“Childhood trauma.”
“The stuff with Elsa’s mother?” When Knox and I were getting close and smoking weed in dark corners at parties, he told me about how he and Teal became a part of Ethan Steel’s family and what his wife did to them.
I suspect something similar happened to Aiden, but the fucker never talks about it.
“Nope. Something deeper.” He tosses the finished apple in the bin. “That’s all for your psychological class of the day.”
Something deeper?
What’s deeper than being kidnapped by a mentally deranged woman, being made to pretend to be her dead son, and being cut by her? Teal and Knox have faded scars on their knees — evidence of those times.
He places a hand in his pocket and his eyes droop a little as he shoots me a glare. “I know you don’t want this engagement, but hurt my sister in any way and you’ll see evidence of my origins. Our origins.”
Street kids. A prostitute’s offspring who don’t even know their father because even their mother doesn’t.
That is the reality of the Van Doren twins. Everyone knows it, Edric included. Just because Ethan Steel became their father doesn’t mean it changed their origins. And yet, Edric agreed to the engagement for a partnership with Ethan.
He didn’t care who he had to throw me to.
Earldom 101: selling out your children for arranged marriages like whores.
“Just a piece of advice,” Knox says.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fall in love with her.”
I laugh, tossing him the apple. “That will never happen.”
He catches the fruit above his head. “Good, because it’ll never be reciprocated. T doesn’t know how to feel.”
He says it with an edge of sadness, like it’s bothered him for a long time and he doesn’t want others to be caught in the same position.
Just then, she descends the stairs. This time, she’s accompanied by Agnus, Ethan’s partner or adviser or what-the-fuck-ever. She’s asking him about some of her stuff and he replies with curt, detailed descriptions of everything.
Then something happens, something that makes me grip the table so tightly I’m surprised my tendons don’t snap.
When they’re at the base of the stairs, she stares up at him, and her lips curve into a sensual smile — soft, warm, fucking angelic.
I know it’s honest because she can’t fake a smile to save her life. I know she means it because her entire body is angled in Agnus’ direction.
My type is at least fifteen years older, experienced, and doesn’t smile the entire time like a gigolo on crack. In short, not you.
Her words play at the back of my head in a loop.
&
nbsp; My gaze snaps to the man she’s spent the last ten years with, the man she’s smiling up at.
Her fucking type.
It takes everything in me to plaster a smile on my face. I push off the table and stride towards them. Her smile falls and she shoots me a ‘stay away’ look.
Stay away? Stay fucking away?
I place a hand on the small of her back, and a slight shiver goes through her body as she remains completely still.
There. Much better.