Twisted (Never After #4)(40)

I scoff, twisting my head away.

His grip tightens, and he jerks my face back. “Tell me.”

My nostrils flare, the anger breathing through my insides like a living dragon, but I shove it back, knowing that if I’m going to figure a way out of this, I need to cooperate.

At least for now.

“I understand,” I force out.

He smiles, the sharp angles of his face softening from foe to friend. “Good.”

Patting my cheek, he drops his hold and releases me completely, moving off the bed and running his tattooed hands down the front of his shirt.

“Now, listen carefully, because I don’t like to repeat myself. You will marry me, you will take my last name, and you will be the good, dutiful, little wife that I know is buried deep down somewhere inside that head of yours.”

Anger fills me up so quickly my fingers shake, but I clench the bedsheets and try to breathe through the fury.

“We will make everyone believe we’re in love, and then when your father”—he pauses, swallowing so heavily that his Adam’s apple bobs— “when he passes, you’ll make a public statement that you have no interest in Sultans and as a belated wedding gift will be signing it all over to me.”

“I’d rather die than leave Sultans to you,” I snap.

He chuckles. “Be careful what you wish for, gattina.”

My lungs cramp. Is he saying he’s going to kill me?

“Play your part well and I’ll let you ride off into the sunset with the boy.”

My heart pounds against my rib cage, thoughts spinning wildly out of control. Does he mean it? Even as I ask myself the question, I know he can’t be trusted. But what other choice do I have?

Marry Julian, give him Sultans, and then disappear.

Realization of what that would mean sinks into my bones, and I try not to let the desolation swallow me whole.

If I do this, then I’ll lose everything my father begged me to keep safe.

But if I don’t, I may lose everything else.





Chapter 17





Yasmin





I’ve been half attempting to pack up my belongings, not because I want to but because I have no choice. I went to my father’s office, hoping to get a different resolution, to at least have him talk some sense into Julian or tell me it’s too soon to move, but he wasn’t there, and when I found him in his room instead, he refused to let me in. Shaina said he’s becoming more lethargic, and he doesn’t want me to see him that way.

I swallow back the nausea and walk into my closet, anger at the situation and frustration from feeling so goddamn helpless pushing me toward my racks of high-end clothes and reaching out to grab them while I scream.

Repeatedly I reach, rip, and pull down piece after piece until there’s nothing left of my closet but piles of mess. And then there’s me: my heart pounding wildly in my ears, sweat sticking my curls to my forehead, and a thick ball of anger lodged in my throat. Only the anger causes an ache that makes it feel a lot like grief.

The plush carpet cushions my fall as I drop to the ground, feeling desolation once again creeping up and wrapping its long, icy arms around me.

Julian has, with one simple flick of his hand, wrapped golden shackles around my wrists. One simple tug and I’m helpless to do anything other than what he wants.

Maybe this is my penance. Maybe this is what I deserve, a lesson meant to teach me that every action has a reaction and sometimes we have to deal with outcomes we don’t want.

But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Emotions are rarely rooted in logic, so it’s hard not to feel as though I’ve been betrayed by my baba. By the one man in the world who I thought would protect me from evil forever.

Sighing, I lean forward, pushing the mounds of clothes to the side to reach the pictures I have stowed away, hoping that I’ll be able to find a silver lining, something that reminds me of my father’s love. That he’s always looking out for me, always doing what he thinks is best, even when it hurts me the most. Denim scratches against my wrist as I tear my way through the mess I’ve made, but eventually, I reach a shoebox and pull it forward, flipping open the lid.

My breath catches in my throat when hundreds of old photos stare up at me from the cardboard container.

I still take pictures now, but they’re different, more reserved. I don’t always have a camera on me like I did when I was away from home, and now… I’ve been so caught up in his illness and pleasing him that my passion went from photography to family, and it isn’t until this moment that I realize it was like losing a piece of myself when I let that passion slip away.

Longing runs through me, making my chest feel hollow, and when I start to flip through the pictures, a small smile peeks through, despite how empty I feel inside.

Blurry images of me trying to take selfies before you could see yourself in the lens.

Riya and I at boarding school, school uniforms barely passing the regimented dress code as we stood on top of the cafeteria benches and sang into our milk cartons.

Nostalgia hits my gut like a battering ram, and my fingers tremble as I move faster through the forgotten memories. And then my hands stumble when I reach a photo of Aidan and me, lying in the backyard right outside the staff wing with snowflakes in our hair, rosy red on Aidan’s cheeks and smiles beaming across both of our faces. I caress the side of Aidan’s frozen face with my finger, trying to remember the moment. I must be around ten or eleven in the picture. It’s a little blurry and out of frame from the way Aidan’s holding the camera above our heads.