Blood Ties (Dinero de Sangre #2) - Lana Sky Page 0,17

I first met you in your father’s office.”

“Leave?” I croak hopefully.

He laughs. At the same time, he takes his hand from the door and uses it to grip my chin, whirling me around to face him. The glass rattles again as he pins me against the cool surface.

I have no choice but to see his face—to see the eyes ruthlessly raking over my body as if he truly does own it. Every inch, long before he had me brought here.

“I’ll taste you,” he declares, his voice rippling with lust. “And I’ll have you wishing that I put a bullet in that bastard’s brain sooner.”

Tristan? Or my father?

He doesn’t clarify, and I’m too unnerved to ask. I don’t want to know the answer.

“I’d rather die,” I hiss, “than feel any part of you on me anywhere!”

“You should be dead.” He traces my jawline with the pad of his thumb, roughly as if he’s trying to memorize every inch by feel alone. When he nears my ear, he leans in, bringing his mouth against the lobe. “If it weren’t for me, you would be. That bullet was meant for you.”

Chapter Five

That bullet was meant for you…

I gasp, overwhelmed by the implications of that statement. Then I recoil, shoving at his chest with both hands.

“You’re sick! Get the fuck away from me—”

“Think, Ada-Maria,” he demands, not budging an inch. “Ask yourself who had everything to gain if his daughter, keeper of his secrets, happened to die a horrific death the night before his impending arraignment.”

His tone is different. Too persistent. Too cold. Too…believable.

“No!” I wrench away and yank the door open enough to squeeze from the stall. Tripping over the threshold, I stumble, losing my balance so that I wind up on my knees, gripping the edge of a counter for balance. “You’re lying. Playing with my head. You’re lying!”

“I’m not.” God, he sounds so calm. So gentle?

No. No. No. I slap my hands over my ears and hum.

But nothing short of screaming could drown him out. “You were always a liability to him, but I wasn’t sure until I saw those scars. A man who would beat his own daughter like that? He didn’t give a damn whether you lived or died. He was only ever out for himself.”

“That sounds like you.” I whirl on him, hauling myself to my feet, utilizing the counter for balance.

He’s still technically inside the shower stall, watching me from beyond the gap in the glass partition.

“You were the one who only ever gave a damn about himself. After what you claimed to have done to my father, don’t you dare bring him into this.”

“So he did whip you.”

I groan in exasperation, feeling as though my brain is being manipulated and twisted, all for his amusement. “No. You did—”

“I didn’t hurt you,” he claims, still in that aggravatingly level tone.

“Oh really?” I hiss out a vicious excuse for a laugh. “You could have fooled me!”

“I merely punished you,” he adds, taking a step to bridge the gap between the shower and the main bathroom. Behind him, the water continues to fall, creating steam that billows around him like smoke. He looks like a literal demon waltzing out of hell, and my pulse surges to a painful, pulsating rhythm.

“If I wanted to hurt you, Ada… Trust me, there are a million ways I could do so.” He takes another step, exiting the shower completely, dripping water onto the floor. “And believe me when I say I’ve considered them all.”

“You want to know something funny?” I rasp.

Though it isn’t funny in the slightest. It’s pathetic, a painful reality stabbing at the back of my mind, threatening to reduce me to tears if I think on it long enough.

“I’m used to men not living up to their hype. Tristan was a dick, but he never disappointed me. I never expected better from him. Not good sex, not real commitment, not even loyalty. I’m sure you know better than anyone that I only gave him the time of day because the relationship benefited my father. In fact, most of the men I’ve dated and fucked were just that—peons my father wanted to control, so he used me.”

It sounds horrifying when said out loud; I can admit that. Internally, I’ve always processed it differently than I figure anyone outside of the family would. My father used me—but he trusted me, too. He relied on me. He needed me.

We had a bond forged by blood and family, strong enough to outlast everything.

Always.

But if