Page 102 of Twisted Game


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I’ve never been good with people, and I guard my personal space intensely. It’s different with my brothers, since I feel comfortable with them and they know me well enough to read my moods. But I don’t spend time with outsiders, and I’ve never wanted to before.

But now, I can’t get that thought out of my head.What would it be like?

Willow and I barely talk to each other, so of course she doesn’t have the kind of easy conversation with me that she has with Ransom. But that doesn’t stop me from being fascinated by her, my thoughts always drawn to her.

It was bad before, when I was just watching her through the cameras in her apartment. Now she’shere, almost larger than life, taking up space in our home and in my head. She doesn’t come into my room, but I know she’s in the warehouse somewhere at all times. Using our bathroom, leaving strands of soft blonde hair in the drain. Sitting in the living room, watching her home improvement shows on our TV. Spending time with Ransom in the garage, learning about the work we do, integrating herself into our lives in a way that never should have been allowed to happen in the first place.

But it’s too late now.

Throwing her out would put her and us in danger from whoever is looking for information about what happened at that brothel. There’s no getting rid of her, so the only thing I can do is try to regulate my own reactions to her.

I close my eyes for a second, counting out my breaths, my fingers tapping against my thighs.

Inhale, one, two, three, four. Hold, one, two, three, four. Exhale, one, two, three, four.

And then again.

And once more for good measure.

I tap out each count on my thigh, feeling it physically, reassuring myself as I wrestle my emotions back under control.

Once my head is more clear, I take my laptop into the kitchen so I can keep working while I eat lunch. Whenever I feel uncomfortable, I always go back to my computers. They’re easy to understand, they do what I tell them to do, and they always follow logic.

While I eat, I bring up the picture of the unknown man again, cross referencing it with databases from the US and a few other countries too, trying to draw any kind of connection between this face and who it could belong to.

I keep my food away from my computer, not wanting to get crumbs on the keyboard, and focus on the screen. One of my scans finishes running, and I let out a frustrated noise when it comes up with nothing.

“Dammit.”

Willow walks into the kitchen, glancing my way as she hears me curse under my breath. None of that comfortable camaraderie she shows with Ransom is present when she’s around me, and there’s none of that combative fire that comes out around Malice either.

But there is… something.

She seems as aware of me as I am of her. When I dart furtive glances in her direction, I often find her already looking at me, as if she likes to study me when I’m not watching.

I can relate to that feeling.

As I focus on getting a new scan set up on my computer, she opens and closes a few cabinets, probably searching for a snack.

“Do you have any peanut butter?” she asks after a moment, her voice soft.

“Top shelf. On the left,” I answer, not looking up. Since I keep the kitchen organized, I know exactly where everything is.

“Oh. I saw that, but—” She cuts herself off, and I look up in time to see her make a face. “It’s crunchy.”

Malice and Ransom are both fans of crunchy peanut butter, which I honestly don’t understand. Regular butter doesn’t come in a crunchy variety, so why should peanut butter? Butter is supposed to be smooth.

From the look on her face, Willow feels the same.

“Not a fan?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I mean, it’s fine, I just don’t like crunchy bits in my sandwich.”

My lips twitch into an almost smile at that. “Exactly. Peanut butter should be smooth. If I wanted something crunchy, I would eat a whole peanut.”

She laughs, and I feel a strange flush of pride at having been the one to elicit that sound from her, even if it was about something as mundane as peanut butter.

“I have a secret stash of the creamy kind,” I tell her. “If you want some.”

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