Page 5 of Twins for the Enemy

Chapter four

~KIERAN~

For the first twenty minutes, Farah pretends to be disinterested in my plane, but as we approach a half hour, her eyes start to sneak in looks. She rubs her palm against the white leather chair as she looks over at the wooden table between us and the large-screen TV behind me.

Her stomach continues to growl.

Some people might call it karma. I'm not into sadism, but some people’s misfortune creates a bed of satisfaction. It's good to see people get what they deserve .

She still looks gorgeous, which is harming my judgment to an infuriating level.

I need to keep a tight hold on the rage I'd been feeling toward her for the last two months. I need to think of Ellie’s burned skin instead of the rosiness to Farah’s cheeks that make her appear perpetually wonderstruck.

I need to think of how Ellie’s hands had been trembling when I reached her at the hospital instead of how Farah’s hands have this tiny bone structure that makes me want to encase them to protect them.

I need to think about how I slept with Farah while Ellie was being carried out of the fire Farah started, condemning me as a selfish brother and her as a sociopath.

She's carbon monoxide, which can cause suffocation and catastrophic fires, but it can also cause delusions. It will make you so high that the poison looks like an elixir.

I’ve always gotten what I wanted by being direct—making the threat obvious, letting people see exactly what they’re up against. But I’m starting to realize her way works just as well, maybe better. Maybe the ones who don’t make noise are the ones who get closest before they strike.

"Tell me about the Bettiol fire," I say, grabbing onto my drink. I'd poured her some juice, but she's ignored it. "Your boss told the police that he fired you because you were stealing."

She continues to look past me, focusing on the TV. "I wasn't stealing."

"If somebody falsely accused me, then fired me, I'd burn down their business."

She glares at me but doesn't say anything.

"You can't pretend you weren't angry," I say. "I saw the surveillance footage."

Her eyes widen, and her shoulders tense. "There was surveillance footage of the fire?"

Tension courses through my own body. She’s already trying to build her legal defense.

"No," I say. "I was talking about surveillance footage of you being fired.

Were you worried that your boss hadn't turned off the surveillance cameras for the night and caught you?

The police don't need it. They have motive, they have witnesses, and they have surveillance footage of the nearby restaurant, which you ran past. The court case should be quick and brutal. "

She looks out the window. Clouds are layered so thick underneath us that it resembles snow clinging onto rocky terrain.

Part of me had been waiting for her to explain away all that evidence—her burned hand, and her refusing to go to the hospital after she crashed into me.

It's not for any sympathy or affection toward her, but because I've never been so completely fooled by anyone.

Considering her complete and utter disinterest in denying it, it appears that I'm not as good of a judge of character as I thought.

"The news stopped reporting about Helena Porter," she says. "Have you heard anything else about her? Is she doing okay? "

I try to keep my anger from flaring on my face, but she must see it in her periphery as she nervously glances at me.

I could tell her the truth, but she doesn't deserve to know.

I also don't need her to know how deep my hate is and how she should have run when she first saw me.

I'll wait out the next seven months, and once the twins are born, I'll send her to prison. It’ll be a fitting gift to Ellie as she begins the next stage of her life.

"Never mind," she murmurs. "I'll find out on my own."

Those soft wilderness eyes are trying to look at me in defiance, but it makes her look more like an injured fawn. It should trigger my kill instinct, but aggravatingly, it makes me consider all of the predators who’d prey on her and what I’ll need to do to keep her safe.

It’s because of the twins. Paternal instinct.

I take out my phone, avoiding those eyes. Seventy-four new emails. But even the ones about acquisitions seem trivial .

"I’ve already started the process of getting the twins into one of the best private schools in the country," I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket.

"It will be more difficult to get two children in, but they've been floating the idea of a new music building with a recital and concert hall.

Allegedly, there is a difference between the two. They also want fifty practice rooms—"

"The children aren't going to a private school," she says coldly.

I stare at her. "Why wouldn't you want our children to get the best education available?"

"They're not our—" she stops, her jaw clenching. "I don't want my children only exposed to wealthy, pretentious children who only care about who's wearing brand names and who knows the most celebrities. I want them exposed to people from other walks of life."

"That's ridiculous." I take a gulp of my drink. "Do you know what happens in public schools? "

"Yes," she says. "Do you?"

"Yes. I went to eight of them. You’d get a better education in a crack den."

I trace the rim of my glass. "Speaking of degenerates, what happened to my compass? The one you stole?"

"I sold it," she says. "When you're poor, fifty dollars goes a long way."

I rub the side of my face, my scruff scratching against my palm. "It was worth far more than fifty dollars."

She shrugs. "Oh, well."

I take another swig. She glances over at me, a mix of apprehension and confusion creasing her forehead. She clearly expected me to be angrier. I should be angrier. But I must have tipped the scales so far into rage that I find her nonchalance amusing.

I'm entertained by a woman I want to ruin. This must be what insanity is.

My house was built by an oil baron, who'd had eight children, three wives, countless mistresses, and a strong predilection for iron, granite, and marble.

Once we drive past the iron-wrought gates, Farah's eyes follow up the three stories.

With the two turrets framing the center of the mansion and the roof spires, it must look like a castle, but with the massive windows and the exterior grand staircase, it lacks the sense of security that a castle has.

With technology, it became less necessary. With power, it became irrelevant.

"You look like you've never seen my house before," I say.

"I didn't see the outside until I was leaving," she says. "And I was in a bit of a rush."

"Because you thought I would chase after you?"

"Let's not act like I was being melodramatic," she says. "You did track me down two months later."

"Fair. "

She's quiet as I park, and we walk into the house. My head of staff, Bernard, opens the doors when we're a few feet away, a rush of warm air hitting against us. She steps closer to me, looking around at the foyer, but after we step inside, she steps away again.

Yes, an injured fawn, but one that’s determined to not appear frightened by its predicament.

She looks at the sweeping staircase, which hugs along the wall.

Two railings, forged out of metal to form intricate patterns, flow up along its width.

It always seemed a bit too feminine for my tastes, but Ellie was horrified at the idea of me demolishing it.

She kept talking about future nieces and nephews riding laundry baskets down it, so I let it remain.

Now, seeing Farah look up at it, I can imagine little feet running down it or playing with toys on one of its spacious steps.

I can also imagine Farah, sleepily walking down with a soft smile—or a dress pulled up to her waist as I fuck her against it .

My attempts to keep my rage at the forefront of my mind aren't working.

"Let me show you your room," I say, indicating up the staircase.

I start walking up them, not waiting to see if she follows, but as the stairs turn, I can see her in the edges of my vision, remaining nearly five feet behind me.

She keeps looking around her, taking in the mansion with amazement and disgust. I see her mouth a few words that almost look like profanity.

I slow my steps as we pass by the rooms, and she sneaks a glance into each one. Once we reach the end of the hall, I gesture into the room.

"This will be your room," I say. "It's secure and it has a view over the stream."

"I'm surprised you care about what I have for a view," she says. "I was under the impression that you hoped I'd suffer for the rest of my life."

"I don't care," I say. "But if you're constantly under distress, the twins will be too. Unfortunately, with the nature of human anatomy, my children are inside you. If they weren't, you'd be sleeping in a closet."

"You go to all of the feminist meetings, don't you?" she asks.

"I go to them at the same time as you go to the meetings for mental stability." I nod toward the window. "Check out the river. Tell me the view isn't gorgeous."

She doesn't say anything, but she walks over to the window and peers out. Her shoulders relax as she looks out.

I take a quick step back and close the door.

I'd had a lock installed on the outside right before I left to get her, shaped like a compass decal just in case she noticed it.

I hear her hurried steps as I turn the needle of the compass, locking it.

The doorknob jiggles as she tries to twist and turn it, then shakes as she becomes more frantic.

"Let me out!" she yells. "What are you doing? Let me out! You can't do this. Shit! "

She starts banging on the door. I stare at the lock.

Her whining only makes me think of how panicked Ellie must have been during the fire.

This is nothing. There is no immediate danger to her.

She can't see any black smoke filling the room or feel the heat of a fire getting too hot to deal with.

This is child's play compared to what she did to Ellie.

"Please!" she says, panic and sadness creeping into her voice. Even the banging on the door sounds less confident. I take in sharp breaths, almost feeling claustrophobic. I close my eyes. I only want to take care of her because of the twins. I can't let her sway me that easily.

I reach for the lock.

I let my hand drop, pivoting and walking back down the hallway. It's not until I'm partway down the stairs that I stop hearing her. Her voice echoes in my head, as insistent as a desire to breathe.