The Last Boss' Daughter

He doesn’t answer me. His gaze returns to the road, and he checks mirrors a few times.

I accept that he won’t answer that one for now, but I have another one I can’t get out of my head.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Yes.” He’s terse. It makes me nervous.

“When… when did you decide not to kill me?”

His silence stretches on for what feels like forever. My cheeks flush and I jump to conclusions like it’s an Olympic sport and I’m going for the gold.

Swallowing, I try again. “Did you decide before you kissed me?”

I think he isn’t going to answer me for another long moment, but then he finally utters a low, “No.”

That’s… not comforting.

I look out at the road ahead of me, thinking of where my head was then.

I trusted him already. I followed him out of my guarded house into a secluded, wooded area.

And he still planned to kill me.

Paul’s venomous words about how easy I was echo in my head and I hug myself protectively.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

I shake my head very slightly, but don’t look at him. “I wanted the truth. How were you planning to do it?”

He looks over at me again, and he still hasn’t gone back to his usual stoicism. I guess that’s a good sign.

“That’s why you wouldn’t have sex with me,” I realize, right then. Dull horror and abject humiliation wash over me and I can’t look at him.

Oh, my God. He must think I’m the biggest idiot in the world.

And for all the lost days I have and my trouble with timelines, that night I remember vividly. I know how I felt, how I thought maybe he felt. It’s not foggy or unclear. I was sure I was safe with him.

In the company of a man who still, in the moment he was kissing me and touching my naked body, planned to murder me.

I’m quiet for a long, long time.

He lets me stew and doesn’t bother me, but he keeps driving and doesn’t ask again if I want to reconsider. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I’m thankful for it, because I’m having a really hard time processing what he just revealed.

It’s a little longer before I start to wonder what he’s feeling, sitting there quietly after spilling difficult secrets, waiting on my judgment.

I reach over tentatively and rest a hand on his thigh. His gaze jerks to mine, wary and untrusting, and I offer a little smile.

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

I expect—hope for—some relief on his face, but none appears. His features are still taut with tension, and he doesn’t look at me as he says, “I’m not a good person, Annabelle. Maybe you thought I was because of everything with Paul, but I’m not.”

Even after what he just told me, I’m not so sure about that.

Remembering his interference with Paul is also a little confusing—why put any effort whatsoever into keeping Paul from hurting me if he planned to turn around and kill me himself? Wouldn’t Paul have just saved him some time if he killed me instead? Maybe he didn’t get paid if Paul did it. I guess that would make sense.

I want to ask, but I also don’t. I just want to drop this whole ugly topic.

The fact of the matter is, Liam is all I’ve got now. He’s a much better hand than Paul, and I don’t want to question him. It’s sad that all of my hands have wanted to kill me at one point in time, but maybe I’m more vexing than I realized.