Page 88 of Pure Vengeance

I frown, disgusted. “I work hard to maintain my body, unlike you. Not all of us are just naturally lithe and good-looking.”

Noah smiles. “Thanks for the compliment.”

I flush and put my hands on my hips. “Dinner?”

“Fine, fine.” He sets his palette and brush down and stands up. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know, maybe turkey sandwiches.”

“And you really need me to make those?” He frowns. “You’re just wasting my time now.”

I smirk. “Hardly. We need to both eat. Mom said I must make sure you eat, so that’s what I’m doing.”

Noah walks past and downstairs to the kitchen with me following. I take out the turkey, and he gets the bread. I take out the mustard while he takes out mayo. He always has to be different.

I take out the butter and spread it on the bread. I hum to myself while I work.

“What song is that? It sounds familiar.” He looks up as lightning strikes, and a moment later, the power goes out.

“Great,” I mutter.

“At least we’re not cooking,” he says as he opens a drawer and pulls out a flashlight, turning it on.

“I’ll get the candles.”

“How romantic,” he coos, laughing.

I set out the candles and light them with a lighter I find in the drawer. I continue to make my sandwich. Noah makes his own. When we’re done, we clean up before we stand and eat our sandwiches since the only light is in the kitchen at the moment.

I wipe the counter down when we’re done and load our plates into the dishwasher. “Want a beer?” Noah asks.

“Those are Dad’s,” I comment.

“He won’t notice.” He hands me one and opens one for himself. He sips it and smiles. “Live a little.”

I sigh and open the beer, sipping it. It’s strong. We shouldn’t be drinking; I promised Mom we’d be responsible.

“So you’re really going to pledge to that other fraternity?” I ask. “After Dad specifically asked you not to?”

“He’s not my owner,” he says. “And neither are you.”

“I didn’t say I was your owner,” I reply, flustered. “I’m just saying there is a family tradition to uphold.”

“Tradition, schmadition.” Noah downs his beer and then tosses the can. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Not while living under Dad’s roof,” I point out, still sipping mine.

Noah approaches me slowly. “Oh really? And what’s he going to do? I’ve got a full-ride arts scholarship.”

“And I have a full-ride football scholarship. I’m still expected to follow his rules,” I say, backing up a little until I hit the counter.

Noah stands within a few inches of me and whispers, “Are you going to tell on me?”

I shake my head. He seems so dangerous. I swallow and lean back as he moves forward.

“You scared, Adrian?”

“No one calls me Adrian,” I say, annoyed.

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