Page 23 of Dance of Thorns

Dad’s face sours again. “That’s a conversation I don’t need to take part in. Regardless, Dr. Caruso will be running a full panel.”

“The fuck does it matter anyway?!” I snap. “It’s not like I’m going to besleeping withBane fucking Antonov!”

Chiara snorts again from her spot in the corner.

I whip my head around to glare at her. “I’mnot.”

She sighs. “You’re marrying him, Dove.”

“And?!”

She smiles. “And I think you have alotto learn about arranged marriages.”

I shake my head. “Well, it’s still not happening. And I amnottaking any fucking STD?—”

“Yes, you are,” Dad says flatly. “But it’s your choice if you want to besedatedfor it or not.”

My jaw clenches tightly as my hands close to fists. “And if I say no?”

Dad glares at me coolly. “To?”

“To all of it! To getting a swab jammed up my vag to find non-existent STDs!! To fuckingmarryingBane, all because?—”

“You were caught with your tongue down his throat!” Felicity hisses shrilly at me. “You stupid little?—”

She shrieks, clutching Chanel to her chest and darting behind Dad’s chair as I rush her. Then Dad stands abruptly and stomps in front of me, blocking my path.

“STOP!” he roars.

I do so, my skin on fire and my pulse thundering in my ears.

Dad draws in a slow breath and then lets it out again.

“Everybody out.”

Chiara shrugs, stands, and walks out the door. Felicity lingers for a few seconds, stroking her pet rat, until my dad turns to her and sends her on her way with a “pretty little kitty” that makes me want to puke.

When Felicity finally stops blowing my dad kisses over her shoulder and shaking her Brazilian butt lift at him, and we’re alone, he sighs heavily.

“Sit down, Dove.”

When I don’t, he rolls his eyes as he takes his own seat. “Or not. I don't care either way.”

He leans on his desk, glaring at me. The seconds tick by.

“What?” I finally mumble. “I’m not doing it. And there’s nothing you can threaten me with to force me.”

He snorts. “I could kick you out of the carriage house?”

I shrug. “Fine. I’ll pack tonight. I’m not marrying Bane.”

He looks at me with a bored expression. “You have no money, no job to support your dancing and your fucking painting, both of which pay peanuts?—”

“I’ll sell my body for cash before I marry?—”

“Or I could simply make a phone call to that fancy rehab facility in Italy and mention that I found needles in your bedroom and that you’re relapsing. You know they’d behappyto take my money to bring you back there, voluntarily orinvoluntarily. ”

The words hit me like a knife plunging into my heart. Acid and poison seep through my veins. I shiver as my face sours, and I glare right at him.