Lucifer's Bride [Complete]

40

My mother stares at me in shock for an instant, her eyes flicking fearfully to Lucifer. "But I..."

"Mother, please get up." My tone is cold, but not emotionless.

She nods quickly and rises to her feet, brushing the dirt and soot from the rags she's been dressed in and squaring her shoulders. Her eyes meet mine and stare coldly. Two sets of eyes - emerald green and hazel - are squaring off.

"Alright," I sigh. "Let's get you out of those rags properly dressed."

Both my mother and Lucifer stare at me, stunned. They've both expected me to go thermonuclear on mom and tear her to pieces. Instead, I do the opposite and act rationally.

I turn to my husband, giving him my patented exhausted look. "She's my mom. Hell yes, she's fucked up, but I'm not going to treat her like an animal. I can't use and abuse her just because she screw me over. I was raised better than that." I can't help taking the shot. It might rattle my mother's cage enough that she'll shape up a bit.

My mother's eyes narrow an inch, a dead giveaway that she's gearing up for a fight. "Your father raised you to be sweet and gentle, Amelia. He never taught you how to protect yourself or go after what you wanted. I taught you that. All you ever learned from him was how to pitch."

Damn straight.

My mother, for once, is telling the truth. She taught me the art of manipulating people and fooling boys to get what I want. As if I really needed help there -- mom once remarked that my chest could convince a gay man to sleep with me. My father, on the other hand, taught me how to fix a flat tire, wield a drill and pitch a ball fast enough that I was recruited onto the boy's baseball team in high school.

Dad wins this one.

I clamp my mouth shut, fighting my instinct to spin around and tear her face off. The family joke is that my mother practically owns China since her ego is larger than the entire country, and she's just proved it here. She likes to think of herself as a hot-shot supermodel that can charm her way into anything. She's really an insecure little girl who tries to compensate for her faults by using others to get her way.

High school flashbacks, anyone? Tessa Helsten, you've met your match.

Thankfully, I'm used to my mother's blame game and easily avoid losing my temper. Instead, I take a cleansing breath and turn to face her. "You taught me how to win. Dad taught me how to survive. You lose this argument."

She wears a mask of annoyance, as if she's been slighted. "Amelia, I've taught you-"

I narrow my eyes and hold up my hand, silencing her. "This conversation ends here and now. I've been kind enough to respect you as my mother despite your constant manipulations of me, and I've offered to clothe you as a normal person instead of the servant that you are. But the more you run your mouth, the less kindness I may be inclined to show."

That right there, that was awesome.

At that moment, all three of us are stunned in our own separate ways. My mother is horrified that I've finally showed some spine and faced her head-on. Lucifer looks about ready to pick me up and start swinging me around because I managed to stand my ground. I'm excited because, for the first time since my marriage, I sounded like a queen.

My mother stares at me for a moment, the drops her head in defeat. I may be her daughter, but I am no longer the insecure push-over she remembers. She cannot barter me off or put me in as a replacement when she backs out of a deal any longer. I am her superior, and she is bound to follow my orders. The parent must now answer to the child.

Freud would have a field day with this.

Mom avoids making eye contact, instead staring at the floor like a guilty teenager who's just been caught sneaking out. I shake off our argument and walk over to armoire. I grip the twisting iron handles and throw the doors open, beginning my descent into the endless piles of clothing that awaits me inside.

My quest is almost an immediate failure. The racks are full of clothing meant for my frame, not my mother's. I'm about five-foot-seven, a slender size six and possess a chest that makes me very top-heavy. Mom's about three inches shorter than me, with wider hips, a generous chest like mine and far more junk in her trunk. Sharing clothing is impossible for us.

I pull out of the racks, exasperated. This isn't going to work. We'll have to find some way to have her clothing tailored to her frame instead of shoving her into my dresses.