Page 8 of Wild Side
Nausea hits me, but I get the sense that it’s not because of the water. It’s from whatever is about to come out of his mouth.
“I’m Milo’s legal guardian. It’s all here in writing. Signed.”
He holds the papers out as though they’re proof. As though he has some claim over my nephew. The oneI’vehelped raise for three years.
It’s a cruel joke. It has to be. This guy is toying with me. He’s got to be.
A rude scoff tumbles from my lips. “Get fucked.”
Rhys’s face remains impassive. He just stares at me, and his cool, unaffected demeanor does nothing but fire me up. I storm across the room in my rumpled T-shirt and second-day leggings to go toe-to-toe with him.
In a furious and immature moment, I kick my socked foot against his bare one like he did to wake me up.
But harder.
He doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head back and meets my eyes with his dark ones. They’re full of challenge. Hard like stone.
“Listen up, asshole. This is one sick fucking joke. You think this is funny? I’m devastated. I just lost my big sister, and you waltz in here to play inheritance games with me?” I rip the papers from his hand. The sound of the sheets crumpling is the only noise in the room besides my heavy breaths.
“Are you devastated, though? Seems quite the one-eighty.”
A pained moan lurches from my throat. The sound is like what you’d make after falling from a tree as a child. All the air knocked from your lungs when your bones thud against the hard ground.
The way his words land feels much the same.
“You don’t even know her.”
“Actually, I do.” His gaze bounces between my eyes, searching for a reaction. Like he’s hoping to hurt me.
Understanding dawns on me. “Were you… were you together? She never told me.” Then fury hits, knowing that he tossed her out. “You fucked her and then fucked her over?”
His brows furrow, and he appears offended. “We weren’t?—”
“You don’t know me.” I cut him off, too furious to listen to another word out of his shapely mouth. The thought that I once found him appealing only adds to my nausea. “You don’t know me at all. You clearly have no idea how close Erika and I were. Or the things I’ve done to keep my sister safe. The relationships I’ve tarnished to take her side. The debt I’ve put myself in to get her treatment. The sleep I’ve lost taking care of that little boy so that she could have some reprieve.”
I’m shaking from head to toe when I take the sheets of paper and toss them across the room. They float and scatter, but Rhys and I stay locked in on each other. “Ilovemy sister, and having to stand here and endure you implying otherwise is, quite frankly, almost worse than the pain of her death. Especially when it’syourfault. She wouldn’t have been out on the street getting back into that shit if you hadn’t evicted her.”
“I did?—”
“No. Shut up. That little boy? He’smine. He’s all I have left of her. So you can take your bullshit contract and fuck all the way off. Now get out. I never want to see you again.”
The tendon in Rhys’s jaw flexes, like I’ve pissed him off by relaying the truth. And when he stands, I don’t back down, even though the power dynamic has dramatically shifted. It’s hard to look imposing when you barely come up to a man’s sternum.
Especially one who exudes the type of raw power this one does.
But I don’t care. I stand my ground—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.
He steps around me, but he’s too broad to avoid contact altogether. His upper arm brushes against my shoulder, and a shiver races down my spine. I tell myself the reaction is utter revulsion. Because being attracted to him would be the ultimate betrayal.
He pads away with stiff movements, head held high, and my eyes wander over his body. His muscular frame shows not a single sign of guilt as he slides his feet into a pair of plain black Vans.
“You still need to read the papers, Tabitha,” is what he tosses over his shoulder before leaving.
The minute the door clicks shut, I rush to the pieces of paper and sink to the floor with them. I gather them up, and my eyes race over the lines. Blue ink in the exact shape of my sister’s signature flows across a simple, but final, black stripe. I run the pads of my fingers over the indent there, reveling in the connection. Knowing she touched where I’m touching now.
But then the reality of this contract sinks in.
It has me running to the bathroom and throwing myself down in front of the toilet as my stomach turns over.
