Unseen

Chapter 15

It rained for the funeral.

All her father's people came, of course. Even though Reynold had been nothing to them but the butt of the jokes they had known better than to voice too loudly. Yvette knew better than to think they were there for Reynold's sake. Or for her sake, either. No, it was just another opportunity for them to make their presence known. To deepen rivalries and cement alliances.

It was a game to them.

They all stood solemn-faced around the grave, in their dark suits and holding their dark umbrellas. But despite their serious air, they were playing a game. It just happened to be a game they took deathly seriously.

No one bothered to talk to Yvette, other than giving her their perfunctory condolences. It wasn't like her father's funeral, where she had been the bereaved daughter, and they had scored points with each other by being seen offering her their sympathy. She had a feeling they didn't know what to make of her anymore.

The only thing she could discern about their game this time was that they didn't bother playing it with her.

Not openly, at any rate. But she knew at least one of them was taking her seriously now. The one who had tried to have her killed. Out here in the rain-thick air, with trees stretching high above the small graveyard, she kept feeling the weight of hidden eyes on her. Her imagination, maybe—whenever she turned around, there was nobody looking at her.

But Reynold hadn't been shot by a figment of her imagination.

She had considered bringing two of her father's bodyguards with her today. But who knew whose pay they were in these days? In the end, she had decided she was safer going alone and watching her own back.

Or maybe she just didn't care anymore.

She watched from a short distance as a lanky man dropped in the first handful of dirt into the grave. He had Reynold's nose. Reynold's brother—he had introduced himself when he had first arrived. Yvette had never known Reynold had a brother. She had never imagined him having any family but her and her father.

All she had ever known about him was what he was to her.

She had never even asked.

Then it was her turn. She stepped forward, and felt the weight of the crowd's eyes on her. A crowd full of enemies. She couldn't be sure how many of them actively wanted her dead, but at least one of them did. And how many friends did she have in the crowd? Only one—the man in the coffin.

She bent and took a handful of wet, clumpy dirt in her hand. She let it fall. It clung to her skin, unwilling to let go. She shook it off in a vicious motion.

She looked away from the coffin before fresh tears could mingle with the rain. She stared out at the crowd, daring one of them to take the shot.

The shot didn't come.

It felt anticlimactic. It would have been the perfect moment. A fitting end. But instead of bleeding to death in the rain, she was standing here awkwardly by Reynold's grave, trying to figure out how to take her next breath.

She stepped back and wiped her hand on her black dress. She relished the way the mud smeared the luxurious velvet. Her father would have been furious.

She wished Violet were here.

Her only ally was her prisoner. How pathetic was that? She had a microchip like a dog, a shock collar like a dog. Yvette commanded her like a dog. Go, Violet. Kill.

She had thought she was treating Violet so well, giving her a soft bed and a cupboard full of sweets and a name of her own. But people named their dogs, too. They gave them beds. They gave them treats.