Page 30 of Twisted Ties

I take a step away from the girl and pick up my coffee cup. From the corner of my eye, I see the girl jump up to sit on the counter, her bare legs swinging. Her soft thighs on display. Soft thighs I have a strong desire to squeeze, to spread open.

Azlan marches into the room, tossing his cloak towards a chair.

“It went well, then,” I say with a smirk.

“You know damn well it didn’t. You know damn well it was never going to.”

“What didn’t?” the girl asks.

And I turn to look at her. “He didn’t tell you?” She frowns at me and sends me the image of her middle finger.

“My family,” Azlan says, striding towards her and taking the cup from her hands, helping himself to a gulp of her coffee, his hand resting on her hip, and a flush swooping up her neck.

I can’t watch that crap. Not from the sidelines. That jealousy boils hot in my veins and the hook scrapes at my insides, painfully.

My body aches. My head thumps. I feel like I’m coming down with the goddamn flu. But it’s not that. It’s the bond. Unsealed. It’s making me sick.

“You have a family?” she asks.

“Of course I have a family.” He hands her back her cup and walks to the sink, slamming on the faucet and washing the city’s grime from his hands and his face.

“Don’t tell me,” I say, shaking my head in mock disbelief, “you don’t know who his family is?”

“I didn’t know his name until six days ago,” she says.

“Then you know who his family is, sweetheart.”

“She doesn’t,” Azlan says, rubbing at his face with a towel.

Anger floods her mind. I can’t blame her. Whatever fate might decide, it seems pretty fucking stupid to me to bind your life to someone you know so little about. Something I’ve been telling Azlan for months.

“My father is Leonardo Kennedy. My uncle, Christopher Kennedy.”

She shakes her head. “Kennedy? You’re a Kennedy? Are you related to–”

“Tristan Kennedy?” I venture. “They’re cousins.”

Rhi stares at us both, then tips back her head and laughs, her whole body shaking with it. “You’re messing with me.”

“I am not,” my friend says.

“Have you been paying attention in your history lessons, sweetheart? Do you know who the Kennedys are?”

Her gaze flips from mine to my friend’s. I swear I can almost feel the connection between them fizzing in the air.

“I’m not exactly interested in history. Who we are, where we get to in life, shouldn’t be dependent on our last name, on who we are related to, on our blood.”

“I agree,” my friend says. “I’ve never been interested in my family’s position.”

“Unlike Tristan,” she mutters.

My friend examines her. “Has he been causing you trouble?”

“She has an affinity for causing trouble for herself,” I tell him.

“He’s an asshole,” she says, staring directly at me, “like everyone else at that school.”

“Well, he’s been forbidden to speak with you.”