Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

“I have Dobermans and hunting hounds too.” He leans close, the smirk still animating his face. “I also ride Jet. Never occurred to you that horses are also animals?”

“You...” I scratch my mind at something— anything. I refuse to lose. I inspect him up and down, then smile. “You prefer formal wear. You can’t deny that!”

“I wear sports’ clothes when I’m boxing.”

Oh, he boxes? Makes sense. His body is honed to perfection.

“I assume that’s all you got, mouse.” He turns before I’m given any chance to retort.

My neck stretches, glancing at the neat pile of paper atop his desk. “Do you work in the business field?”

He sits behind the table, both elbows on the wooden surface, his fingers forming a steeple near his chin. His face is inert, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that compel me to continue talking. “Dad is also in stocks’ trading. He’s a firs

t generation millionaire. All his assets were built by his own effort. He’s my role model and the most successful person I know.”

“Why didn’t you follow in his steps?” His voice is modulated, but it isn’t emotionless. At the matter of fact, it gives a clear hint of curiosity.

“No offence, but business lacks passion. I want to express that through my art. Besides, Dad encourages me to do whatever I want. Not once did he force me to do anything I dislike, or even suggested it. Mum supports me too, only she bleeds my ears with nagging before doing so.” I pause, letting silence cascade between us for a minute. Talking about Mum and Dad hurts. I don’t think it’ll ever stop being this painful. Refusing to stumble to tears, I gauge his expression. “What about your parents?”

There are no almost-smiles anymore. His face goes back to its usual blankness, shutting me out completely. His voice comes out in all lordliness. “Either pick a book or leave.”

It doesn’t surprise me that he closes off at the mention of Arthur and Eva. I’m quite sure they, and his psychotic aunt, had everything to do with his decimation into a psycho. I read that it always stems from childhood. Aaron is another victim.

With a sigh, I reach out for the nearest book and snuggle in the black-leathered sofa across from him.

The book turns out to be about mathematics and the theory of God-knows-what. A few pages later, and my eyelids are fighting sleep.

Instead of changing the book, I peek over it at Aaron. His brows are knit together as he reads a chunk of papers. The polished arrangement of things in his office, his room, and this whole place is almost OCD. He pulls a pen from a sleek pile of similar-looking pens to scribble something. Once he’s done, he places the pen back precisely from where he took it— without looking up.

This man is definitely a neat freak.

Yet, I can’t help admiring his firm posture and elegant effortless movements. As if he’s been like this his entire life. He probably was.

Why does he refuse to divulge anything about his life? I hope Eva’s journal answers some questions because her son is a blank board. Even when I think I’m beginning to see or observe something, he seals himself immediately. Like a damn programmed robot.

Ugh. I need to stop psychoanalysing him. He used to be simple at the beginning; a stalker turned into a kidnapper. Now that I’m reading about his depressive past and witnessing snippets of his kindness, I’m driven into a chaotic mess.

There’s also my despicable loneliness that makes me want to be with him the entire time. After all, he’s the only form of company I can get in this place.

“Do you need something?” Aaron’s deep voice pulls me from my reverie.

I clear my throat. “No, why would I?”

“Because you have been staring at me for at least five minutes.”

“No, I wasn’t.” My voice’s a notch too loud. Too defensive. Too fake even to my own ears. “I was only thinking about some theory I’m reading.”

The sides of his eyes ease as he smiles. My stomach gives a large flip as if planning to puke butterflies. “The fact that you used ‘some’ before theory means you could not care less about the theory you’re reading.” His unearthly smile morphs into a mocking smirk. God, I want to slap him. “I thought we already established that you’re a terrible liar, kitten.”

I release an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You win.”

He gives a cruel devilish almost-smile. The one that says ‘I always win.’

Egotistical bastard.

He goes back to his papers as my fingers twitch to throw the heavy mathematics’ book straight at his head.

My insane thought is halted when his brows furrow at the document in front of him. The more he flips the pages, the deeper his scowl sets in. Whatever he’s reading doesn’t seem to delight him in the least. I would hate to be the one who wrote it. With a jerky movement, he picks a marker and highlights the hell out of the papers.