Crimson Bound (Blood Oath #7)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

I t hasn’t rained for this many days straight in years. The sky seems to be permanently gray and filled with heavy, dark clouds.

Until this morning—the day of my mother’s funeral—and I can’t help but think it’s her way of telling me everything is going to be okay. I don’t necessarily believe it, but it does make forcing myself out of bed slightly less impossible.

The house is eerily quiet as I pad down the hardwood stairs into the kitchen in search of coffee. My eyes burn with exhaustion and lack of sleep. Also from crying. I am so sick of crying.

I thought I’d prepared myself to lose her. We knew it was coming. How long she had left, according to her oncology team. But I was wrong.

As it turns out, I was never going to be ready to say goodbye to my mom.

I lean against the counter as the coffee machine gurgles and scroll through my phone, ignoring the text from my stepfather—should I still call him that?—letting me know he left to pick up his parents for the service. His sons must have left too, I gather with a quick peek at the empty driveway through the kitchen window.

I exhale a heavy sigh that does nothing to loosen the tightness in my chest. Tears prick my eyes, and I’m grateful to be alone in this house that has never felt like home. Not that it matters now—I won’t be living here much longer.

I grab my coffee and add my favorite hazelnut creamer before going back upstairs to get ready for the worst day of my life.

I slip on the black Ray Bans Mom gave me for my birthday last year and reapply my lipstick before getting out of the car. Passing a few of her coworkers also walking toward where the graveside service will take place, I offer a thin, barely-there smile, and get looks of sympathy and sad smiles in return.

Approaching the small group of people, I stand next to the woman my mom would’ve considered her best friend. Leslie gives me a watery smile before pulling me into a hug, sniffling softly. The lump in my throat won’t go away no matter how hard I swallow, and I clamp my jaw shut to keep from making a sound as I cry on her shoulder. Her floral perfume tickles my nose, and I hug her tighter, squeezing my eyes shut.

“She loved you more than life, Eden.”

I pull back, nodding, and blink quickly as tears track down my cheeks. “She loved you too,” I say, because what else am I supposed to do at that moment?

The service starts a few minutes later as we all stand around the closed black casket. There’s a massive arrangement of white lilies atop it—Mom’s favorite flower.

With a shaky breath, I glance skyward and hope this is over quickly. All I want to do is lock myself in my room and forget the cause behind the crater of pain in my gut.

As the priest goes on about life and death, a small group of Mom’s friends huddle closer, sniffling and crying. Our extended family all moved from Ottawa over the years and only a few were able to make it back today, most having sent their regrets and condolences to me earlier this week. My grandparents stand on the other side of Mom’s friends with their arms around each other, their eyes rimmed in red from crying. They called me yesterday afternoon before getting on the road to come, offering me a place to stay with them in Kingston. Maybe I would have considered it if they were still in the city, but the thought of having to commute nearly two hours each way for class almost every day was too much. I’m still trying to figure out what’s next, where I’ll go, but that’s tomorrow’s problem. Today, I just need to survive.

The priest bows his head in prayer, and everyone follows suit.

I exhale a sigh under my breath. I’ve never been particularly religious, and neither was Mom until shortly after her diagnosis. I think it brought her peace of mind, knowing her time was limited but having some sense of what came next. Even still, I can’t bring myself to bow my own head in prayer, because if I truly thought it worked, my mom would still be here.

Instead, I let my gaze wander, taking in the two dozen or so friends and family members gathered to lay Charlotte Pinecroft to rest. My eyes fall upon Mom’s husband, Maverick, his head bowed, his expression stoic, and his posture rigid. Dressed impeccably, as always, I have to tear my eyes away, ignoring the way heat blossoms in my cheeks. He and Mom weren’t happily married. In fact, I’d bet all the money in my trust fund they would’ve divorced if Mom hadn’t gotten sick, but that doesn’t mean I should be looking at him like… Nope . I shake my head, looking at his youngest son, Luke, who has his eyes closed, his features soft, somber. He’s been nothing but nice since our parents got married a couple of years ago. The same can’t be said for his older brother, Rhys, who is already staring at me when I move on to glance at him.

He captures my gaze over my mother’s casket, and his lips curl into a wicked smirk.

In the space of a heartbeat, Rhys steals the air from my lungs, and my lips part in a silent gasp. My brows knit, and I clench my jaw as I shoot him a glare from behind my sunglasses. Because even today, when we are burying my mother, Rhys has this inherent need to be a complete asshole for absolutely no reason. He knows exactly how to get to me, to get under my skin, and I hate it.

No, you hate that you don’t hate it, even when you know that you should.

I shove that voice away and force my gaze to focus on the flowers as one of Mom’s friends starts playing the violin to end the service. I close my eyes and swallow hard, using every ounce of strength I have left not to fall apart.