Page 79 of Scarred
“You’ve forgotten your place,” she gasps.
“No.” Lifting my hand, I pluck the hash back from her mouth, allowing the tips of my fingers to graze against the pout of her lips. “I’ve simply figured out yours.”
Her breathing stutters.
“You asked me once to tell you a secret,” I continue. “Do you still wish for one?”
She moves, sitting down next to me, her head tilting as she watches me with a curious gaze. “This feels like a trick.”
Chuckling, I lean back against the bench.
A crack sounds from the forest and her eyes fly to the sound before she whips her head around from side to side. “I should go,” she says.
I wave my arm toward the door. “So go.”
She doesn’t move, although her eyes scan the perimeter.
“Ma petite menteuse, we both know the risk excites you.” I slide closer to her on the bench. “Doesn’t it?”
She blows out a breath. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That,” she snaps. “You’re infuriating. I’m not sure why I even came here. I’d rather drink a gallon of bleach than listen to you answer everything with a question for the rest of the night.”
My lips tip up in the corners. “So ask me one, instead then, little doe.”
“Stop calling me pet names,” she gripes. “It’s not appropriate.”
I smirk, puffing on the end of my joint.
“Fine.” She leans her upper body in close, and my stomach flips, my eyes dropping to the swell of her breasts and wondering what her nipples look like. How they feel. If they’re dying to be sucked the way I’m desperate to taste them.
Her hand moves from her lap, rising until she’s dusting her fingertips along the edge of my face.
My nerves sizzle beneath her touch.
“How did you get your scar?”
The question snaps me out of the haze as quick as lightning, and I straighten, my mind getting lost in the memory.
“What’s that?” Michael’s voice creeps along the back of my neck like a spider.
I stiffen in my spot next to the fireplace, my fingers tightening around my charcoal as I work on the finishing touches to my latest piece. It’s of my father and I, his arm around my shoulders as we stand at the cliff’s edge. Shifting, I hunch my shoulders, turning my body as I smudge the edges on one of the trees, trying to ignore my brother’s presence.
The paper slices against my skin as the book is ripped from my hands. Anger pummels through my chest and I grit my teeth, nostrils flaring. “Give it back,” I whisper.
He looks down at the drawing, his brows morphing into sharp angles as he narrows his gaze, and when he raises his eyes, there’s a hatred swimming through them so potent it wraps around my neck like a noose.
“How cute,” he mocks, his knuckles turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the drawing.
My stomach churns. “Give it back, Michael.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Is this what it was like? Back when he used to pay you attention?”
“Michael,” I start, standing up, my stomach tensing into knots. “I’m not kidding. Give. It. Back.”
“What are you gonna do, little lion?” He singsongs the nickname, elongating the vowels. “Father isn’t here to save you. He’s busy preparing for a luncheon; one that I will attend at his side.”
