Chapter 22
He is furious at first, that she tries to defy him.
She’s struggling underneath his fingertips and he swears he can feel the life thrumming in her veins, under his hands—it’s exhilarating, knowing that he can just break her with a twitch of his thumb, a swipe of his sands.
But he stutters—his heart; the dead heart in his chest—misses a beat because—
Her eyes are green and wide and her hair is pink.
But most of all, Uncle—the uncle that was wrong about everything—told him to stay away from her.
(“She’s damaged goods.” “Why?” he asks, curious—maybe they can play?—“She’s damaged goods.”)
And she’s screaming at him and it’s fascinating.
No one has ever screamed at him. Screamed because of him, yes. Screamed about him, yes. But no, not ever, never at him.
“Why are you here?” He asks and relishes in the flash of rage and fury that flits across her grubby face. “Are you here to kill me?”
“Are you fucking—seriously?” She screeches. “I don’t think I could kill you with words.”
He eyes her. How her lip twitches, how she fists her hands at her sides, how her teeth peek out of her mouth chiseled and sharp and he wants to smile.
He doesn’t.
“I’m ready to see my father.”
She is fascinating because she doesn’t bow down—not even to him.