The Alastair Affair 2: Sylvain (A Billionaire Dark Romance) Read online

  He did not want to hurt her.

  “Have you been eating enough?” Sylvain asked. He knew the true answer just from the look of her.

  “Oh yes!” she insisted. She took his hand. “Come, look. I’ll show you!”

  Sylvain let her lead him away.

  As she did, he could not stop his eyes from exploring the space they were in.

  Bianca had taken over their mother’s quarters after her death. She loved decorating, his sister did. Even now, the walls were adorned with rich fabrics. There were throws and pillows in neat piles all over the floor. The rugs were pristine and lined up next to each other perfectly.

  In fact, if you simply took a photo of the place, you would never know the owner had anything seriously wrong with her.

  But that is how diseases of the mind manifest.

  Sylvain’s nose told him the truth.

  “Here,” Bianca beamed. She gestured at an empty table. “See? Everything I’ve been eating. Just like you asked.”

  Sylvain hesitated. His sister could not be so far gone yet, could she? No… that was impossible. Their father had broken a piece of her. Sylvain did not think he’d yet broken her whole mind.

  “Bianca,” he said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

  She giggled. “Well, of course not, silly!” she told him. “I ate it all!”

  Sylvain held in a pained grimace.

  “Let’s go outside. Would you like to roam through the gardens with me, Bianca? We can talk… catch up… you can tell me how father’s been treating you.”

  In a flash his sister retreated. Her shoulders hunched up. Her eyes became haunted.

  In a distant, deliberate, automatic voice, she mimed, “Father’s treated me well. So, so well.”

  That constantly burning rage inside him threatened to consume him whole.

  He knew those words better than he knew the scars on his back. They were the ones his father made him repeat after every beating:

  “I treat you well, son. So, so well. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  Sylvain shuddered.

  So, the old man was still hurting her.

  “Give me your hand,” Sylvain said.

  His sister shrank back. “What? No!”

  “Your hand,” Sylvain insisted. “Give it to me.”

  His sister hid both of hers behind her back and shook her head vigorously.

  “YOUR HAND!” Sylvain roared. “NOW!”

  Bianca jumped. Sylvain hated resorting to a raised voice. But when she got stubborn, it was the only tactic that worked.

  Slowly, shakily, Bianca extended her left hand.

  Sylvain caught it. He held her wrist tight.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, little sister,” he said gently. “Okay?”

  She bobbed her head up and down.

  Sylvain stepped closer. He turned her hand upside down. “I simply,” he said, rolling her sleeve up, “want to see.”

  He had to only bring the sleeve halfway to her elbow to discover the deep, red, raw, self-inflicted scratch marks.

  “Oh Bianca,” Sylvain whispered. “What have they done to you?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They.”

  It was always “they,” with his sister.

  “They” were the demons that haunted her. “They” were the ones who hurt her. “They” were the demons who attacked her and left their mark.

  It started when she was just a little girl, this sort of compartmentalization. Sylvain was already studying at Oxford. His father had treated him cruelly, yes—but before that point, Sylvain never realized his sister was subject to the same treatment.

  He’d gone home one weekend at the end of term. His sister was still in primary school. She was just a child.

  He remembered how the entire weekend, she did not see him. She would not leave her room. It was only when he was departing that she came out.

  And he saw her poor, precious face, half-covered with an enormous bruise. He’d gasped and asked her what happened.

  His father had never beat him where others could see.

  “They did it,” she’d answered.

  Ever since, it’s been the same. It was her coping mechanism. Her mind could not reconcile the things being done to her—the things she now did to herself—were being done by those who she purportedly loved.

  And so the demons became a mainstay of her reality.

  **

  Sylvain led his sister by the hand down the large, curling staircase from the tower.

  It had taken him an hour and a half to coax her out of her room. When he had, he quickly commanded Leila to dart in and clean the place.

  The girl did as she was told.

  Sylvain held Bianca’s hand tight. Even now, he could feel her trembling. What prompted her to seek solitude? He wondered. What was it our father had done?

  Well. He would confront the man soon enough. His sister’s well-being was far more important for the moment.

  “Do you remember how we used to walk outside?” Sylvain asked. “Would you like to go there now?”

  Bianca made a face. “It’s icky out.”

  Sylvain very nearly sighed. He held it in at the last possible moment. Bianca had the vocabulary of a ten-year-old.

  In truth, he doubted her mind ever progressed past that age.

  He heard the rain and the wind howl against the castle. At least Bianca was right.

  “Oh!” she suddenly gasped. “Would you play for me, Sylvain? Would you, would you, would you?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. She meant the piano. “Yes,” he promised. “I will play for you, little sister. But I will need you to bathe first. Is that all right?”

  She held back for a moment, deep in thought… and then nodded.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sylvain waited by the open door as his sister washed herself in the warm bath.

  He had his arms crossed and was leaning against one wall. He was close by in case Bianca needed his help.

  He hoped she would not.

  But he knew now he could not leave the castle. Not after seeing how badly his sister had regressed. He wondered if she was seeing her old doctor. Probably not.

  That was one thing that would change soon.

  He heard her splashing around and dared a quick peek in. She was in the tub, facing away from him. Her hair was wet. Her back glistened with suds and water.

  Sylvain pulled his eyes away with a grimace. Her back… her back was nearly as badly maimed as his.

  But in her frailty, it looked much worse. You could see the ribs, see each protruding vertebra of her spine.

  She was sickly, pale, and thin. Getting her back to health would be a laborious undertaking.

  How long would it take to make her independent? Could she ever be independent?

  He loved his sister and knew that she loved him. Even so, would the process be worth it? Could he become her light at the end of the tunnel?

  Could he forsake himself to untold years in the castle, as her caretaker, as she healed? Could he isolate himself here, out in the far reaches of the country, so soon after becoming a free man?

  He shook his head. Of course he could. He could and he would.

  For her sake.

  Who else did Bianca have?

  He gave a mirthless chuckle. And anyway. After all. It wasn’t like there were many people out there awaiting the triumphant return of Sylvain Alastair. He could be the recluse for as long as needed.

  Only two things mattered, in his mind, right now: his sister’s health and his earlier promise to exact vengeance on those who’d betrayed him.

  But the two were not entirely mutually exclusive. Hadn’t he set it up so he could do everything from here? He could turn the castle into his command center. He had the base, deep underground, already. It was what he’d intended to do before he’d been put away.

  All the elements were here. The servers. The power generators. The solar panels. He could live en
tirely off the grid and slowly dip into his fortune. If he needed more—well, that came at the click of a mouse.

  He did not have to be anywhere else.

  But… in truth… a third matter weighed on him.

  Alicia.

  He could not get her out of his head. It was stupid. He was giving in to his emotions. Yet seeing her the other night opened up all his former passions. Passions he’d resolved to squash, and to—

  Movement at the other end of the hall caught his eye. He looked up.

  Leila was there.

  Their gazes crossed. For a second.

  Quickly, she looked away.

  “I just wanted to let you know that the rooms are done,” she said softly. She started to turn away.

  “Wait,” Sylvain called. He strode across the hall to her.

  She stood absolutely still.

  Something about her was different. She seemed more… reverent, somehow.

  “You live here with us, yes?” Sylvain asked.

  She had the grace to glance at her feet. She knew what he was really asking.

  “My room is right beside your father’s.”

  Sylvain took hold of her arm. She started to pull away… but then seemed to find the internal strength to look up and met his eyes.

  “I want you out of there,” he said. “Come to the heart of the castle. Make your room the one next to mine.”

  Her eyes flitted away for a second. She bit her lip.

  She’s nervous, Sylvain thought. And dammit, why did his heart start beating so fast with her up close?

  “Your father…” She began.

  “Is not the master here anymore,” Sylvain said firmly. “I am. You will bed in the room next to mine from now on. Understood?”

  She chewed on her lip… and finally nodded.

  Sylvain let her go. He’d heard Bianca getting out of the tub.

  “I’m going to spend the day with my sister,” he told Leila. “See that my father does not interfere.”

  Once more, Leila nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Very, very good.”

  He had a growing feeling that he liked taking command.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Here,” Bianca called lightly. “Play for me in here!”

  She’d tugged him all the way to the piano room the moment she’d gotten dressed. Sylvain had to admit, she looked lovely. With her hair still damp from the bath and fresh clothes on her body, you could almost overlook the forever-haunted look in her eyes.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He wondered if they’d ever be able to get rid of it.

  They stepped into the room. Bianca let him go and ran inside. She pulled the cover off the keys. Eagerly, she looked back at him.

  She sat on the bench and waved for him to come over.

  Sylvain smiled. He had not sat before a piano for many years.

  Would his fingers still know what to do? There was only one way to find out.

  He sat by Bianca. She was teeming with excitement.

  He wished he could share in her joy. But the piano reminded him of all those painful lessons inflicted upon him by his father.

  After all, he was the one who’d taught Sylvain.

  Despite that, Sylvain loved the music. He loved to play.

  He did not love the associations that came with it when he let his mind wander.

  He ran his fingers over the keys. He felt their ridges and their grooves.

  He positioned his hands in their proper place.

  A bolt of lightning briefly lit up the room. It was followed by a thunderclap.

  Bianca gasped and grabbed his arm.

  “Easy,” Sylvain murmured to her. “It’s just the weather. What would you like me to play?”

  She looked at him, her eyes more desperate than ever before. “Maybe some… Beethoven?” she asked meekly.

  Sylvian gave her a gracious smile.

  “Beethoven, I can do,” he said.

  He started to play.

  **

  Sylvain played and played and played and played. The notes came to him with the comfortable familiarity of an old lover. He fought the keys, at first, but it did not take him long to fall back on his training.

  On all the many lessons he’d endured, where the smallest error was cause for the most painful punishment.

  But even if that was how he’d been taught, the piano was soothing to him. The way the notes melted together in the air… the way they gave sound to his passions… the way his mind shut down when he played… all of it combined to make it almost a meditative experience.

  Soon he was completely consumed by the song. His body swayed with the melody. His muscles loosened and flowed on the rhythm of the music. Nothing existed but him, and the piano keys, and the sounds streaming through the air.

  In that, he could find refuge.

  He reached the end before he knew it. Then he sat there, chest heaving, mind empty, eyes staring.

  He basked in the afterglow.

  Finally, he turned his head and looked at his sister. She was equally entranced.

  “Thank you,” Sylvain said softly. He meant it. “Thank you, for asking me to play.”

  She beamed at him with the innocence possessed by only the very young.

  It filled Sylvain’s heart with both joy and sadness.

  A noise behind them made Sylvain whip around.

  There, in the entrance to the room, stood his father.

  Sylvain felt his sister tense beside him. Dammit, he’d given Leila explicit instructions…

  “So you’re back,” his father grated. He leaned on a cane. Sylvain had never seen that before. “Your butchering of the music ruined my sleep.”

  Sylvain refused to rise to the bait. He stood up. When Bianca tried to follow his lead, he motioned for her to remain seated.

  “I’ll talk to him alone,” he told her. “And then you and I can share the rest of the day.”

  “I’d like that very, very much,” she said.

  Sylvain smiled at her then turned back to their father.

  The man had aged badly. What little was left of his hair was all white. The lines on his face were deep. There were cataracts in both eyes.

  In the background, Sylvain saw Leila lingering. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

  But Sylvain had little patience for her.

  He approached his father. The other man’s shoulders remained resolutely pulled up. He and Sylvain used to be about equal height. Now, somehow, his father appeared shrunken.

  Sylvain felt little sympathy. His father had been directly responsible for many, many marks on his sister and him.

  “You play like you’ve never laid hands on a piano before,” the old man continued. “What happened to everything I taught you? Where did those lessons go? Wasted!”

  “Trust me, father,” Sylvain said. “The lessons remain.”

  His father grunted. Then he turned away. “Leila, get me my—”

  “No.” Sylvain cut him off. “You will not torment the poor girl any longer. We will give her whatever money she is owed by the employment contract, and then, she will be free to make her own choice whether to stay or go.”

  His father made a strangled sound in his throat. “Are you trying to wrestle command from me already? I will not stand for it! While I live, this is my home, and in my home, everybody lives by my rules!”

  He stamped his cane hard against the ground.

  Sylvain watched carefully but did not react. He’d never seen his father give way to his temper with a fit like that before.

  “Let’s go to your study,” Sylvain suggested. “You and I will have some privacy there.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Five years,” his father chuckled. “Five years. You come to me now, and you dare talk to me about five years? Five years is nothing! Five years passes in the blink of an eye!”

  Maybe for you, Sylvain thought. Instead, he said: “You’ve kept Bianca here with you the whole time.”


  “Aye, son, because in the castle, she is exactly where she needs to be.”

  “You took her away from the world.”

  His father barked a crude laugh. “You saw her, boy. You think she is fit for the world? You think she is fit to carry the name Alastair?”

  “So that’s what it comes down to. That’s what it’s always come down to, hasn’t it?”

  His father’s enormous pride.

  “We were a great family, once,” the old man began. “Strong and respected and revered. And now… look at us!” He cast his eyes on Sylvain. “You, unmarried and without children. Your sister, unfit for interaction with the world. What will become of us next? It is because of you, son, that the Alastair name will dwindle and perish.”

  “No,” Sylvain said. “It is because of you, father, that you have no heirs willing to carry it on.”

  “No heirs… yet,” the old man muttered. “There is still time.”

  Sylvain sneered. “Leila?” he asked. “The bloody maid?”

  “I’m doing my duty by the family name,” came the reply. “More than you have ever done with that whore Alicia of yours.”

  “Do NOT speak of her that way!” Sylvain roared.

  His father smiled. “Triggers, triggers,” he muttered softly.

  “You ruined the family name,” Sylvain said.

  “No,” his father countered darkly. “Not ruined. Never ruined. I made you who you are. And you are right…” he walked to the enormous window and peered out into the storm. “It is for my failure that you are as you are.”

  Sylvain could not contain his rage any longer. He was tired of being poked and prodded by the decrepit old man.

  “I am greater than you have ever been,” he said. “I would never raise an arm against my children—nor against my wife.”

  “No,” his father said softly. “That is what makes you weak. And now, look at you. You raise your voice against me.”

  Sylvain fell silent.

  His father chuckled.

  “You are much the same today as you have ever been, Sylvain,” he said after a long moment. The years away have not changed you. Do not let me tell you how I wished for you to come back redeemed. I would welcome you with open arms, as my true heir, as my eldest son, if only you could cast aside the shadows of your failure.”