Page 45 of Widow's Walk

I lift one shoulder with a smirk. “It was challenging enough. At least to keep me entertained for a day.”

He’s quiet for a moment while he stares at me. “We’re invited to dinner tonight at your family’s estate.”

Right away, the mood shifts, and any pleasure I’ve had from this conversation quickly evaporates. “And it’s necessary for me to attend?” He doesn’t answer as he blankly stares back at me, and I huff in annoyance. “What time do I need to be ready?”

He glances down at his watch. “You have two hours to get yourself ready.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

It’s just past six o’clock as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup is dark, my lips painted a bloodied maroon. My hair is wild with a crimped style, and I wish I had more warning so I could have dumped some color on it. Purple or anything loud enough to make my father sneer with disdain. He’s always loathed whatever shade of rebellion I picked that month.

But it was better than the way he began looking at me once I had tits. That slow, slithering look that no father should give his daughter.

There’s no one pounding on my door, no mother waiting to lecture me about appearances, propriety, and the endless shame I’ve supposedly brought to the family name. She hated my so-called ‘gothic phase’, but all her nagging did was make me double down. So, I wore more makeup, more leather and fishnets, and made my hair brighter, wilder.

What started as a petty “fuck you” turned into armor. Then into comfort. A phase that is no longer a phase, and now a part of me.

Picking out my outfit for tonight, I felt torn for the first time. Part of me wanted to put on something that would have my family steaming in embarrassment and clenching in resentment. But then the other part of me, the part that I hate, wanted to wear something with Blackwell in mind.

Something that would have his hands itching at his sides. Something that would have that muscle in his jaw twitch. Something that would drag those dark, dangerous looks from him that tell me we’re about to combust together.

And I absolutely abhor it. I don’t do anything for anyone but myself. People are selfish and greedy by nature, primarily driven by self-interest. A harsh lesson I had to learn the even harder way.

So, I ended up compromising. Only because I wanted to, not having any outside influence.

A black, form-fitting leather skirt, high-waisted, ending at my calves, and a slit up to my thigh to give a tease, as well as showing off an inch of midriff. Pointed black stiletto boots come up to my knees, and a sheer high-necked top that covers my arms and shoulders, but shows off the black lacy bra underneath. Neither wholesome nor obscene.

Giving my wild hair one more fluff, I grab my black trench coat and head downstairs, making sure to be a couple minutes late just to get under my fiancé’s skin.

Though he seems to tolerate me more lately. Must have pulled that stick out of his ass.

As prophesied, Blackwell paces at the bottom of the stairs, looking at his watch and counting every second I make him wait. When he catches sight of me, he stops and freezes. Eyes raking over me with a heat that has my skin burning and my nipples hard against the fabric. I confidently hold his gaze and take the stairs as if I own the fucking world.

“Do you purposely arrive belatedly,” he drawls, voice low and threaded with irritation, “or are you really that careless?”

I give him a cloying smile. “Now, why would I purposely arrivebelatedly?” I respond cheekily and breeze past him to head out.

“To push my patience,” he mutters, appearing at my side.

I give him a shocked look in mock offense. “Me? Oh, come now, Blacky. You wound me.”

He beats me to the car door to open it for me like the gentleman he is not, all the while cursing under his breath. Guess he isn’t so tolerant of me yet.

I slide in, and he gives me a dry, unimpressed look before shutting me inside and circling the vehicle before joining me from the other side. His moves are smooth as he settles in, unbuttoning his jacket with a practiced flick of his fingers and then giving a sharp tug on the lapels. All the while, I can’t keep my eyes off his every move. How can I not? He’s so annoyinglysecure and alluring. From the way the veins pop out on the back of his hands as the muscles constrict, reminding me of how strong they are and how rough the pads of his fingers are against my skin.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I want him, or if I want tobehim.

I tear my eyes from him to stare out the window as the car pulls into motion with a vehicle in front of us and another behind us. “Where’s your father this time?” I ask, assuming he isn’t joining us again because I haven’t seen him. I wonder if it has anything to do with his heart condition I’m not supposed to know about.

“He’s in the vehicle in front of us, and my brothers are behind us,” he says with disinterest.

I snort. How pompous. The vehicles are lined in order of power and succession. “And your mother?”

“She won’t be coming.”

I look at his prominent profile. “Why does she get to skip this?” He refuses to answer me or even look my way. “So, is there a special reason we’re all being summoned fordinnertonight?” I turn my head again.

“Do you need a special reason to join your family for dinner?” His voice dips in that maddening neutrality.

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