Shattered Dynasty

Time stands still. The warmth of his fingertips playing havoc on me.

Melting me.

Toying with me.

Searing me with a desire I can’t understand, nor do I want to.

When I look at him this time, I find that he is looking back at me.

His eyes are hooded, giving him away as he breathes out through a clenched jaw.

Then he pulls his gaze from me and slaps a bandage on my knee.

The pain that radiates from the sudden movement is enough to make me hiss out an “ouch.”

It breaks the spell.

I shake my head, and he stands and steps back.

“Meet me down in the garage in five minutes,” he grits through his teeth.

Then he leaves the room as fast as he can.

But it’s too late.

Something has changed between us.

Shifted.

Morphed into something more lethal.

More dangerous.

Slipping easily past the iron cage of my heart.

What the hell just happened, and where do we move on from here?

29

Trent

* * *

I storm out of the room.

Acting like a pussy is not my usual schtick, but fuck, I needed to get out of there.

For so many reasons:

1. Why was she wearing that dress? It’s the middle of goddamn November.

2. Why did I think it was a good idea to clean and bandage her knee?

3. We can never have a future while I’m actively trying to ruin her life.

4. The biggest one . . . I’m a dumbass.

I had to leave because if I didn’t, I would have hit on her.

Or worse, propositioned her.

Or even worse, closed the distance and kissed her right then and there.

I’m trying to break this girl down, and instead, she has the upper hand. I’ve tried everything, but all my assumptions about her have been wrong. I thought she would balk at the toilet cleaning, the laundry, the extra studying.

She didn’t.

Even volunteering didn’t garner the reaction I wanted.

She freaking smiles the whole damn time.

Every punishment I dole out is the same thing.

I see her on the surveillance videos; she can’t stop being happy, doing all the asinine things I come up with for her to do without a complaint or issue.

This is fucking annoying and drives me motherfucking insane.

The only time she scowls is when she’s talking to me.

Which is quite telling.

After I clear my head, I make my way back down the hallway and to the garage. She better be in the damned car waiting for me. This whole thing is a massive imposition.

Truth is, even though I didn’t want to admit it to her, it wasn’t her fault.

I watched the scumbag plow right into her.

She’s actually lucky she didn’t get even more hurt.

It was almost deliberate.

And the truth is, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t really want to hurt her.

Ruin her, sure.

Physically hurt her? Not so much.

I might spend time with the most ruthless men in the world, but I’ve never had a bloodlust.

Thankfully, when I make it into the garage, I see her sitting in the front seat of my car. I already sent my driver off on another errand, so it’s just us.

It’s up to me to get this woman to school on time.

Opening the door, I get into the driver’s side. Her lavender fragrance hits my nose. Fucking son of a bitch.

Does she have to smell good, too?

I tear out of the garage. Driving way too fast. But I’m pissed. I need her out of my car ASAP.

The faster she is out, the faster I can get myself in check.

I pull out into the New York City streets and start driving around to get us to the island. I take the bridge, weave my way through traffic, and the whole time, the car is silent. I have nothing to say to her, and she probably has nothing to say to me.

When we’re finally over the bridge, she proves me wrong. “Thank you for driving me.”

I grip the wheel tighter. “We aren’t there yet. You shouldn’t thank me.”

“That implies we may not ever make it.”

I shrug, speeding up for kicks. “You never know.”

“That’s true.” She grips the oh-shit handle. “I rescind my thank you.”

“Nope, it’s already been thrown into the world. You can’t take it back.”

“That’s not very fair.”

I spare her a glance before changing lanes. “Life isn’t fair, princess.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she mutters, not for me to hear.

But I do.

I hear her every damn time she hints that her life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows.

I can’t help the curiosity that rises, but in my typical fashion, I make sure to express it in the most condescending tone possible. I really can’t help myself.

“What do you know about suffering?”

A sound emanates from her mouth, and I can only imagine what she must be thinking.

Her life before my father.

She crosses her arms. “I let you belittle me. I let you say a lot of things to me . . . but do not tell me what I know about life. Unlike you, Trent, I didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth.”