Twisted Games (Twisted, #2)(17)

Another inch…another…and I was free.

Fresh air assaulted my nostrils, and I blinked to adjust to the light after being trapped in the dress for the past twenty minutes.

I clutched the material in front of me, my face hot with embarrassment and relief.

“Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Rhys stepped back, his jaw like granite. Instead of responding, he picked up the bulletproof vest and T-shirt I’d worn beneath it and crooked his finger. “Come here.”

“I can put it on myself.”

Again, no response.

I sighed and walked to where he stood. I was too tired to fight, and I didn’t resist when he slipped the T-shirt over my head, followed by the vest. I watched him in the mirror while he worked, adjusting the vest and straps until it sat comfortably on my torso. I still held my dress in front of me, angling it so it covered my underwear.

I didn’t know why I bothered. Rhys showed as much interest in my half-naked form as he would in a foam mannequin.

A strange needle of irritation pricked at me.

Rhys finished fixing the vest, but before I could step away, his hands closed around my biceps in an iron grip. They were so large they easily encircled my arms.

He locked eyes with me in the mirror and lowered his head until his mouth hovered next to my ear.

My heart skipped a frantic beat, and I clutched the dress tighter in front of me.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing all day.” Rhys’s breath whispered across my skin in a dark warning. “I indulged you this time, princess, but I don’t like games. Lucky for you, you passed the test.” He slid his hands up my arms until they rested on my vest-clad shoulders, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “You need to learn how to follow instructions without arguing. I don’t care if you think I’m being ridiculous. A second’s delay can mean the difference between life and death. I say duck, you duck. I say wear a bulletproof vest to the fucking beach, you wear the vest. Understand?”

My grip strangled the dress. “The vest was a test to see if I would wear it? That is so…underhanded.” An entire day wasted on a stupid test. Indignation unfurled in my stomach. “I hate when you do stuff like this.”

A grim half-smile touched Rhys’s lips. “I’d rather you hate me alive than love me dead.” He released my shoulders. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

The door shut behind him.

I could finally breathe easy again, but I couldn’t stop his words from echoing in my mind.

I’d rather you hate me alive than love me dead.

The problem was, I didn’t hate him. I hated his rules and restrictions, but I didn’t hate him.

I wished I did.

It would make my life a lot simpler.





Trial Month Three

“I can’t go.”

“What do you mean you can’t go?” Jules’s disbelief oozed over the line. “We’ve been talking about the festival since sophomore year. We have coordinated outfits. Stella rented a car! We might die on the road because she’s a terrible driver—”

“I heard that!” Stella yelled in the background.

“—but she’s the only one with a license.”

“I know.” I glared at Rhys, who sat on the couch polishing a knife like a psycho. “A certain bodyguard deemed it unsafe.”

My friends and I had planned on attending the Rokbury music festival for years, and now, I had to sit it out.

“So? Come anyway. He works for you, not the other way around.”

I wished I could, but we were still in the trial period of our deal, and Rhys’s concerns weren’t totally off base. Rokbury took place at a campground an hour and a half outside New York City, and while it looked like a blast, something inevitably went wrong every year—a festival goer’s tent catching fire, a drunken group fight leading to several hospitalizations, a panic-induced stampede. It was also supposed to storm the weekend of this year’s festival, which meant the campground would probably turn into a giant mud pit, but my friends were risking it, anyway.

“Sorry, J. Next time.”

Jules sighed. “Tell your man he’s hot as hell but a total buzzkill.”

“He’s not my man. He’s my bodyguard.” I lowered my voice, but I thought I saw Rhys pause for a millisecond before he resumed polishing his knife.

“Even worse. He’s running your life and you’re not getting any dick from it.”

“Jules.”

“You know it’s true.” Another sigh. “Fine, I get it. We’ll miss you, but we’ll catch up when we’re back.”

“Sounds good.”

I hung up and sank into the armchair, FOMO—Fear of Missing Out—hitting me hard. I’d bought the festival tickets months ago, before Rhys started working for me, and I’d had to sell them to a random junior in my political theory class.

“I hope you’re happy,” I said pointedly.

He didn’t respond.

Rhys and I had settled into a more functional dynamic over the past three months, but there were still times I wanted to chuck a textbook at him. Like now.

When the day of the festival rolled around the following weekend, however, I woke up to the shock of my life.