A pair of emerald eyes lock onto mine, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense. My stomach lurches as if I’ve stepped off a ledge, caught in a weightless free fall before recognition slams me to the ground.

It’s him.

Landon’s father.

My father.

I look nothing like him, but I can’t help searching for a trace of resemblance. The cheekbones are wrong, and so is his mouth, but still…

Something’s there.

A pull deep in my marrow.

Familiarity without logic.

He returns my scrutiny, his dark brows dipping, and I know what he’s seeing.

My mother.

Because I’m a replica of her. Same flaxen hair and brown eyes, though I used to believe that part of my genes came from Edwin Van Buren, whose lineage was chock full of brown-eyed ancestors. But my mother’s secret journal made it clear—Franklin Astor is responsible for my existence.

The connection shatters when Mr. Stone shoves through the crowd. “What’s the holdup?” He pins me with an indigo glare before turning to Pax. “This girl has been a problem since the day she arrived.”

I’m the lone female here, but I’m the problem? Every instinct in my bones tells me to fight, to hurl my own anger back at him, chin held high.

It’s what he deserves.

Before I’m able to launch a verbal attack, my father’s voice cuts through the standoff. “This should be handled in the council chamber.”

It’s not a suggestion.

The words land like a challenge, and Mr. Stone’s nostrils flare, his glare snapping to the other man. “Are you afraid she won’t survive a little discipline?”

“You don’t get to make this decision on your own.”

Silence.

I wait for Mr. Stone to argue, but he smashes his lips together. Five seconds ago, he was ready to rip into me, laying out every grievance in front of the Brotherhood, but now he’s swallowing his anger?

I’m not the only one who notices.

Landon studies our father too long, expression unreadable except for the slant of one brow, betraying a trace of doubt.

Why did Mr. Stone back down? It’s not his style.

“Astor’s right,” Mr. Castle interrupts. “We need to move this summons to the proper place.” He levels Pax with a disapproving look. “I’ll let you lead the way, since you’re so eager.”

The dungeon’s keeper strides ahead of the group as Oliver moves in beside me, one hand at the small of my back. He guides me down the narrow passageway, and the others fall in line behind us, their footsteps thudding against the rustic plank flooring.

A massive door looms ahead, carved from wood, its sheer size a testament to the power behind it. Pax swings it open on heavy hinges, and a hush descends on the group.