Page 58 of Twisted Princess

See? That’s not so hard. Now just make those words come out of your mouth.

“Mel, it’s fine,” Gleb says softly, his voice low and calm. But somehow, it seems to hold a razor’s edge. And he doesn’t reach across the distance to take my hand—which is what I want him to do more than anything. “It doesn’t matter who her father is,” he assures me.

Tears spring to my eyes because I don’t know how he can say that.

Shouldn’t it matter?

“I know you have a past,” he continues, and his palm fists between us—like a physical manifestation of the grasp required to maintain control of his emotions. That hard edge overcomes his smooth voice, confirming this is not a subject he wants to discuss. “What’s in the past should stay there,” he rasps. “I would rather not know how many men you’ve slept with—or which one is the father of your child.”

A punch to the gut would have been kinder.

I feel as if the wind’s been knocked from my lungs.

And I think I might have preferred to face the ferocity of his anger.

But this practiced calm, the masked distaste, blasts a hole through my chest. And it leaves me raw, diminished, filled with shame.

The pained smile that barely curls his lips cuts like barbed wire. Gleb reaches across the space between us to give my hand, what I’m sure is meant as a reassuring squeeze.

But the damage is done.

I’m mortified. Humiliated.

How many men does he think I’ve slept with?

His view of me hurts—far more than I could have anticipated.

And my confession dies on my lips, a tingling numbness rising in its wake. I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Not now. Not after knowing he thinks so little of me.

I can tell he doesn’t mean to insult me.

He’s working hard to keep the emotion from his face.

But while he seems determined not to judge me for having a past, he certainly sounds confident that I was willing to play a whore.

He’ll never believe I haven’t slept with anyone but him.

22

GLEB

Tears shimmer in Mel’s eyes, and her lips snap closed. Every line of her body tells me the weight of her confession is more than she can manage. And I can’t tell if my words brought her any relief at all.

But it was agony watching her flounder over what happened to her in Boston.

I had to do something. To put an end to her struggle.

I couldn’t bear the quiver in her voice any longer. To hear how hard it must be to admit. I don’t know if it’s shame, embarrassment, or guilt that wound her so tight. Or maybe she’s scared I’ll look at her differently afterward.

But I want her to know that it doesn’t matter—whatever it is she’s so anxious to confess.

Because I want to make a life with her regardless of who Gabby’s father is.

I squeeze Mel’s hand, willing her to know that, and find it clammy with fear. I hate knowing she’s still so scared to talk to me. And yet, this time, I can’t say I blame her.

Because I can’t conquer the ugly wave of jealousy that fills me whenever I think of her with another man. And I know she was with another man—at least one other. It’s a small consolation to realize it couldn’t have been Vincent Kelly. Since he intended to put Gabby up for adoption, it’s an easy assumption to make.

But based on how hard it is for Mel to talk about—how long it’s taken her to even broach the subject—I wouldn’t be surprised if the number she’s been with would drive me insane. She might not even know who the father is. That would be a reason she might not want to tell me.

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