Her torso emerged as she stepped backward from the armoire. A long white cotton skirt swirled around her legs, at odds with the tight black crop top she wore. Her dark hair fell straight, ending an inch below her earlobes, and he caught sight of two earrings dangling from her left ear.
With both feet firmly on the ground, she closed the door so gently it made no sound, then turned.
“Fuck!” she cried, jumping back against the armoire. The word, and the strength of it, catching Monk by surprise. She sounded much older than she appeared and less scared than angry at being caught.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
The imp mimicked him, a belligerent glint in her eye.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Who are you?” she shot back.
He searched her face, the defiance there almost hiding the fear. And worry.
“Collin Wilde,” he replied. He meant the girl no harm, so the least he could do was be the first to offer information.
Her eyes narrowed. “You related to Roger?”
“To my ever-loving chagrin, yes. I’m his son.”
“You don’t like your dad?”
“My father was a predator and parasite,” he said, wanting her to know exactly where he stood on Roger Wilde’s existence. She didn’t look the sort who’d believe him right away, but he’d at least lay the groundwork.
Some of the tension eased around her eyes. “Kendall,” she replied.
“You know my father?”
She shook her head, both her hair and her earrings swaying with the motion. “But my mom does.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know her mom’s story, but if she partied with the likes of his father, then Kendall’s life couldn’t have been easy.
“She’s a good mom,” Kendall said, lifting her chin.
Monk refrained from pointing out that she obviously wasn’t that good since she’d left her daughter at the castle. “I’m sure she is.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t know you. Or your mom,” he added. He might be predisposed to have certain ideas, but life had taught him that people had many facets to their personality. Some were little more than subtle shifts, while others could be as different as night and day.
“She’s a good mom.”
He opted not to respond, doubting anything he said would go over well. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” she said, drawing back her shoulders.
He raised a brow and stared at her, hard. “Try again.”
She glared back. A minute of silence passed, then her shoulders drooped. “Twelve.”
“And where’s your mom now? A question only, not a judgment,” he added when the spark of defiance returned.
He almost regretted asking when her bravado slipped and she looked every one of her scant twelve years of age, lost and unsure.
“I don’t know,” she said. Then lifting her chin, all but daring him to judge, she added, “She left me here two weeks ago.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
