Page 43 of Deviant

“I… um… saw that my father gave you a hard time earlier tonight. And, well… I guess I just wanted to apologize for anything that he might have said.” My sudden upbeat disposition disappears at the mention of her father.

“You don’t even know what he said,” I rebuke.

“No, but I have a good idea.”

The corners of my lips dip into a disgruntled scowl.

“Do you, now?”

She nods.

“He probably told you that your presence at town hall meetings isn’t warranted and that you should sit the next ones out.”

“Something along those lines,” I confirm, still pissed that the fucker would demand such a thing of me.

“I’m sorry. He had no right to ask that of you. You have as much right as anyone to attend any meeting you want.”

“Like father like daughter,” I accuse this time out loud, my blood starting to boil.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, confused.

“You fucking should be with that patronizing shit. Do you think I care what you think? I know my rights, Rowen. I don’t need Little Goody Two Shoes to explain them to me.”

“No, that’s not what I meant… that was never my intention.”

“Yeah, I know what your intentions are, so let me tell you, hell is full of people with good fucking intentions.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t mean to upset me?” I laugh out sinisterly. “Your very existence upsets me. Having to look at your face, fucking upsets me. You being here, in my home, un-fucking-invited upsets me.”

I breathe through my nose, trying to get a hold of my temper, as Rowen continues to stare at me with those big, doe eyes of hers.

Just as I’m about to tear her a new one, I decide to take a different approach instead—one that will wipe that innocent mask off her face and reveal her true colors once and for all.

“But, if you’re so worried about my feelings, I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me.”

“How?” she whispers.

“Come here,” I order.

“What?”

“You heard me. Come the fuck here,” I repeat more assertively.

She hesitates for a moment before reading the threat in my eyes.

Good.

It’s about time she knows who she’s messing with.

She takes baby steps toward me at a snail’s pace and stops halfway, unwilling to get too close for fear of what I might do.

She should be afraid.

“Closer.”

“I don’t understand—”

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