Twisted (Never After #4)(68)

“I’m— ” I start, not sure what I’m going to say but knowing I have to say something so I don’t break down into tears.

“She’s your daughter-in- law, Ma. Congratulations,” he throws out. “And you’re not dead yet, so it looks like I made it in time.”

Anger filters through me at how callously he brushes off her concern. If she’s really ill, then I can’t believe he’s treating her this way. He should be over here, spending as much time with her as he can. At least she wants to see him.

Unlike my father, who’s pushing me further away every day.

When she stares at me this time, I meet her gaze head-on. I don’t know why, but this feels important. Like I’m aching for her approval and hoping she doesn’t think I’m not enough.

Although, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter one way or the other. This marriage is going to end soon anyway, and it will be nothing more than a regretful memory, like a bad taste in my mouth that I wash away with water.

“Well.” She smacks her hands on her thighs. “Dinner’s ready. Probably cold by now with how long you took to get here.” And she turns around and walks away. Just like that.

I look at Julian, trying to gauge whether her completely ignoring the fact that we got married is a normal thing or if it’s something we should be worried about, but his face is a shield, not betraying a single emotion.

We follow her into the dining room at the front of the house.

“You can sit here, Yasmin. Next to me, so I can get to know my new daughter.” His mother points to a chair on the opposite side of where I’m assuming she expects Julian to sit, but Julian stops me before I can move, pulling out the chair next to him and helping me settle before pushing me in.

He sits down next to me and grabs my hand beneath the tablecloth, resting it on his knee, which is tapping out a nervous rhythm.

I glance down at our interlocked fingers and then up to his face, wondering if he even realizes what he’s doing. It’s not like his mom can see him holding my hand, so I don’t really get the purpose. But I leave it because either way, he seems nervous, and I don’t want to do anything to set him off.

His mother flicks her wrist at the buffet of food on the table. “Well, come on. Don’t just stare at it.”

Julian releases my hand then, placing it on his thigh before grabbing my plate, dishing up perfect portions of everything before setting it back down in front of me.

I stare at him, gobsmacked, before looking down at the food and then back up at him.

“What’s wrong? Not enough? Too much?” he asks, slipping his hand back under mine.

“N-no,” I stutter. “That’s perfect.” I pick up my fork and stab the leafy greens but pause before I take a bite. “Thank you.”

Honestly, I don’t know if anyone outside serving staff has ever plated food for me before, and it’s a nice gesture, one that makes me feel cared for in a different way than I ever have been. Something foreign and warm fills up my chest, and I twist my fingers, sliding them between his and squeezing.

Funny how such a simple thing can cause such a cataclysmic reaction.

“Look at you two,” his mother says, taking a large sip of her red wine. “So in love. Just like me and your papà were.” She nods toward Julian. “Of course, he’d be less than impressed that you were starting a meal without saying grace.”

His leg stops jittering. “Ma, stop it.”

“What? I’m not allowed to talk about my husband now?” She tilts her glass toward me. “I wish you all the happiness I had.”

Julian slams his fist down on the table, rattling the china and making my stomach drop. “That’s enough.”

I clear my throat, my heart pounding so hard against my chest that I’m afraid you can hear it across the room, and I pick up the glass of wine in front of me and take a large sip.

So much for never drinking again.

The bitter notes of the liquid make me cringe, but I swallow it down and gulp again, needing something to do so that I don’t gawk at the scene happening in front of my eyes.

His mother— whose name I still don’t know— flings her back against the chair at Julian’s outburst, bringing a hand to her chest. “Well, you can’t say you don’t have his temper.”

Julian laughs, but it’s hollow. My eyes fling between them, my hands growing clammy from how awkward I feel.

“Ma, you really don’t want to test me right now. Okay? Can we just have a meal? Why is it always so hard to have a normal day with you?”

I expect her to give in. Julian’s voice has dropped to that deep, smooth, and dangerous timbre, like a knife sharp enough to cut through bone.

“Who do you think you are, speaking to your mother that way?” she hisses.

Now my nerves ramp up for her sake. Does she not know who her son is? What he’s capable of?

“You walk in here like a hotshot, dancing around in your Armani suits and toting your pretty new wife with a giant ring, and what do I get, huh? A smart mouth from a boy who used to be too scared of me to speak.”

His jaw twitches, and he lowers his head, his nostrils flaring as he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge between his nose. He still hasn’t let go of my hand, and he’s squeezing so hard my fingers are starting to go numb, but I don’t try to move.