Page 84 of Hateful Games

“Rose.”

Eyes still shiny from tears meet mine. “Don’t act like you care.”

We’re alone and I don’t need to pretend to care.

But self-preservation is the last thing on my mind when I’m around her.

“I don’t, but I also don’t condone grown men hitting women,” I reply calmly. “And I’m not letting you leave until you tell me exactly what happened.”

Realizing I won’t budge, she answers in a flat tone, “He’s upset about my wedding gown. It’s… black.”

That’s it? He hit her over this.

She whispers it so uncomfortably as if I’ll berate or react similarly too. Hell, I expect nothing less from her.

I grit my teeth and force my anger down to not storm inside and beat the shit out of her father for being a condescending prick. It’s been quite long since I punched someone really good, now that my days of boxing in underground rings are behind me.

It’s the only thing I miss from my college days.

“And just how often does he get pissed like this?”

She doesn’t miss the underlying question. That how many times he’s gotten upset and laid his hands on her.

I’m certain she won’t answer because neither of us lets our guards down and be vulnerable around each other. But then her voice drops to a whisper, “Often.”

I never thought I could think any less of Mihir Kapoor, turns out I can.

Cupping her chin gently and tilting her face to mine, I firmly tell her, “I never want to see you alone with him. If there is anything to discuss—” Though I’ll make certain there never is. “—you’ll have me by your side. Understand?”

“Why?” Her fire returns. “I’ve been handling him on my own for years just fine.”

“You have bruises on your arm, his fingerprints on your cheeks, and I saw you crying and hyperventilating a few fucking seconds ago, it’s the opposite of fine.”

“So, you want to protect me?” She huffs in disbelief. “It’s ironic coming from a man whose sole mission is to make my life miserable. You hurt me just as much as him. Worse, you actually gloat and rub it in my face.”

“I don’t hit you.” I’m affronted she’ll even put me in the same category as her scum of a father. “And I never will.”

“No. You’ll just verbally abuse me.”

“At least with me, it’s a fair fight. Can you say the same about him?” Her mouth shuts. Studying her intently, I make a wager. “I bet your mother and sister don’t have a single clue about this, do they? Shall I go ask them?”

Panic strikes in her gaze. When I take a step back, she pulls at my suit jacket. “Don’t.”

“Then never let me see you alone with your father again.”

Her shoulders sag and I know it’s secretly from relief. “Okay.”

“As for the dress—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll buy a traditional red one so I don’t embarrass you.”

Without waiting for my answer, she tugs her arm out of my grip and disappears down the hall. I stare after her while inwardly cursing her father as if it’ll lessen the rage.

I could give two shits about the color of the dress she wears.

Superstitions are only as strong as you believe them to be.

Shaking my head, I remember the reason for coming here in the first place before Rosalie sidetracked me. It suddenly doesn’t matter because now I have another important agenda.

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