Page 163 of Unorthodox
Slowly, she nods, and I see the fear coming into her eyes.
“You never asked me who it was.”
I watch her throat bob as she swallows. I see the cuts from the knife against her throat last night. I think about what she said Colton did to her before I got there.
Fuck her. Fuck him.
“Who was it?” Her voice is little more than a whisper. A lock of hair falls over one eye as she stares at me, and she doesn't move it. It’s a shame, because I want to see her entire face. Even when I hate her, even when she’s fucked me over like everyone else in my life, she’s beautiful. And I hate that I think that. I hate that the haze of alcohol andherhas clouded my judgement.
I hate the thoughts warring within me. The rage threading in around the empathy.
Because I would’ve betrayed me, too.
“Do you really want to know?” I press, because I can. “Or are you just asking because I prompted you to? Do you ever think for yourself?Have you everthought for yourself?”
She bares her teeth, looking almost like a rabid dog. A very pretty dog, but rabid all the same. “Tell me, Max,” she tries again, more demanding. Her voice is low. Quiet. I like it that way. “Tell me who they are.”
“Were,” I correct her. “Who theywere.”
Her expression of rage changes to confusion as she furrows her brow, hugging the blanket closer to her body. “They’re…dead?” she whispers, almost hopefully. “Both of them?”
I nod once, enjoying the range of emotions on her pretty face.
“What happened, Max?” I don’t like the way her voice has gone soft, as if she’s already pitying me.
I clasp my hands together tighter, keeping my eyes on her. It’s hard to focus, all the rum going straight to my head. I didn’t eat last night before Lucas. This morning, I had nothing. I shouldn’t have drunk so much, because I’ll end up saying things I never wanted to say, but her green eyes are so fucking compelling, the trust she showed me on the bed so goddamn arousing, I can’t hold back.
Even though right now, I fucking hate her.
“The girl? He killed her.” Her mouth falls open. “Blunt force trauma to the head.” She shifts back against the arm of the couch, as if she can get away from me. “The man?” I reach inside my pocket, but there’s no fucking playing card there. I clench my fist around nothing. “I killed him.”
Shock registers in her eyes as they widen, and her body is frozen, her mouth still hanging open as she tries to decipher what I’ve just told her.
“He was my father.” I enjoy the way her fingers tremble under her chin as she struggles to hold the blanket up. “That house? That was my childhood home.”
She doesn’t even blink. She just stares at me.
I don’t like it.
“What are you thinking?” I snap at her.
She looks at me blankly for a moment, taking shallow breaths. Her voice is quiet when she finally answers me, “I don’t understand you.”
I smile at her. “You don’t want to.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, she blurts out, “Did you buy Dante?”
The mention of his name from her mouth has my entire body coiled, and I see her swallow, as if she’s nervous.
“No,” I answer her.
“Then how did you—”
“You want to talk about Dante?” I ask her, the warning clear in my question.
Despite the warning, she doesn’t back down. “You regret it.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question. “You regret shooting him.” Her voice breaks on the last word, but she doesn’t look away from me.
“Addison,” I warn her, sitting up straighter, hands on my thighs as I angle toward her on the couch. “We’re not fucking talking about—”
