Three to Get Ready (Hughes Book 3)

Three to Get Ready Skye Warren Table of Contents Title Page Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Epilogue About Midnight Dynasty About Skye Warren Copyright Prologue Geneva, many years ago The knock came a few minutes before six, a furtive rap of knuckles. Her sister would be first to the bottom of the stairs. She was always first. Geneva was second, but always on time. No one wanted to face dinner with her father when he was angry. But she had reached a very good part of her book, and so she kept reading a few more paragraphs. Another sentence. A final word. Each one dropped like a gem into her open palms. This was her way out of the house. She didn’t sneak out at night like Caroline or even dream about going to college. She existed in the pages of a book. She had another few minutes to spare, at least thirty seconds, when the roar of an engine at the front of the house caught her attention. She dropped the book and ran to the window to see her brother step out of an Aston Martin and toss his keys in his hand. Oh no. Every muscle in her body warned her not to go downstairs. Nothing good would happen. She had no choice. A quick glance at the clock showed the minute hand pointing almost to the top, the second tick, tick, ticking away around the full circle. A quick glance in the mirror showed that her hair had come undone from the plait she’d used earlier. Her father would definitely notice. Or maybe he wouldn’t now that Geoffrey was home. She sprinted downstairs following the curve of cold marble steps rather than the rasp of all of a sudden carpet and landed in her spot next to her sister. They both stood waiting outside the dining room where they could not enter until they had passed inspection. Already the sound of male voices arguing could be heard from Papa’s study. Apparently, Geoffrey had wasted no time in finding their father. She couldn’t make out the words, only the angry timbre. Her father’s commanding. Her brother’s arguing. It was enough to make the wood panels shiver around her. She glanced at Caroline, who was staring resolutely ahead. “Why did he come back?” her sister whispered. “The same reason he always comes back,” Geneva said. “Because he ran out of money.” Papa liked them to be very still, even though it was hard. Her leg wanted to jiggle. Her gaze wanted to wander. She wasn’t supposed to do that though. She was supposed to stand like a statue. Papa swept into the hallway, his heels hitting the marble hard, fists swinging at his sides. He usually frowned, but he wore an even deeper scowl. Geneva forced her face not to show anything. No fear. That would only make it worse. Benedict James Roosevelt III liked fear a little too much. She knew that was wrong, the same way she knew that gravity existed. Nothing she did was going to change it. The only thing she could do was learn how to use it. Her father always started with Caroline. She was two years older, but she didn’t think that was really why. He started with her sister because she was perfect. There wasn’t a strand of blonde hair out of place in her braid. Her shoes were extra shiny. Even so, he gave her a severe look. “What’s your name?” “Caroline May Roosevelt, sir.” “And what does that mean? Your grandmother’s name, on my side. A cousin, on the other side. Your last name. Well, that’s just something you borrowed from me, isn’t it?” Sometimes Papa did this. He asked questions that you aren’t supposed to answer. I never knew for sure when it’s happening, but Caroline always did. She looked straight ahead without speaking. It was the right answer. Father’s eyes glowed with approval. “You’re a sum of your parts, girl. Which means you have intelligence. Strength. Beauty.” “Yes, sir.” She didn’t say thank you, because he wasn’t complimenting her. Not really. He was complimenting himself. His gray eyes narrowed at Geneva, as if he could hear her thoughts. She quickly looked ahead again, at the tiny crack in the paint she often used to mark the time. It was interesting, that crack. Interesting that a fault could exist in her father’s perfect life. It made her wonder what would happen if someone were to put pressure on the crack. Would it break? “There are two parents,” he said. “Not one. Which means you have other qualities. Worse qualities. Such as? Would you care to tell me what they are, Caroline?” Her sister said nothing, even though it felt like this was a question that needed an answer. “I can,” Geneva said, to cover up the silence. Papa stepped in front of her, eyebrow raised. “Tell me.” “We’re weak,” she said, as if reciting a poem. “And romantic. And soft.” He stared at her for a long moment. He might backhand her. It felt like that kind of moment. Then suddenly he smiled. Or what passed for a smile on this man. A slight, almost cruel curve of his thin lips. “That’s right, Geneva.” She flushed under the approval, even though she shouldn’t care. Sometimes she hated her father, but she always loved him. She said the words that had been drilled into her. “We must push aside our baser natures in order to fulfill our role in the world.” His mouth formed a hard line again. “That’s right. Which includes keeping your hair neat and tidy.” He reached up to tug—hard—on her hair. She winced. His hand remained at her temple. He brushed his thumb over