“My mother is innocent,” he said at last, belatedly remembering that he had to keep up appearances. There were ways to extract memories and show them to the authorities. While memories were rarely considered ultimate proof of one’s guilt or innocence, if there were enough of them accumulated, they could do a lot of damage, at least to one’s reputation.
Warrehn smiled grimly. “Don’t waste your breath. I know the truth. It’s only a matter of time before everyone else does—and you and your traitorous cunt of a mother end up where you belong.”
“Don’t talk about my mother that way.”
“What way?” Warrehn said, raising his eyebrows. “Since when is telling the truth offensive? She’s a cunt and a traitor. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got where she is by using her cunt, too. It’s not like she had much else to pay with for betraying us.”
Samir punched him hard telepathically, but the bastard didn’t even flinch, his mental shields like an impenetrable wall. It only infuriated Samir more. “Don’t you dare speak of my mother like that,” he hissed, breathing hard. His fingers were shaking so badly he had to curl them into fists. At moments like this, he wished he were good at hand-to-hand combat. He wanted to shut Warrehn up, but he didn’t know how. He’d never felt more powerless in his life.
“Or what?” Warrehn said with a sardonic glint in his eye. “You’ll have me murdered? Your cunt of a mother already tried that.”
Samir punched him in the jaw—or rather, he tried. A hand grabbed his wrist in a punishing grip, and then Warrehn shoved his arm against the door, pinning it to it, and loomed over him.
“You don’t get to play righteous indignation when you and your mother have built your lives on the bones of my family,” Warrehn said, his blue eyes steely, his breath brushing against Samir’s face. “She killed my parents. She killed my brother—a toddler. There’s no redemption for the likes of you. A ‘cunt’ is too kind a word for the likes of you.”
We had nothing to do with their deaths. That was what Samir should have said. But he was rendered speechless, unable to speak under the crushing weight of Warrehn’s hatred. He could feel that hatred with his skin: hot, relentless, and unstoppable. This man hated him. Truly hated him. Abhorred him. And nothing would ever change that, no matter what Samir said in his defense. In Warrehn’s eyes, Samir was as complicit in his family’s deaths as Dalatteya was, because he was the one who had benefited from them.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Samir said softly.
Warrehn shot him a disgusted look and, shoving him away, stalked out of the room.
Samir sagged against the wall and closed his eyes, still shivering and feeling like he’d just been run over by a large, unstoppable force. It felt strange to be hated, and hated with such intensity. People normally loved him. Not that they really knew him, but they loved him. He was used to being loved.
Being hated… it had shaken him to his core. He felt odd. Wrong-footed.
Like a different person entirely.
Chapter 3
“No, did you see that? The way that boy strutted around, like he owned the place?”
Samir said nothing, listlessly poking the food on his plate with his fork. He didn’t bother telling his mother that Warrehn did own the place. Technically, even the plate Samir was staring at belonged to Warrehn, not them. But he knew his mother wouldn’t listen. So he remained silent.
Ever since the encounter with Warrehn a few hours ago, he felt off-balance and shaken. Torn between fury and guilt. It was a horrible mix of emotions he couldn’t quite reconcile, Warrehn’s hateful blue eyes still at the forefront of his mind.
“What are you two still doing here?”
Samir flinched so badly he nearly fell off his chair. He lifted his gaze and found Warrehn in the doorway, surveying them with narrowed eyes.
“I beg your pardon?” Dalatteya said, stiffening in her seat.
“I told you to get out of my house.”
Swallowing, Samir glanced around the room. “Could you leave us, please?” he said, addressing the servants.
They bowed to him and left, not even glancing at Warrehn.
The latter watched the exchange with a dark look, his telepathic presence like a thundercloud.
“You’re making a mistake,” Samir said quietly, studying his own fingers before looking back at Warrehn. Holding his heavy gaze was difficult, but he refused to look away. “Servants talk. If you throw us out, it will look very bad for you. No one knows what to make of you. No one trusts you after you’ve been gone for nearly two decades. The fact that you’re consorting with the rebels the majority of the population massively distrusts doesn’t help, either. You’ll have a rebellion on your hands if you keep it up.”