King's Horses by Lana Sky

Author:Lana Sky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lana Sky

Chapter 8

Ronan leaves me alone on the floor of my room with an old shoebox. It must have contained one of his newer purchases for me—piles of which litter my room.

Brushing the emotion churning in my stomach aside, I wrench the lid off.

And my heart is assaulted for a second time.

The damn thing is filled to the brim with envelopes, each one heavy with its own unfathomable burden. Each one from Blake Lorenz—all of them but one. Ronan must have shuffled it into the mix without meaning to, a letter directed to all of us: the Hollingses. It’s from the lawyer who managed our trust, and bile seeps up my throat as I wrench it open and flip through the contents.

Dear God. It’s a summary of outstanding bills as well as a statement acknowledging the loss of the house and our assets. So, so much gone in just a few days. Because of me and my once-impending marriage to Daniel Ellingston. I let him ruin the Hollings name.

And the worst part?

I’m not even a goddamn Hollings.

My skin chills at the thought. I think it’s the first time I ever let myself admit it, even inside my head. I, Snowy Gale, am not a Hollings. After twenty-four years of brainwashing and striving to protect the family name, I’ve never felt hollower without that heritage than I ever felt in Papa’s shadow. Would Daniel have even wanted me if he knew who I really am? A half-Lloyd bastard, my mother’s dirty little secret?

Mulling over the answer isn’t worth the effort.

But it does give me one slim, pathetic, childish bit of hope at how I can help fix this mess for Ronan and Hunter. Clutching the letter to my chest, I hunt for a leather bag and shove the documents into it. After a moment’s hesitation, I stow Blake’s letters inside it as well. Then I enter the hallway, knowing I’m in for a fight when Ronan comes to block my path.

“Please,” he says, eyeing my bag, his expression strained. “I can’t take this.”

“I know. I’m sorry—”

“Are you? You want to know all the shit I’ve kept from you just to keep you from getting worse? The messages that bastard left for you? The police haven’t done a goddamn thing, and you just waltz out to dinner with the motherfucker?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Forget it.” His expression draws tight, closing against me.

All I can do is shake my head and push past him, knowing he won’t touch me. “I’ll make this right,” I swear as I fumble to get the door open. “I promise. I promise I will.”

He lets me go, but I know better than to leave through the main entrance. I slip out through a side door instead and walk the entire way to the James Baylor law offices uptown. Inside the lobby, a receptionist wrinkles her mouth at my outfit. She directs me without comment, and I enter an office at the very back of the building, where James Baylor himself is seated behind a mahogany desk.

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