After finally escaping Rachel's iron grip—both metaphorically and literally—I was able to meet my family.
As much as I wanted to be annoyed at her for keeping me locked in the Creighton estate for a month, she had at least allowed them to visit while I was in a coma. So, small victories, I supposed.
The moment I stepped into the sitting room, my mother was on me.
"Arthur!"
She moved fast—faster than I thought a woman in heels should be able to—and wrapped me in a hug that was only slightly suffocating. Her warmth was familiar, grounding, but also held that distinct motherly pressure that warned me she would be scolding me later.
Behind her, my father stood with his arms crossed, giving me the look. The one that said, You're lucky you're alive, but we will be having a conversation.
And then there was Aria.
My one-year-younger sister, who had inherited all the worst parts of being the youngest child and none of the restraint.
