Page 25 of Bastard

The broad side of my palm connects with his cheek.

Smack.

7

He doesn’t so much as flinch.

I raise my hand for seconds.

“You’re allowed the one. I deserve it.” His admission is surprising. His flat, unaffected tone not so much. “Hit me again and there’ll be consequences.”

I notch my chin, refusing to be intimidated. He’s bigger than I remember. More muscular and physically more threatening. “Yes, I’m reminded every day of your brand of consequences.”

He doesn’t react, acknowledge, or apologize for what he’s done. I glare at him as he boldly studies my face in the same way one looks at a painting, examining every blemish, every fine line.

“I signed the divorce papers,” I snap.

Our eyes lock. Mine furious, his unmoved.

“Did you hear what I said?”

His eyebrows form a V, a second before he reaches out to touch the bump on my head.

Once upon a time, I would have melted into his touch then demanded he place both hands on me. Now, I step backward and force his hand to fall away.

Something indecipherable passes across his expression. Regret? Anger? I used to bask in rare times like this, when the slightest reaction filled me with hope. A reaction meant he cared, right? Except hope is as dangerous a feeling as rage. It’s often uncontrollable, wild and unrealistic, with an unpredictable outcome. Knowing what kind of man he is, why would I hope for anything from him?

“What do you want from me?”

“You already know the answer,” he growls.

I blink. “Am I here because of Diego?”

Silence.

It takes all my patience not to get in his face. “Explain it to me.”

“Time hasn’t tempered that stubborn streak.”

I step into him. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not the naïve girl you took advantage of.”

“Is that what I did?” he murmurs ever so softly.

I ball my fingers, preparing to punch him in the kidney this time.

“Do it, and you’ll be sorry.”

Madre mía. He’s sexier than I remember, with an unfamiliar hard edge to him. Maybe it’s because his cheekbones are more pronounced, making his handsome face slightly more dangerous. Like he works out a lot, and exists on a diet of lean proteins and headstrong women like me.

Refusing to be intimidated, I focus on his obvious weakness and cock my head in challenge. “Sorrier than you with that man bun?”

Dios, would it kill him to react?

He moves across the room to look out a window. “The skinny boy with the goatee.”

I stiffen. “Donovan. What about him?”

“Do you care for him?”