When I wake up, my mood is somehow, impossibly worse than it was last night.
Hours of broken dreams and fractured nightmares will do that.
But it was worth setting my alarm early. As I slip out of the kitchen with my stolen goods, Stasi still sleeping next to the hearth, my mood begins to lift.
And when I jump down the last of the steps with a whistle a few hours later, it’s even more worth it for the look on Anastasia’s face.
She leans heavily on the broom in her hands. “I suppose I have you to thank for this?”
I make a show of glancing down the hall. The floor is white, the barest traces of the wood showing.
Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of tiny little pieces of white rice. Everywhere.
“Now, why on earth would I have anything to do with this?” I ask, enjoying myself.
Stasi stares at the floor. “I think you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a lot.”
I saunter towards her, reveling in the crunch beneath my feet. Silas will lose his shit when he sees this. Still worth it. “Better get cracking. This rice won’t clean itself up.”
Stasi gapes as I swipe the broom from her hands. “I need that!”
Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Hmmm. Nope. Hands only, I’m afraid.”
“Rafe.” She grabs for it, but I pull it back, out of her reach and enjoying the furious look on her face immensely.
“I hate you,” she snaps. I spend a highly satisfying few seconds watching as she drops to her knees and tries to grab the rice in her hands. Most of it just falls out. I start to whistle again as I make my way down the hall with the broom in my hands.
The attack comes just as I reach the end. I sense her coming a split second before a hand pulls down the back of my shirt collar, and I choke as a large handful of rice slides down my back. “Motherf—,”
Spinning, I grab Stasi’s hands. She snarls at me as I walk her backwards until she’s pressed into the wall. The satisfaction is clear in her eyes as I shake, feeling the rice slipping further down.
For fucks’ sake.
“You,” I hiss, “are a fucking terrible prisoner.”
“And you,” she snaps back, “are a cunt, Rafael Tate.”
She still has a mouth like a damn sailor. But this Stasi feels unfamiliar in my hands, all soft skin and doe eyes and curves.
This Stasi is all woman. Furious, angry, passionate woman.
And she feels like fucking heaven in my arms.
Her chest heaves, and I do a double-take as I recognize the shirt she’s wearing.
A growl sounds in the back of my throat. She might be pissed, but so am I. “Why the fuck are you wearing my brother’s shirt?”
She tips her chin up. “Because Kit is a far better fucking person than you, Rafael.”
Jealousy stabs at my chest as I release her, stepping back. Kit went to her last night. Took care of her. I take in the fresh scent of her, the hint of mint.
Then my eyes drop to her wrists.
“What,” I say carefully, “the fuck, is that on your wrists?”
Anastasia stills at the change in my tone. She glances down, realization lighting her face. “What – you didn’t think the chains would leave a mark?”
I can’t stop staring at the angry, purple bruising. “They don’t leave marks like that.”
Anastasia yanks down the edges of Kit’s shirt. “They do when they’re put on too tightly and left on for too fucking long. Any more genius observations, or can I get on with my work now?”
My eyes fly up at the shakiness in her voice. “Anastasia—,”
“No,” she forces out. Her hands reach up, shoving at my chest until I reluctantly back up a few steps. “You don’t get to do that, Rafe. You don’t.”
“Do what?” I rasp.
Her finger stabs into my chest. “You don’t get to take control of my life, treat me like dirt and then look at me as if you’re the wounded hero. Fuck off with that narrative.”
My eyes narrow, my temper igniting again. “What, you think you’re the wronged one here? The ugly stepsister? We’re hardly the only people you seem to have fucked over. Just the first.”
Although, who knows. Maybe there were others before us. There sure as hell were others after.
It’s a direct hit, and her face shutters. It gives me the exact same feeling as it did ten years ago. It still makes me feel like shit.
“Thanks to you,” she forces out, “I have years of this to look forward to. So let me work, Rafe. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Please.”
“Fine,” I snap, turning away.
She wants to work?
She can fucking work.
