Twisted (Never After #4)(79)

It’s what I need. A slap in the face, a cold reminder that even if I was able to trick her into staying with me—force her into it— nothing when it comes to Yasmin and me is real.

Even if it feels like it is.

Even if she’s the only one who’s seen my darkest parts and still decided I was worth a shit.

Or maybe even that was an act all for him. To ensure the boy’s safety when she knew I had the power to kill him in an instant. I have been hanging him over her head, and even though we haven’t spoken about my blackmail recently, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there, like a concrete wall directly between us.

A heaviness settles in the center of my chest, and I clink the ice cubes in my club soda, wishing it was something with alcohol to wash away the ache.

A car door slams, muted outside the thick windows of the plane, but my heart jumps anyway, knowing who it is. Foreboding wraps around the base of my spine and spreads through my limbs, but I ignore the way it feels.

This is exactly what needs to happen. I’m getting too lost. Too soft. Too unfocused.

It’s preposterous, really.

Yasmin walks through the door of the aircraft and around the corner, her footsteps faltering when she sees me. Her gaze swings from the large TV and living area to the hallway that leads to the bedroom in the back.

“Wow, this is nice,” she breathes, moving toward me and sitting in the chair directly across from mine, her camera plopping in the seat at her side.

I’m happy to see that she brought her camera. Knowing it brings her so much happiness makes me want to glue it to her side and make sure she’s never without it again.

I tip my head. “Gattina.”

Her hands run down the side of the chair, letting out a contented sigh as she feels up the buttery leather. She smiles at me and my chest pulls tight.

“Patatino,” she replies.

I smirk because I can’t help it, shaking my head slightly as I take a sip from my drink.

“Is this big plane all yours?” she asks, looking around again.

“Nope,” I state. “Actually, it’s yours.”

Her brows shoot up. “I’ve never been on this plane in my life.”

“Your father has.”

She eyes me carefully, nodding. “Well, that would make it his and not mine.” She pauses, her tongue peeking out to swipe across her bottom lip. “I really have no interest in taking all the things that were once his, you know? I’m just doing it because it’s what he wants. And I owe it to him to keep his legacy in the family.”

I clench my jaw to keep from spitting out something hurtful, something about the fact that it must be nice she at least gets the choice, but I hold it back, realizing the anger isn’t for her, it’s for the deep wounds caused by Ali’s disregard when I’ve given him everything. But I suppose that’s my fault for placing my mentor in a father role when he never asked to be.

Click.

My head raises up, seeing her placing her camera back down again.

She grins. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. You looked pensive and I wanted to catch the moment.”

“Why didn’t you major in photography?” I blurt out.

All I’ve ever heard from Ali about his daughter is how much she excels in her education and how proud he is to have her, but he’s never told me about her photography, and I wonder if he even knows.

Even worse, it makes me want to know what else she dreams of, what she craves, where her passion lies. I’ve spent years assuming I know everything about Yasmin Karam, but lately, she’s shown me that I never really knew anything about her at all.

She laughs. “Can you imagine? My father would never have wanted a daughter with a photography major.”

I purse my lips. “Does a degree in photography even exist?”

She nods. “Bachelor of fine arts in photography. I actually looked into the program before I went, but…” She trails off, shaking her head.

I hum, taking a sip of my drink and watching her as she glances down at her lap and picks at her nail.

“Do you want a tour?” I ask.

“What’s to see?” She shrugs. “We’re on this plane for, like, ten hours, right? I’ll get to it all eventually.”

She settles in, resting her head against the back of her chair, and closes her eyes. Just after takeoff, she falls asleep.

She looks uncomfortable, so I slam my laptop closed after having gotten an hour or so of work done and move to sweep her up in my arms. She stirs but doesn’t wake completely, instead snuggling up against my chest as I carry her like a new bride down the back hallway and into the bedroom, tucking her in and running my hand down the side of her face.

I sit next to her and watch her sleep, counting every breath she takes and the way they make her chest rise and fall, how her lips part ever so slightly and her lashes flutter like she’s in the middle of a dream. And eventually, my lids flutter closed and I fall asleep too.

When I wake up, it’s to the feeling of someone staring at the side of my face.

“Hello, wife,” I say without opening my eyes.

She huffs, and the mattress dips and jiggles when she scrambles back. “It’s weird to talk to people without your eyes open,” she says.

I peek a lid open and twist my head, looking at her mussed-up hair and sleepy gaze. “No weirder than watching me sleep with your nose almost pressed into my face.”