Page 14 of Nevermore (A Cruel Love #1)

TWELVE

REIGN

He’s up to something.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid. The chicken we had for dinner could also be the cause, right? Isn’t there some sort of study about the effects of late-night poultry consumption?

I’m reaching.

In the last few days since my apology, Santiago has been extremely…

pleasant. I hesitate to even call it that because every gesture and kind word has been accompanied by a sort of unnerving smile that seems so disingenuous.

He’s given me presents too, or at the very least they’ve come from his dad who’s rarely home to thank.

A new backpack, nice clothes, and even a fancy smartphone.

They’ve all been delivered with offers to hang out, but I’ve kept my distance.

Something doesn’t feel right here.

I should be happy and grateful that he wants to get along with me.

I should also be forgiving that it took him a few days to warm up to me.

In reality, getting a new stepbrother isn’t easy for everyone, and I knew there would be struggles along the way.

I wanted to peacefully coexist with him, but his interest in me is unnerving, especially because I simply don’t fit in with him.

His impeccable clothing, his manner of speaking, how he carries himself. We’re polar opposites.

And, yeah, I’m man enough to admit that he makes me a bit uncomfortable too.

It’s just because there’s so much of him.

Every time he walks into a room, he sucks all the life out of it.

Not because he’s draining or boring, but due to the fact that he commands so much attention, it’s impossible to give it to anything else.

He’s this godly figure—an eighteen year old that’s wise beyond his years—and his presence makes me want to tuck my tail between my legs and whine.

I’ve never felt this way before and it’s entirely annoying.

I have hero worship for someone I barely know who’s the same age as me. I didn’t think that could be a thing.

So I stare at my ceiling, praying for sleep to come, because at least I could stop thinking about him and how he’s become a bit of an obsession for me. But, of course, that doesn’t happen. I still think about him.

His lightly accented voice that’s both dull and lively, his sharp archaic features, the length of his elegant fingers, how he scowls when he eats like he’s angry at his food. My brain is torn between wanting to know everything about him and wanting to stay as far away as possible.

The unmistakable sound of my door creaking open jars me. I immediately crane my neck up and turn to see who it is, and I’m shocked when I find Santiago slinking into my room.

Fucking speak of the Devil.

I sit up, nervously wrapping my arms around my bare chest. Not that he’s looking. As always, his gaze is clinical in nature—supremely cold and unmoving—but I do it anyway.

Already knowing I’m awake, he doesn’t bother being quiet. He stands at the edge of my bed, looking down at me, and states, “Get dressed.”

“What?” I ask, breathless because even though his eyes show no interest, they still burn through my skin. “Where are we going?”

He sighs as if exasperated and doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and marches to the closet. Rummaging around for a minute, he pulls out a pair of old ratty jeans and a T-shirt before tossing them both at me. “I said get dressed.”

Then he leaves, his presence as blinding as ever, and I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened.

He’s like the Daphne flowers I once plucked when I was younger.

They grew around the edge of the trailer park and made it look prettier than it was.

I was obsessed with their bright pink color against the typical Texas brown landscape.

I put them in the trailer to bring some life to the place, but mostly because I was selfish.

I also wanted the daphne all to myself. I wanted to hoard their beauty for my own.

Mama nearly tanned my behind when she saw them.

Terrified that I’d do something stupid like eat it, she threw them away, and I cried.

I cried for a flower just so pretty, you can’t help but be an idiot for it.