𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬¹ ✓

Eight

Memory {noun} - something remembered from the past; a recollection.

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𝓕𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 felt colder than usual as she stood outside the house. A light was on which meant Peter was home.

She and Peter would be living in their safe space under her father's order and as happy as she felt, something felt odd.

Her father kept this house out of reach from them growing up for a reason, so why give it to them?

She swatted the thoughts away, twisting the key on the lock, walking into the warmth alongside the smell of something delicious.

"Glad to see your back sis." Peter's voice rang through the house as she walked closer.

"You're... cooking?" Never did she think she'd see the day. "Don't say it like that. For your information, after you left there was no one to take care of me so I had to learn." She laughed at his sarcasm.

Growing up they took care of each other behind the watchful eyes of their father and his...business.

Caring for each other wasn't a choice. Wasn't something allowed.

Her father wanted them to treat each other as competitors, so, in his view and in the view of others, they were.

"We were adults by the time I left. You should've learned how to cook before that." She laughed as she poured herself some glass.

"An adult?" He looked at her with a raised brow. "I was nothing but a young boy of twenty-two. A child." He said dramatically making her laugh.

"And I nothing but a young knocked-up girl of twenty-four. A child. Teen pregnancy if you will." She joked along making him roll his eyes. "How are those demon spawns that stole my sister by the way? You call them yet?" He asked as he checked the lasagna he had in the oven.

She shook her head. "Not yet, it's probably like five in the morning over there so I'll call before going to bed." Peter nodded, understanding.

They stayed quiet, a comfortable silence they had never experienced before.

Even when they lay in their room as children, it was never peaceful. Father loved to test them in their sleep.

He always loved the sense of urgency. Always justified himself saying that an attack can happen whenever.

"Why did father give us this house?" She finally spoke. Peter sighed, "I don't know. I can't tell whether father hated or loved this place growing up but he really didn't want us in here." He responded.

"The old man's going to be out of town with Monica for a few days which means he's giving us the chance to run ship however we want." She mentioned as Peter pulled out the lasagna, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked at his work.

"His dementia is getting worse and he knows it. Theo and I are betting big on his moving the coronation up. I mean, the only reason Monica's alive is that he can't fucking remember half of the time he's been with her." Peter had a point.

Father was a pump-and-dump kind of man.

"I almost killed her today." Peter laughed. "I know, Theo told me. The guy was scared shitless when you put out your cigarette on her. I mean, hell Liv! You killed a man today without father screaming in your ear to do it!" Peter said loudly as he laughed, almost as deranged as she.