“You did make a choice.”

“And now I’m making another one,” she shot back, her eyes lowered submissively but her voice determined. “I’m not going to do it. I don’t want to run Cincinnati’s underground, and I won’t.” She took a deep breath, her eyes rising to his. “I can’t tell if I like something anymore because I like it or because Piscary likes it. Dad, will you talk to him for me?”

My eyes widened at her pleading tone. The only time I had heard it before was when she thought she was dead and was begging me to keep her safe. My jaw clenched as I remembered. God, that had been awful. When I looked up at his continued silence, I was startled to find Ivy’s dad watching me. His lips were pressed tight and his gaze was angry, as if this was my fault.

“You’re his scion,” he said, his eyes accusingly on mine. “Stop shirking your duties.”

Ivy’s nostrils flared. I really didn’t want to be here, but if I moved, I would only draw attention to myself. “I made a mistake,” she said angrily. “And I’m willing to pay the cost to get out of it, but he’s going to start hurting people to make me do what he wants. That’s not fair.”

He made a scoffing laugh and rose. “Did you expect anything different? He’s going to use everything and everyone he can to manipulate you. He’s a master vampire.” Putting his hands on the table, he leaned toward Ivy. “It’s what they do.”

Cold, I sent my gaze down to the river below. It didn’t matter if Piscary was in jail or not. All he had to do was say the word, and his minions would not only bring Ivy in line but get me out of his hair as well. Expensive, but effective.

But Ivy pulled her head up, shaking it in reassurance before turning her damp eyes to her father. “Dad, he said he’s going to start calling on Erica.”

The man’s face went ashen to make the small fever scars stand out starkly. Relief that Piscary wasn’t targeting me flashed through me, then guilt that I could feel such a thing. “I’ll talk to him,” he whispered, the worry in his voice for his innocent, so-alive daughter clear.

I felt sick. In their conversation were the dark, ugly shadows of the hidden pacts older children made to each other to protect a younger, innocent sibling from an abusive parent. The feeling solidified when her dad repeated softly, “I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you.”

All of us seemed to draw away in an uncomfortable silence. It was time to go. Ivy stood first, quickly followed by me. I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. Ivy’s dad rose slowly, seeming twice as tired as when we came in. “Ivy,” he said as he came close. “I’m proud of you. I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but I’m proud of you.”