Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Any man with a gun could put down a wild animal and have its head mounted on the wall. Only us Van der Horns decorate our home with the skulls of our enemies. They sit under glass domes like biological specimens or exclusive taxidermy.
I often sit in the leather chair in the corner behind the billiards table and contemplate the trophies my father collected. One of the skulls has a crack running along the entire side, as well as an indentation in the cheekbone, and lacks several teeth. It belonged to an assassin meant to eliminate my grandfather. But he got caught, became prey during the hunt, and put up violent resistance. My father had to beat the bastard to death with the stock of his crossbow, once he was out of ammo.
It’s my favorite trophy in the whole collection.
I exhale, focusing on the smell of the wood polish used here before the family’s arrival for Christmas. It has the faint aroma of lemon, but the other note I sense is eerily similar to formaldehyde. Too bad that without windows, more time needs to pass before the unpleasant odor fades.
“Do you have a main target for the hunt?” I hear Killian ask my cousin Damen from the billiard’s table where they’ve laid out the photos of all eleven men sentenced to death by the Van der Horn judge and jury.
I let my gaze glide over Killian’s green hair, the cozy black sweater with a reindeer in a pentagram, the nose ring, and note how close he’s standing to his husband. I played the violin at their wedding last year and yet I still can’t believe that it took place at all. Damen is the second son of our family’s head, Karl van Der Horn, and despite the drama that unfolded because of his choice to reveal his sexuality, he’s not only allowed to take part in the hunt, but also accepted, along with Killian, in this sacred space.
My whole life is built on not just thinking— but knowing—that a Van der Horn man cannot be gay. It’s tradition that to take part in the Christmas hunt one needs to be married. And last year, Damen spat in the face of all that, brought home a husband, and stomped all over tradition.
I resent it as much as I admire it.
Coming out was not something I ever considered. Even in my rebellious teenage phase, the plan was to do my thing on the side and never marry. It’s a scary part of me. A part no one taught me to handle. Despite there now being an out gay couple at the top of the Van der Horn food chain, I don’t want to step out from the safety of my closet. So much change is at stake I don’t want to deal with any of the implications. Especially since I’m not planning to date.
And yet here I am, watching my handsome cousin whisper to his husband in French as he points something out and strokes the back of Killian’s head. Would I ever even desire to share this kind of familiarity with another person? Probably not.
While Damen is family, I’m not blind, so I can assess that he’s extremely attractive. The man is like a dark prince from a gothic romance novel with his gently waved hair, long eyelashes, and beauty spots scattered over his face like a constellation of stars over a cloudless sky. He is the kind of person I should be interested in. Elegant, refined, a skilled horse rider, a man with good taste, and someone who matches my wealth and education. If I met someone like that, someone appropriate, maybe I could bring him over without defining the specifics of our relationship? This way, I could have something without stirring the pot the way Damen did.
Schrödinger's boyfriend.
But as I rise from my armchair, the pleasant ache in my body reminds me that I felt truly free under a man who possesses none of those qualities. I approach the billiards table just to get one more glimpse of Dalton, since his face must feature among the photos of today’s prey.
I stir the iced whisky in the glass I cradle to my chest. I’ve opted for a black turtleneck under my suit jacket today to obscure the proof of what I did yesterday. I might sleep in it too, to hide the truth from everyone, including myself.
“That one’s hot,” Killian says, biting his lip. I don’t need to see the photos to know he’s talking about my single-use lover.
My mother, who’s perching on the corner of the table in a red and -green sweater dress showing off her curves, leans over to tap her long nail against Dalton’s face. “Oh, you’re right. You boys always have such good taste!”
I don’t know if she means Killian and Damen specifically or the vague gays, but I clear my throat, annoyed that even this conversation reminds me of last night.