Page 84 of Twisted (Never After)
“You know,” Yasmin says, sitting on the family room couch in that black pencil skirt and silk blouse, slipping her heels off. “That went differently than I expected.”
I roll the glass of scotch around with my wrist as I take her in, the fireplace warming up the air and the fall leaves outside the wall of windows adding a warm feel to the space as the sun sets behind the tree line. Walking over to the couch, I sit down, placing my drink on the coffee table and grabbing the sole of her foot, running my thumbs up the arch.
She moans, her eyes fluttering, and then like she realizes what she’s doing, her hand flies to her mouth, an embarrassed look crossing her face.
I smirk.
“Can I give you some advice?” She tilts her head.
My thumb presses against her heel. “I’m sure you’ll give it whether I want it or not.”
A thoughtful look passes over her face. “If your mother’s as sick as she says she is, then you should try to work out whatever you two have going on before it’s too late.”
My hands stop their motion, dropping her foot back to the couch. “Advicenottaken, thanks.”
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “She said she was dying, Julian. People do weird things when they’re facing their own mortality. Look at my father.” Her voice softens at the end, a sad look ghosting across her eyes. “You can talk to me, you know? If you’re struggling with her being sick. If anyone knows what that’s like, it’s me.”
She leans in, her arm reaching out for mine. I jerk back, and she sighs and drops her hand.
“She’s been dying for twenty years.”
Yasmin gasps. “What?”
“She’s a liar, gattina. A fake. She’ll do anything to get what she wants.”
Her gaze narrows into slits. “Wow, must run in the family then.”
She’s not wrong. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and everything I am, the people I’ve had to hurt in order to get to where I am, are only because of the ones who raised me. I am my mother’s son. In almost every way.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, her statement sending irrational anger surging through me. “You should go to your room.” Deadly silence.
And then a shoe flies toward me, missing me by an inch. My back slams into the arm of the couch and I look at her, unamused.
“Real mature.”
“I’m sosickof you telling me what to do,” she grits out.
“There’s the little brat who’s been missing.” I cross my arms. “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you were some well- mannered woman and let your true colors shine through.”
“Oh, well, forgive the fuck out of me,” she spits, leaning forward until she’s close enough to jab her finger into my chest. “Sue me for trying to make the best out of the cards I’ve been dealt. The cardsyou’vedealt me.”
I stay stoic, looking down at her from where she’s practically on top of me, telling myself that she’s not worth my time. That she’s nothing more than a necessary andtemporaryannoyance. Even though the heat of her body has my cock growing hard and my hands tensing with the urge to grip her by the hips and show her just how much I could make her enjoy being told what to do.
“God forbid I try to make this shitty situation thatyouput me in more bearable. Do you know what it’s like?” Her voice breaks and she drops her finger, closing it into a fist and slamming it into her own chest, digging in like she can rip out the hurt herself. “My father is dying, Julian. He’s really, he—he’sdying. And all I want to do, all I can think about doing, is being with him. But instead, I’m here, getting wrapped up inyou, the person I’m supposed to hate.”
She sniffs, and I clench my jaw, my hands curling into fists at my sides to keep from reaching out.
“Life is so tough, isn’t it, gattina? Such a hardship to be so spoiled.”
“And that’s the fucked-up part, isn’t it?” she cuts in. “I know. Iamspoiled. I never had to learn to drive. I never had to learn to cook or how to fold my own clothes. I never once had to worry about learning a life skill or a trade because why would I ever, in a million years, need to work for a living? And that is a prison in itself. It feels like I’m stuck at the top of a bell tower, hidden away, and never let out to see the light. If you can’t see that, if you’re not capable of empathizing,then I don’t know why I’m even talking.”
I clench my jaw.
“My father tried to auction me off to the first prick who came along, because he knew I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own,” she continues. “And he’s right. And I bet you love that, don’t you? Having me here at your mercy and knowing I can’t do shit for myself.”
“Poor little rich girl,” I hiss, leaning in until our gazes lock. “You have no clue what it means to struggle, no idea what real trauma is. So sorry you’ve had to deal with your caring father while living in a twenty- thousand- square- foot mansion, handing you the world, and having himloveyou too much to want to leave you.”
Tears well in her eyes, making them even more beautiful. More raw, maybe.
