that appears whenever she’s around. Offering to take the load off her hands, the brunette accepts and I escort her to the utility room downstairs.

Rachel must be in her sixties, and despite being introduced to me as Ray’s wife, she’s taken on the role as cook and maid. Clearly she takes pride in her home, but I’ve yet to see her interact with anyone else. Beneath her white apron, a black dress sits on her rounded frame, featuring baggy short sleeves and a white collar. Her feet are in black, flat pumps allowing her to move about the house silently. All that gives her away is her cheery humming.

She leads me past yet another unused living area. This one has a deep red corner sofa in front of a vast fireplace, filled with logs and begging to be lit. The east side of the mansion is much bigger, featuring a massive dining room, ballroom, library, indoor gym complete with pool and sauna, and even a home theater.

I’m no stranger to the finer things in life, but seeing the love and care Rachel has put into each room has me thinking. One day I’m going to own a home just like this, paid with money I’ve worked my ass off and earned for myself. I don’t want a drop of my allowance from Nixon if it means keeping this leash around my neck a second longer.

Pulling me to a halt in front of a black door, Rachel pauses to look at me. I can’t decipher her expression as she licks her lips and looks away. “Go easy on him. He’s declining quickly.” With that, she pushes down the handle.

Inside, the curtains are drawn, the space lit by long blue bulbs trailing the edges of the ceiling. The repetitive beeping is faint across the far side, and a strong scent burns the hairs in my nose. It’s an unusual mix of sterile spray and cigar smoke, the latter emanating from Ray’s mouth. Even laid in the hospital bed, hooked up to the same machines and an oxygen tube in his nose, the cigar’s cherry flares and rescinds in time with his ragged breaths.

I pause, waiting for an invitation. When it doesn’t come, I rasp my knuckles on the wood. “You wanted to see me?”

“Wyatt,” Ray snaps out of his trance. Setting the cigar aside, he beckons me over to his bed. “My apologies for not seeing you sooner. I do hope you’re enjoying your time here with us?” I nod, unsure of where to put myself. I decide on pulling up an armchair, and then uncomfortably shift forward when Ray offers out his hand to me.

“I promised you some answers, my boy. And I think you’ve waited long enough to get them, don’t you agree?” My hand tightens in his, my throat clenching like a vice. The weight of his words is much heavier than the raspy, frail voice which delivered them.

“Agreed,” I manage to grunt. Ray relaxes his head back against the pillow.

“Do you know how rich men stay rich, Wyatt? They know who to steal from. Businessmen, bankers, accountants. We’re all thieves. We sell things people don’t need to people who can’t afford to buy them. It’s all in the advertising, pitching dreams and happiness in place of the cold, hard truth. We can’t escape misery. It finds us. It’s ingrained in us. No matter how rich or poor you are. I found out the hard way that no one is untouchable. Nixon taught me that.”

My forearms rest on my knees, my foot tapping lightly. The smoke in the room is clearing through the vents, but it’s no easier to breathe when I’m hanging on Ray’s every word.

“Nixon and I were those thieves once. We sold the dream. We made our fortunes too young, and we partied too hard. By the time we found our partners and eventual wives, we were on top of the world. The trashed hotel rooms and continuous holidays. I thought we were invincible. I thought nothing could come between us.”

I can’t imagine Nixon at my age. The image Ray is painting of a reckless, young man who parties and laughs the nights away is a distant cry from the graying man I was raised by. He’s always seemed so stern, his mouth turned down into a frown whenever he looked at me. Nothing I did was ever good enough, so I learnt very young to stop trying. Ray coughs, gearing himself up for the rest of his story.

“My Rachel and Catherine Hughes fell pregnant at almost the same time. The two became just as close and we went out for dinner to celebrate. That was the first time I noticed Nixon seemed distracted. Or perhaps distanced is a better way to describe it. He didn’t eat a bite and refused to join our toast. It got worse over the coming months, his mood swings were volatile and the distance grew larger. A form of depression I thought. Pre-baby blues, perhaps.”

“Did you find out what was causing them?” I sit forward, hanging on Ray’s every word. He nods gravely.

“Only once it was too late. Rachel gave birth first, and a few days later, Catherine had her twins.” My jaw clenches on instincts. I don’t want to hear this as much as I need to know. I must have the full story. Reaching over the covers, Ray hands me a photograph of my mom being wheeled into the labor unit, her face contorted in pain and hands on her stomach. The angle is askew, the edges of the image darkened as if taken from a distance. A paparazzi shot I quickly realize.

“The Hughes had been so careful to keep their pregnancy hidden. I thought it was to give them privacy, but Nixon confessed everything to me in the waiting room. He’s infertile, and Catherine’s twins weren’t his. She’d been having an affair with a man called Fredrick Walters.” I have to release Ray’s hand before I crush it. Bile rises in my throat, my stomach rolling.

“No, that’s not-” I hug my sides. I’m going to throw up all over the expensive carpet. Huxley showed me the news reports I purposely avoided. I knew a fraction of what happened to Avery during her childhood but I never wanted to face it. Knowing the full history and bullying her for it anyway would have made me another level of evil. Feigning ignorance was the only way I could keep living with myself. But I can’t be ignorant now, not with what Ray is implying. “That bastard is not my father,” I ground out.

“No, he’s not.” Ray shakes his head in the low lighting. I peer up, the room spinning around me. My breath is raw, all of my focus on not passing out and Ray’s hoarse voice. “Catherine Hughes had twin girls. Rachel and I,” he pauses, a tear leaking from the corner of his creased eye. “We’re your parents, Wyatt. You’re our son.”

“I don’t understand. I… but I’ve always…” My brows crease. It’s a lot to process, but strangely not as far-fetched as it would have once been. I can see the truth in Ray’s pale green eyes. “Did you not want me?” Ray’s hand reaches out once more and this time, he squeezes me tightly.

“There hasn’t been a single day we haven’t prayed for you to come back to us. Rachel couldn’t speak without crying for years. Everything we’ve built has been with the idea of you returning home.” The weight on my shoulders shifts. It doesn’t lessen, but becomes displaced. Those words are all I’ve ever needed. To feel truly loved, to be wanted. I knew there was a disconnect in the way Cathy and Nixon treated me. Like a shiny object, a stand in for the cameras. I knew it instinctively when they brought Avery home. How they doted on her, the love they had for her. It was different, special. And exactly the way Ray’s glazed eyes are looking at me right now.

“I need you to tell me everything,” I say, the connection through our hands becoming increasingly tender. This is my father. My old man. The beep of the machine beyond his bed becomes louder in my ears, like a gong counting down. What if they hadn’t come for me? Would I have been too late?

Ray reaches a shaky hand for the decanter on his side table. He almost knocks it flying, his eyes too glazed with tears. I stand, rounding the bed and easing the glass from his fingers. After pouring the amber liquid into an empty tumbler beside the ashtray, I hand it to him and resume my seat. Ray manages to offer me a small smile, lifting the glass to his aged lips and downing the liquid.

After he gives a stiff nod, he starts talking. A tale of blackmail and kidnapping. Fredrick Walters isn’t only an abusive father, but a psychopath. When Cathy refused to acknowledge him as the real father and her lover, he stole Avery from the hospital. The other girl was ‘hidden’, as Ray describes it, for her own safety before Walters could return. And me? Nixon wove a lie about the Perelli’s which saw both Ray and Rachel spending time in federal prison and I became a ward of the state. Nixon paid off the right people to have me, placing me in his protection. I was their stand-in for the media. A poster child for those asking what happened to Cathy’s baby bump.

“I’ve always known.” I have my own whiskey now. I down it, but I don’t taste it. It’s so obvious now. How Avery was instantly welcomed and showered with compassion. Even though I received anything I desired, it was only material objects. She got Cathy’s sole affection. Nixon’s undivided attention. I was the fraud. “Instinctively, I always knew I was for show. They dressed me in the best clothes and paraded me around for the cameras. And for what?”

“To distract anyone watching.” Ray’s body is slumped now, his energy quickly waning. I see the affect this talk is having on him, and why it took so long for him to be able to face it. Standing, I place his hand over his abdomen gently. I tower over the bed, a stoic statue of muscle in the shadows. Ray, my father, is a fraction of the man I wish I could have met. He drank himself to death waiting for this day.

“What if Walters decided I was his other child and tried to abduct me too?” I breathe, my head swimming with questions I’m running out of time to ask. Ray smiles weakly, his low laughter quickly becoming a cough.

“That’s the beauty of their plan. You were never theirs to lose.” It is genius. Swallowing hard, I lean over to place a kiss on Ray’s forehead and leave him to rest. My feet are wooden as I cross the room and slip out . Rachel is waiting in the hallway, not having moved a muscle. One look in her brown eyes and I crumble into her embrace. I cry into her shoulder as if I’m not at least a foot taller, holding her rounded body as tenderly as my shaking arms will allow. For Ray, I can be strong, but with Rachel, I just want to be held.