Page 9 of Twisted Tate

Those men fill my nightmares. But something about him is making me want to step closer instead of back. And that makes him far more dangerous than any man I’ve ever faced.

I take the glass but don’t drink. “I don’t know anything about my father’s business.”

“Bullshit.” He drops onto a leather couch, spreading his arms across the back like he owns the world. He probably thinks he does. Even sitting, he takes up too much space with his long legs, broad chest, and green eyes that won’t stop dissecting me. The position makes him look relaxed, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the alertness behind that lazy sprawl. If I so much as made a move, he’d pounce in an instant.

“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”

“I’ve had my men watching you.” He cocks his head, studying me. “Jenson Donaldson runs one of the largest trafficking operations on the East Coast. You live in his house. You attend his events. You smile pretty for his business partners. And you’re telling me you don’t know anything?”

My stomach clenches at the word trafficking, but I keep my face blank. This is a skill I’ve perfected over ten years—the art of showing nothing while everything inside me screams. It’s how I’ve survived.

“My father’s business doesn’t concern me. I’m just a Dove waiting to make a match.”

“Try again.”

“I’m his daughter, not his accountant.”

“You’re also smart as fuck, which means you know exactly what he does. Or you at least have information that could prove helpful.” Tate takes a sip of his whiskey, those green eyes never leaving mine. “Or maybe you just close your eyes and pretend it’s not happening.”

He’s more right than he knows. My stomach turns. He thinks I’m complicit in what my father does to those girls. I suppose I am, but I help the ones I can.

But I want to scream. I want to tell him I know exactly what happens to those girls. That I see them in my nightmares, among other faces that I’ll never be free from.

I don’t say any of that. I can’t. I’ve never said it out loud, not once in ten years, and I’m not going to start with a man who is just as dangerous as my father. And who has every intention of using me for whatever his game is.

“I don’t help him with anything,” I say instead. My voice is steady. I’m proud of that. “Don’t act like women in our world have much more choice than to do what our fathers tell us to do.”

Tate studies me. I can feel him trying to take me apart, trying to see what I’m hiding. I’ve been looked at by powerful men my entire adult life. I know how to handle him.

But this is different. When other men look at me, they see what they want to see—a pretty face with a body to use. They don’t look deeper because they don’t care what’s underneath.

Tate Sinclair looks at me like he’s already figured out half my secrets and is just waiting for me to confirm them.

And the fucked up part? Part of me wants to let him.

No. Absolutely not. I need to get control of this situation before I do something stupid.

I take a slow sip of the whiskey, letting him watch the way my throat moves when I swallow. Then I set the glass down and walk toward him, letting my hips sway just enough to be obvious. I stop when I’m standing between his spread knees.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for me. But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers grip the whiskey glass a little harder. He’s not as unaffected as he wants me to think, and that gives me something to work with.

“Maybe we can talk about something else,” I say. I pitch my voice lower. Softer. “I saw the way you looked at me at the club. I know you want me, sexy.”

I reach for the hem of my dress, sliding it up my thighs inch by inch. His eyes drop to watch, and I see his cock twitch against his jeans. He’s hard, and that means I have leverage. Men are easy when they’re hard.

Except my hands are trembling, and it’s not just from fear. It’s from the way he’s looking at me—like he sees right through the performance to something real underneath. Something I don’t want him to see.

“I could make you feel good,” I continue, pulling the fabric higher. My voice comes out breathier than I intended. “And then maybe you won’t care so much about my father’s boring business dealings.”

I start to sink to my knees, and I will do what I’ve done countless times. I will tell myself it has nothing to do with the way my body is responding to him, the way I actually want to know what he tastes like, the way I—

“Are you done?”

The words stop me cold. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.

“Excuse me?”

“Stand up.” His voice is harder now, but I don’t move. “I said stand up, Reese.”