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But also, my father’s refusal to see me made my chest tighten. Something had changed—something that made me feel as if bad things were about to happen.
I clamped down on the quivering mess my insides had turned into and straightened. “What do you want?”
Declan’s face turned back to an expressionless mask. “Your father is ready to see you.”
Finally.
I shot him another menacing look while he looked me up and down. I was in sweats and a hoodie at least three sizes too big.
Tough luck.
I took a step, waited until Declan moved to the side, then marched on.
Whatever my father had to say, I would never forgive him for what he’d done. I was done trying to fit into an image. Done trying to fit into a reality and a family I had never been a part of.
Totally done.
I focused on my fury, took the cold, marble stairs in a brisk walk.
Light cascaded across the polished stone floors and the white walls that served as a backdrop for the select pieces of modern art as hideous as the sexy interior designer who sold my father on them, probably along with a blow-job.
I exhaled. I needed to get myself under control, find out exactly what was going on, and figure out how best to escape once and for all.
Somehow, it felt as if I saw everything with new eyes, as if everything had changed.
Or was I the one that had changed?
Between all the other Georgian-style homes surrounding us, the chilly elegance of my father’s mansion had always stood out.
It seemed completely out of place—somehow like me.
I crossed the living room, a sleek, big room, every piece of the furnishings a mix of contemporary design made for show—not with convenience in mind—and bold color.
Cold, sleek, clinical.
Not a real home.
Not even the textural fabrics could add a touch of warmth against the otherwise cool palette. But how could they, when the arctic climate was coming from the people living here?
I stopped at the heavy black door to my father’s office, hesitated, but then remembered Declan hovering right behind me.
Show no fear.
I straightened, then opened the door without knocking, ready to tear into my father, but came to a stop when I almost crashed into a huge wall of muscle. Hands like plates wrapped around my arms and held me in place.
I raised my gaze upwards along a strong chest, wide neck, Adam’s apple and strong jaw until I met the steeliest gray eyes I’d ever looked into.
“Hello there, beautiful, what an entrance.” The raspy voice was the first thing that registered, the accent the second.
Slavic, maybe Russian—it fit the brutish external.
I took a step back. Then another when he didn’t let go of me.
I narrowed my eyes in warning—but all it caused was a corner of his mouth lifting. Not a real smile, just the hint of it. Then his eyes crinkled, and for a short moment, he looked almost tame—less dangerous.
Though it looked like he wasn’t used to smiling, couldn’t get himself to fully do it.
My father cleared his throat, which tore me out of my reverie and pulled me back into the here and now—back into my righteous anger.
