Page 32 of Twisted Love

Her gaze lingers on the portrait as though she’s trying to make sense of it, to find something polite to say about the woman staring back at her from the golden throne. I watch her intently, savoring the discomfort that radiates from her like heat from a flame.

Finally, she speaks, her voice soft and neutral. “It’s an interesting painting.”

“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?”

She tears her eyes away from the painting and looks at me. There’s no anger in her gaze, no defiance—just exhaustion, like she’s too tired to fight. “What do you want me to say, Earl? That I hate it? That I very clearly get your message with it? Would that make you happy?”

I lean back in my chair, studying her. “I just thought you’d appreciate the artistry,” I say coolly. “I had it commissioned specially for you. To capture the essence of who you are.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she might explode. Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods.

“Well, thank you for going to such trouble. It’s nice of you. It’s … unforgettable.”

One thing I can’t take from her mockery. I didn’t marry her for that. I rise from my seat and move closer to the painting. “Unforgettable,” I repeat, tasting the word. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

She looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the piano stool. “Why?” she asks quietly, almost to herself. “Why did you do it?”

The question hangs in the air between us, unanswered. I know why I did it. To remind her—and myself—that I’m the one in control now. That she doesn’t get to rewrite the past or pretend it didn’t happen. No matter how much she smiles, how pitiful she looks, or how much she wants to move forward and forget the past, I’ll always be here to drag her back.

I refill my glass again and swirl the amber liquid gently. I don’t want to spend any more time with her tonight. I want to be alone. To drown in the quiet and let the storm outside mirror the one inside me.

“It’s late,” I say, my tone dismissive. “You should get to bed.”

She shakes her head in defeat and without another word, she rises and heads for the door. I watch her go, the faint scent of rain clinging to her as she moves. The outline of her silhouette against the dim light of the hallway makes something twist deep inside me—something I wish I didn’t feel.

The door clicks shut behind her, and for a long while, I just stand there, staring at the empty space where she had been. Then I turn back to the painting, my gaze locking onto those cold, unrecognizable eyes.

Unforgettable. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. But that creature is a lie. That is not her. Even I know it.

I stare out of the window and can’t stop thinking about her. How wet she was from the rain, her clothes clinging to her curves, the way her hair dripped in dark rivulets down her back.

The liquor burns through me, igniting a fire I can’t extinguish. It fuels a raw, untamed need—an aching desperation to silence my thoughts the only way I know how. I need her. I need to lose myself in her. To drown in her until there’s nothing left of this restless, raging heat. I need to fuck her. Hard.

Before I know it, I’m on my feet. My steps are quick and decisive. I catch up to her just as she reaches the top of the stairs. Her hand is on the banister, and she’s mid-turn when I grab her arm and tug her toward me.

“Earl!” she exclaims, startled, her voice a mix of confusion and astonishment. “What are you?—?”

“Come on,” I cut her off, my tone rough and uncaring. I don’t give her a chance to argue as I pull her along, her footsteps stumbling slightly to keep up with mine.

“Ow,” she mutters, her tone sharp. Her free hand goes to my wrist, trying to ease my grip, but I don’t let go. I can’t. My pulse is pounding too hard, and the feel of her skin against mine only stokes the fire.

I lead her straight to my bedroom, the door swinging shut behind us with a finality that makes the air in the room feel heavier. She looks at me, her brows furrowed, her lips parting as if to speak, but I don’t give her the chance.

“Strip,” I say, my voice low, roughened by desire and whiskey.

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But I don’t wait to see if she’ll obey. I reach for my own shirt, tugging it over my head in one swift motion. The fabric falls to the floor, followed quickly by the rest of my clothes, each piece stripped away with a sense of urgency I can’t control.

I turn toward the bathroom, my hands pushing the door open. “Don’t make me wait,” I call over my shoulder, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “You’ll be sorry if you do.”

The water runs cold at first, biting against my skin and making me shiver as I step under the spray. Gradually, it warms, the heat seeping into my muscles. It feels good—too good—but it doesn’t quell the fire burning inside me. The anticipation is a steady thrum in my veins, an ache that no amount of steam or scalding heat can erase.

I stand there for a few minutes, letting the water cascade over me, my head tilted forward, eyes closed, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of the droplets against my shoulders. I’m burning. Burning for her.

Then I feel it—a cold burst of air sweeping in as the bathroom door opens. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s entered. The sound of the door clicking shut behind her sends a shiver down my spine, though the heat of the water keeps my skin aflame. The anticipation is unbearable.

When I finally turn, the sight of her hits me like a physical force. She stands just a few feet away, her damp hair falling in dark waves around her face, completely naked.

In the yellow light of the bathroom, her skin glistens still with droplets of rain. She’s breathtaking—every inch of her. On her pert, high breasts, her nipples have hardened into delicious peaks, their soft pink hue practically begging for my touch. My gaze travels down, over the elegant curve of her slender arms and the taut lines of her toned stomach, down to the gentle flare of her hips.

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