CHAPTER THREE.     A Father's Wrath

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Content Warning: Spousal Abuse,
Reference to Child Abuse, Brief Drug Usage

            The sweltering heat left no comfortable pelt on the surviving. Josette's skin, typically alabaster and pearled, had become stained by a harsh coral. Tiny droplets of sweat seeped from her pores, dampening the nape of her neck that caused clumps of ginger to swirl against her flushed skin.

The new air conditioning units that her father had had installed during the cooler months made the summer much more bearable, but it'd cut out over in the evening, leaving a sticky aura throughout the residence.

Charles had berated companies over the telephone, urging for the issue to be fixed immediately. He'd clasped his office door shut as Josette had breezed by. His eyes had fallen on her for a single moment. A smile tugged at the ends of his lips, but it didn't quite meet his steely eyes. It never truly did.

Now, Josette was tugging her hair into a ponytail, eyes coasting over the water's edge, and occasionally toward the groundskeeper—as they do often did. He resides along the outer workings of the patio, his arms left exposed and white t-shirt drenched in pools of sweat, clinging to the moldings of his abdominal muscles.

She spares the man another glance, vying for his attention with pursed lips. She gives her neck another turn, her eyes landing on the speckled space along her thighs where her fingers were free to fumble. She began to tear at the skin along the outer edges of her fingernails, pulling and pulling but making sure it wasn't enough to draw even a trickle of blood.

She'd always been the timorous type, but Mr. Jack Shepard made the feeling much more unbearable.

She just wanted him to look at her. Just once, and she'd be satisfied.

She thought she'd seen it only once before. A trick of her lovesick mind, perhaps. Men like him paid no mind to women like her. Of that fact, she was certain.

But that harsh reality made her stomach queasy, and her heart ache considerably.

All of a sudden, she felt a rush against her backside. The sensation crawled up her spine, littering stipples of goosebumps along the nape of her neck. An excitement floods through her bloodstream. She snaps her neck in his direction, and it was then, that she had finally achieved what she'd been hungering for.

His hands clutch the handle of his shovel, his knuckles whitening from the bare pressures of his strength. His lips form into what Josette wouldn't consider a frown, nor a smile. But as their eyes lingered, she watched them part ever so slightly.

Her heart thundered against her ribcage now, like never before. It was an unsteady rhythm that drew her hands to her chest. She didn't quite settle there, though, instead climbing until she was able to clutch the gold, dainty cross dangling from her flushed neck.

After another fleeting moment, Jack granted her a downward nod. In return, Josette offered him a pleasant smile. At least she'd hoped it was, she couldn't be sure considering how her nerves were racing so madly.

She removed her eyes from his first, though it took considerable amounts of effort, and allowed her smile to widen into a full-fledged grin when her face was absent from sightline. She tightened her grip on her talisman, stifled a giggle, and leapt to her feet.

Jack watched her go, his grip loosening on his spade the farther away she wandered, and when she had fully evaded his line of sight, he exhaled a breath of air. His lungs had been ablaze throughout the entire interaction, as futile as it seemed, or maybe it had been another organ.

His heart, perhaps?

There was an essence of burning candle wax and Beef Wellington churning about the air. It wasn't a traditional American dish that the Chevaliers typically indulged in, but Charles urged the chefs to make a meal Killian would be more accustomed to, having been in the States and away from his place of origin for such an extensive period.

Charles had only been made aware by making a call to Killian's publishing house, Paperweight Press. Luckily, he was well acquainted with the CEO, Romney Cecil.

Killian had been in America since he'd signed with the company, his ordeals keeping him rather confined to the U.S. until he was set to travel worldwide during his upcoming book tour, for which he hadn't even written a proper novel for.

It was why he was at the Chevalier manor to begin with. Under false pretenses, indeed. His presence there hadn't been for the purpose of writing an informational article about the ménage, it had been for research purposes only. He'd ascertained his fair share about the clan, and had pinned his hopes on gaining some insight into the inner workings of one of America's most prominent families.

Build a fictional framework around certain aspects of their party of four, concoct a mysterious edge to it possibly, though—he was realizing—the Chevaliers were a complex, clandestine family of many conundrums.

Maybe the novel wouldn't be as difficult to construct as he had anticipated, if he had so much actuality to work with.

He was a bit delayed to dinner, having been holed up in his room with his ink pen boring into wood pulp.

When he finally cut the corner and stepped into the dining area, all eyes—even the ones belonging to the help—fell upon him like a cloak. All save for one particular set.

Cassidy was absent from the dinner table, the most peculiar of the bunch, Killian believed.

Killian adjusts the neckline of his dress shirt, a brown, pinstripe number that he left unclasped, leaving his collarbones rather exposed. When Delilah's eyes fall upon him, a flush ruptures along the sides of her neck at the lack of coverage. She settles them elsewhere, her finger inching toward the stem of her wine glass.

Charles' fingers grip her thigh beneath the table. It had been a warning and nothing else. She'd prayed for his touch to become something gentler, hoping that with time he'd become more . . . content.

A woman's dreams were unattainable though. Delilah knew as much, but it didn't sway her from peering up at the starlit sky from time to time and uttering that small wish.

Josette straightens her back and greets Killian with a smile, her eyes twinkling. Killian returns the gesture and then issues a nod toward Charles, "Evening."

Before Charles could part his lips, footfall echoes in from the hallway. Cassidy emerges from the set of grandiose, cherry wood crafted doors with a solemn look adorning his features.

The wool sport coat enveloping his torso is tugged inwardly. Cassidy attaches the patterned canvases together, an effort to eschew his father's watchful, and downright God-fearing, eye.

            Killian's eyes dart away from Cassidy as he seats himself in front of him. The toe of Cassidy's loafers knock against his beneath the table. Killian's eyes lift briefly, expecting a word of apology that never comes. Cassidy's eyes instead shuffle amongst the table, a smirk sprouting at the ends of his lips.

            Charles forces a smile, his back straightening. Josette intakes a sharp breath of preparation, while Delilah slips a little white pill between her lips, followed by a gulp of wine.

            "Nice of you to finally join us, Cass." Charles practically bites.

            Cassidy finally concedes, settling his eyes on his father. With a smirk still etched into his skin, he replies coolly, "Apologies, Father. I misinterpreted the time it'd take to reach and return from Halley's Point."

            As the dishes begin to flutter out, being served by arid faces with precise fingertips, Charles' jaw tightens considerably. The women surrounding the table issue their eyes toward their plates, while Killian's remain trained on the interaction between a true father and son.

            "You and that damn boat," Charles mutters, his tone laced in both contempt and faux amusement. "Sometimes it feels as though you mind it more than family."

            Charles slices his knife through his entrée with considerable force. Cassidy makes no effort to seize his cutlery, remaining facetious in nature, with his boyishly lopsided smirk spread across his face.

            Killian notes Josette's left arm reaching beneath the table, no doubt to clutch her sibling's hand in hushed solidarity, or possibly a quiet warning.

            "Maybe it is because I do," Cassidy declares.

            "Don't be so flippant, son. We have a guest of honor." Charles barks back, no longer a prisoner to his polite facade.

            Now, Cassidy's eyes volley toward the sojourner. His eyes are a striking mixture of cobalt and stone, Killian determines for the second time that day. A steely, defiant shade. But as they remain on Killian for another passing moment, the hue seems to lighten. Whether it was a direct result against the grain of the overhead lights, Killian could not be for certain.

            Inwardly, something blooms within Cassidy's chest, forcing his eyes toward the dreadful wallpaper lining the dining hall. In truth, he could not bear the weight of the writer's gaze.

           "We are expected to carry on as normal, are we not, Father? As if he's not lingering about? It is in our best interest to be honest, to—"

            There's a shrill clatter of metal against metal as Charles relinquishes his cutlery onto his plate with much potency. The sound forces a tenseness to expand within Cassidy's shoulders.

            He had taken it too far.

            He'd surely pay the price in the private confines of his father's study.

            "Apologize." his father demands.

            Cassidy shrinks within the confines of his tawny and freckled skin, cowering in the priceless wooden seat, much like a little boy would when faced with such austerity. Charles' stern voice is the thundering sort, the type to cause the house to erupt in shivers, as well as everyone inside of it.

            The fear drains from Cassidy's features, adopting a rather embarrassing aura instead. He presses his eyes shut for a moment, then reopens and lifts them to meet Killian's watchful ones.

            "Apologies, Mr. Alcott for my impudence. I am merely wearied from my sea travels." he excuses, against his father's better judgement, but the man remains tight-lipped nevertheless, surely satisfied enough to proceed as normal.

            Punishment would still grace Cassidy. He could not avoid his father's wrath even if he tried his damndest.

            A smile tugs at the ends of Killian's lips, it's soft and steady, reassuring even. "No apologies necessary, Mr. Chevalier—"

            "Cassidy is just fine." Cassidy interrupts with a borderline scoff. Charles tightens his jaw once more, but returns to slicing his meal. Josette grips Cassidy's hand beneath the table, tighter than before, but comfortingly. Delilah is no longer aware of anything.

            "Cassidy," Killian corrects. "We're all entitled to our comforts. Sailing seems to be yours, yes?"

            Cassidy relaxes against the bannister back and with a nod confirms, "Yes. Very much so." Josette's hand falls away with an easy smile as she embarks on her dish.

            "My father was an avid sailor," Killian divulges. He transfers his eyes toward his steaming Beef Wellington and indulges, bite by bite. In between swallows, he proceeds, "Unfortunately I was birthed with a sour stomach."

            "There are remedies for that, Mr. Alcott."

            "Please," Killian answers with an almost offensive tone, "Call me Killian."

            Cassidy swallows harshly. He lowers his head toward his own plate, his fingers extending outward to finally retrieve his cutlery. Once within his grasp, his lips widen. It's still not quite a smile, but Killian appreciates the sight of it no less. Josette, as well.

            It's as if were just the pair of them seated at the table now. Cassidy prepares his lips for the taste of his name, "Killian, yes, of course."

            And it is then, that Charles intrudes and the interaction perishes. But the half-smile on Cassidy's lips remain.

            It is the first time Cassidy feels worthy of punishment, given it warranted him such an inward comfort by a man such as Killian Alcott.