Page 67 of Drawn Together

My sister stared, as if she didn’t recognize me. “Wow, looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” she exclaimed, looking to Lupita, wide-eyed.

“I don’t mind going with her…” Wilson said, adding more fuel to the fire.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “You do as I say. I’m your superior,” he reminded Wilson in an icy tone.

“My father—” I began, but Sebastian interrupted me.

“Your father has put me in charge of protecting you, so don’t waste your time trying to convince anyone. You’ll either go with me, or you won’t go.”

I glared at him and marched to the front door without looking back to see if he was following me, swinging my ponytail around so hard it would’ve whipped someone in the face if they’d been standing too close.

Once outside, I opened the garage, aware that Sebastian was now behind me. The vehicles parked inside were unimaginable. I had never cared much about brands or the makes of cars, but among the relics of automotive history that my father liked to collect was a Lamborghini, two Ferraris, a Bentley, and a gigantic four-wheeler that he used for hunting.

My adorable lime-green VW Beetle looked ridiculous compared to those cars, but I’d wanted it, and my father had indulged me. He’d planned to give me an Audi, if I remember correctly, but I’d always wanted a Beetle, just like the Barbie mobile I had as a kid.

“You should let me drive,” Sebastian said, seeing that I was headed straight for my car.

“No way. It’s enough that I have to bring you along,” I said, climbing into the driver’s seat and finally glancing over at him. “You can follow me in Peter’s car.”

Sebastian walked around to the driver’s side and stopped in front of me. “I don’t trust you one bit,” he said simply. “I’ll ride with you in the same car. You want to drive, go ahead. I’ve already drafted my will.”

“Was that supposed to be funny?”

“What’s not funny at all is the level of hostility you’re exuding from every pore in your body. If you keep talking to me that way in front of people, you’re going to get us both in trouble.”

I gave a fake smile. “Sorry, which level of hostility would you prefer, sir?”

Sebastian frowned as he paced over to the passenger’s side and got in.

I started the car, blasted the air-conditioning, buckled my seat belt, and drove out of the garage.

My house was a centuries-old mansion along the Mississippi River outside of Baton Rouge. There had been many plantations in the area, cotton farms that were only profitable because of forced slave labor, but my house had belonged to an English nobleman who fled to the North during the Civil War. Knowing that the people who built our home had not participated in slavery gave me peace of mind, but according to the historical record, the English nobleman had been killed before he’d managed to escape.

The road to Baton Rouge was almost always deserted, surrounded by thick vegetation. Truth is, I would’ve loved to have spent more time here. This was my home, after all. I was a Southerner, although I barely had an accent, since I had been raised in England. But seeing all the nature that surrounded me filled me with a sense of peace that I rarely felt in London or New York. Moving to Manhattan had been more a wish to be far from my father than anything else.

I rolled down the window and felt the wind whip my face. It was a beautiful day, warm, but not hot enough to be uncomfortable. Last night’s storm had left puddles all over the ground, but the sky was clearer than ever.

I tried to ignore the person seated next to me, and even though the memory of his lips on my body still made me blush, I couldn’t forget his rejection. Angry, I slammed on the accelerator, causing the wind to lash my face so hard, it was almost painful.

“Don’t be reckless, Marfil,” Sebastian lectured me from the passenger’s seat.

“You drive just as fast,” I replied, enjoying the speed.

“I never go over seventy-five, Marfil,” he said, sitting up in his seat and cursing under his breath as he saw me step harder on the accelerator.

There was never anyone on this road, and the speed was exhilarating.

“Marfil,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

I rolled my eyes but tapped the brakes to slow down.

The car didn’t respond.

“Slow down. Now,” he demanded, not noticing how my body had tensed and that all the blood had drained from my face.

“It’s not responding,” I said in a thread of a voice.

“This is not funny at all,” he answered in an icy tone.