Vendetta - Lane Sienna - Страница 31
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“Not really. After . . . after it happened, my uncle came to take over. He had them installed.”
She ponders this for a second. “But only in your room?”
“Yeah, maybe he was afraid whoever took them would come back for me?” I make it sound like a question because I really have no idea why he did that. When he had them installed in my room, I thought it was just that my room goes first, and then all the others would get the bars, too. Then I just forgot about the whole thing.
“I guess. That man gives me the creeps.”
“Yeah, he can be intimidating,” I say, laughing. I remember a time or two when he had come over to see us, and he was definitely not the man he is now. He never said much, but there was a lightness, a warmness in his eyes. Something he doesn't have now, not even when it comes to me, his only remaining family.
Or maybe that's just the thing. Maybe he thinks I'm not supposed to be here, either.
Water sloshes as she stands up. I get up from the cold travertine and she extends her hand to me to help her out. I take the towel she left on the vanity then dry her off carefully, inspecting the two hickeys on her neck and then frowning at the red and purple finger-shaped bruises on her collarbone. She tilts my chin up with her finger, then leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips, forgiving me. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I let her kiss me, enjoying the way her soft lips mold to mine.
She pulls away and smiles, putting her hands around my neck and burying her face into my shoulder. I press myself against her warm body, skimming my hands down her waist but going no further.
“I missed you, too,” she whispers. I try to ignore the sense of relief I feel when she says it, but find myself squeezing her even tighter against me. “I kept asking myself if it was something I did, if you heard something from someone to just pull away like that. All I needed was for you to talk to me.” She brings her head up, searching my eyes. “I just needed to know why,” she continues when I don't say anything. “The night I came after you, that's all I wanted to ask.”
“What night?” I ask, confused. She never came after me, not that I remember. If she ever did, if she ever said a word, I wouldn't have been able to stay away from her. I hated her for not saying it, and I was grateful at the same time.
“The night you met up with that asshole, George.” She says it slowly, like she's explaining something to a child.
And for good reason, because my face must tell her I had no idea she was there for me. I thought she’d followed George, or maybe she saw us talking and wanted to see what it was about.
The last thing I expected was to hear this. If she didn't follow me that night, she wouldn't be here.
We finally separate and she walks over to the door, where her robe and my jacket are hanging. She puts her arms through the sleeves of the silky robe. This time I appreciate how sexy the whole package is. Tying the sash around her waist, she gives me one last smile and walks out of the bathroom.
“So, was it him?” she asks when I follow her out and sit on the bed, pulling the sweatshirt over my head.
“Was it who?”
“The man we saw last night. Was it your uncle?” She sits next to me, and points at the fast food place name on the bag I brought the night before, scrunching her nose. “Hate that place, by the way. Dom always makes me go there, he loves their bacon cheeseburger.” She shudders. “Yuck.”
I can't help laughing, but it's a disappointed laugh. And I thought it was her favorite; that's how well I know her. Serves me right when I've wasted my whole life pretending to hate her.
“It wasn't him,” I lie for no reason—maybe to convince myself, rather than her. “You'll never see my uncle yelling or displaying emotions like that. He's like stone.” Which is why I found it hard to believe my own eyes, witnessing that scene last night. I have never seen him like that.
But it was him.
I try not to let my mind go rampant, thinking up scenarios in which he's hiding things from me or plotting against me, but it's so damn hard. He wouldn't turn on his own flesh and blood, would he?
It kills me that I get a resound yes, he would, in my head. No matter how distant and cold he is, I always thought somewhere deep down he cared about me. But there's a lot of money at stake. So much power, it frightens me. And I'm the only one standing in his way, even if it doesn't seem like that. I'm the rightful heir to my father, not him.
But none of this makes sense. Why now? And what would he get from me hating Keith and his whole family, when he could just get rid of me and be done with it?
I palm my face, groaning. I have no idea what's going on, and I hate it that I'm doubting him like this. But obviously something is happening that I don't know.
Leighton starts rubbing my back in soothing circles and kisses me on the neck. “Do you ever hate living like this? Do you ever wish . . . ?”
“What?”
“I don't know, that it was all different. That we could run—”
A bang on the door cuts her off. We look at each other in panic. I'm in my boxers and a sweatshirt and she's in a flimsy robe with nothing underneath. I jump and snatch my jeans while pointing to the bathroom. “Lock the door.”
She nods, doing a quick sweep of the room and grabs a handful of clothes, the ones I took her out in last night included. Then she's gone, the lock on the door clicking.
I pull my jeans on and wait for my heartbeat to calm down when another bang comes, making it jump again. I know it's not Hayley: she'd knock, or let me know it was her somehow.
I slowly walk to the door, and then unlock and open it, my posture casual. My uncle looks me up from head to toe, and his eyes flash with something I can't identify.
What the hell is he doing here? I glance back at the bathroom door, wondering if he ever came by before, but then I realize I have the only key.
I stand aside for him to enter, hoping he doesn’t notice how nervous I am. Actually, I’m not nervous, I realize. For some reason, I’m terrified. He looks around the room, then at me, his eyes full of questions.
I point to that stupid bag of food she doesn't like. “Brought her food.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied, and sits in the chair. I sit on the bed awkwardly, realizing it's not exactly hiding what we've done all night, and when I see him take in the scene knowingly, I want to kill myself for being so stupid.
Show them you care, and they'll know where to strike.
“Where did you go last night?” I ask, hoping it will distract him. It does the job. His eyes widen for just a second, but then his mask is back on, cold as ever.
“Emergency,” is all he says. What emergency? There's nothing he has to deal with personally; he has people for everything.
Leighton opens the door, thankfully wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck and some sweatpants. She starts toward me and I shake my head, trying not to be obvious about it. She stops and folds her arms across her chest and stands there, just as awkward as I am.
It's a fucking disaster. Could we act any more guiltily?
I get up and motion for her to sit, begging her silently to just do as I say. She doesn't look at me but follows my instruction.
My uncle looks between the two of us, an uneasy expression on his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him.
“Can we talk outside?” I ask, as calmly as possible.
He nods and I follow him out of the room, locking the door behind us. Turning around, I give him an impatient look.
“What's going on?”
He's silent for a beat, until finally, he says the words that shake my world. “It's fair you should know we're moving the girl.”
Who the fuck is this “we” he's talking about? I sure as hell wasn't asked or informed about this. I look at my uncle and my earlier thought hits me like a lightning bolt. This is not my ally, family or not. He kept me in the dark; he devalues everything I do. And now he's taking her away.
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