Page 74 of Twisted Truth

“Matthew has already taken the opportunity to buy all of your toiletries in two sets,” I say, rummaging through thedrawers until I find the baskets for Ella. “I’m not sure if you made it up to your bathroom before I got home, but there should be all new things up there for you, and he insisted another set be delivered to my bathroom. I think he’s sometimes much more calculating than I give him credit for.”

Ella chuckles and walks toward me, eyeing the products in the baskets. “I’ve never even heard of these brands.”

“Oh, yes. About that. Matthew also told me he threw out all of your old products.”

“He what?”

“Yeah, sorry. He told me over lunch today when he was making the arrangements.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He said they were cheap trash.” I hold up my hands in defense. “His words, not mine.”

“Matthew,” she says with a snarl, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, well. He replaced everything and more, is what he told me. I don’t know what any of it is, but these three baskets are all yours.”

“There’s also all new makeup, makeup brushes, and hair tools,” she says, taking in the inventory. “Did he throw out all of that as well?”

“Not sure, but I think so? I’m sorry. I had no idea he was going to do that. I would have told him not to, which is why I’m sure he did it behind both of our backs. Better to ask for forgiveness and all that.”

“If I didn’t adore Matthew, I’d strangle that control freak.”

“I’d hold him down for you,” I say with a wink.

She gives an exaggerated sigh. “But then you’d be a rudderless ship lost at sea. And we can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t. Which is why he gets away with murder. Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

She grabs some sort of loofah braided thing and some different types of bottled soaps and washes from her basketsand follows me into the shower. I pull her under the stream with me, wanting her close again. After we’re both soaked and settled, we stand there for a few minutes, holding onto one another in silence. There’s a strange sense bubbling inside me, making me wonder if this moment is real. Ella and I met just four days ago when she stumbled late into our meeting wearing those ridiculous clothes. Two days after that, we were splashed all over the media, rumored to be dating. And now just two days after that, she’s here, living in my penthouse, naked with me in my shower after the best not-sex I’ve ever had in my life.

Life truly is surprising and strange sometimes. And a part of me is . . . happy, excited to have Ella here with me. The change of atmosphere in having her in my penthouse is substantial. Home suddenly doesn’t feel as cold and empty. But I try to keep those thoughts at bay because the majority of me is still pissed at the board for forcing me, and therefore by extension Ella, into this. The idea of her being thrown to the wolves of the public and their scrutiny makes my blood boil. And the worry over her safety and what some sick fuck might try to do to her to get to me has kept me up more than one night this week.

But for this moment, I give in to that excited part of myself. I let myself be selfish like I was moments ago when I took things way too far—since I have no intention of letting them get that far again. I’m a selfish prick sometimes, and tonight, I just couldn’t seem to stop myself.

A little while later, washed and dried, and Ella in a t-shirt of mine, I pull her into my bed, shifting her until we’re touching. She raises her head from my chest and reaches up to brush her finger along my temple.

“What’s this scar from?” she whispers. I know she noticed the scars on my back earlier, and my reaction to her touch. But she’s clever enough that the second she noticed my flinching at her touch, she moved her hands away. She clearly knows not toask about those scars. And she’s right about that. I’ve never explained them to any woman I’ve been with. Even if all of them asked about them. But no one has asked me about this faint scar near my eye, so her question catches me off guard. And just like the scars on my back, I’m not going to divulge where it came from since they all happened the same night.

“I grew up in a house of boys. We roughhoused a lot,” I lie.

I shift onto my side and pull Ella to me, her back to my front. I wrap one arm around her, locking her in, keeping her close, but keeping her away from my scars and her questions. I press a kiss to her temple.

“Good night, Ella,” I whisper into her hair.

“Good night, Asher,” she says, sleepily.

The gun digsinto my forehead.

Tears and snot and saliva run down my face as I gag on the tie in my mouth.

Blood runs into my right eye from the gash at my temple. I try to rub it away, but my hands are bound behind my back.

Grandpa lies in front of me, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. Thecrackof his knee shattering under the force of the hammer still rings through my ears. Blood seeps through his suit pants, pooling on the ground beneath his leg. But I’m not screaming because of the blood around his knee. I’m screaming because of the blood running from his ear. I’m screaming because of his eyes. Grandpa’s eyes, the same ice-blue shade as mine, are open. Blank, staring.

Lifeless.

“He’s just a boy!”I can still hear my grandpa’s last words play through my head.“Please, let him go! I don’t care what you do to me, but don’t hurt him. He’s just a boy!”