Page 8 of Twisted Tate

But fuck him. Fuck both of them.

My hands want to move. I feel the pull, the familiar need to bring my fingers to my mouth. I grip my purse instead, digging my nails into the leather until it hurts.

“You don’t have to be so quiet over there.”

I stare out at the moon. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About whether I should’ve taken my chances with the other car.” I might as well tell him the truth. That’s as much truth as he’s going to get out of me. I’ve complicated my entire life with one stupid fucking decision.

He glances at me, just for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You made the right call.”

“You would say that. You’re the one who wanted me in your car.”

“True.” He turns his attention back to the road. “But whoever was in that black sedan scared you more than I do. And I’m a scary fucking guy, Reese. So that tells me something.”

His voice is casual, but the words aren’t. There’s a promise underneath them, a reminder that just because he hasn’t hurt me doesn’t mean he won’t. The Sinclair men aren’t ones that you fuck with, and every Raven knows it.

The men want to take their power and the women want to fuck them. There’s not a lot of in between.

I don’t respond. He’s not wrong, and I hate that he noticed. He’s going to be dangerous.

We drive for another twenty minutes before he turns onto a private road. Gravel crunches under the tires. The headlights cut through thick darkness, and then a house appears—no, not a house. A mansion that is designed to look like some kind of high-end cabin.

The cabin is all wood and glass, tucked into the trees where no one would ever find it. It’s isolated and beautiful, the kind of place rich people go to escape the world. My father has a few just like it.

He pulls into a garage that closes behind us automatically. My pulse spikes. No one knows I’m here. No one would hear me scream.

“Relax,” he says, like he can read my mind. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have driven an hour to do it.”

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

“It’s not supposed to be comforting.” He kills the engine and looks at me. Really looks at me, those green eyes taking me apart piece by piece. “It’s supposed to be honest. I don’t lie, Reese. When I tell you something, you can believe it. And right now I’m telling you that whether tonight is easy or hard is entirely up to you.”

The threat lands exactly where he wants it to. I swallow hard and don’t say anything.

“Come on,” he says and gets out of the car.

I follow him into the cabin because I don’t have another option. The inside is exactly what I expected—high ceilings, expensive furniture, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that probably has a gorgeous view in the daylight.

I count the cameras. Three in the main room alone. Tate’s going to be watching me.

“You want a drink?” He moves toward a bar in the corner, shrugging off his jacket. The shoulder holster with his gun stays on, a reminder of exactly what kind of man I’m dealing with.

Without the jacket, I can see how fucking big he is. His black shirt stretches across shoulders that are easily twice as wide as mine, and I can better see the edge of a tattoo creeping up from his collar—dark ink against tan skin. He rolls up his sleeves, and his forearms flex as he reaches for a bottle. That’s when I notice the tattoos curling around his wrists run along both arms, disappearing under the rolled sleeves. He’s built like a man who could break me in half without trying, and I see why women throw themselves at him.

I hate that I notice. I hate that my eyes trace down his spine and wonder what all those muscles look like without the shirt. I hate that I’m already imagining what it would feel like to have all that strength pinning me down.

I don’t even want to think about that. That’s never something I want from a man. Not after what I’ve experienced. And imagining him that way puts me even more on edge.

“I want to know why you brought me here.”

“I told you. I have questions.” He pours himself a whiskey, and I watch the way his hands move, taking all the time he wants. “About your father’s little business.”

He pours a second glass without asking if I want it, then turns and holds it out to me. Up close, those green eyes are even more unsettling. They’re dark around the edges and lighter in the center, and they don’t blink nearly enough. He’s got a scar through his left eyebrow, thin and white, and I assume whoever gave it to him is no longer alive.

He towers over me by at least eight inches, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He’s the kind of man who could take what he wanted from me and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.