She sniffs. “Back again?”
“Couldn’t stay away,” I drawl. “Must have been your sparkling personality.”
I catch it, then. Just a glimpse. Like it’s something precious.
The edge of a smile on her lips.
And as I sit there, teasing and taunting until she finally grants me the full effect of her laughter, I feel Stasi weave her way into my heart.
She won’t be fifteen forever. Two years.
I can wait two years.
Forher.
12 – Rafe
When I wake up, my mood is somehow, impossibly worse than it was last night.
Hours of broken dreams and fractured nightmares will do that.
But it was worth setting my alarm early. As I slip out of the kitchen with my stolen goods, Stasi still sleeping next to the hearth, my mood begins to lift.
And when I jump down the last of the steps with a whistle a few hours later, it’s even more worth it for the look on Anastasia’s face.
She leans heavily on the broom in her hands. “I suppose I have you to thank for this?”
I make a show of glancing down the hall. The floor is white, the barest traces of the wood showing.
Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of tiny little pieces of white rice.Everywhere.
“Now, why on earth would I have anything to do with this?” I ask, enjoying myself.
Stasi stares at the floor. “I think you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a lot.”
I saunter towards her, reveling in the crunch beneath my feet. Silas will lose his shit when he sees this. Still worth it. “Better get cracking. This rice won’t clean itself up.”
Stasi gapes as I swipe the broom from her hands. “I need that!”
Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Hmmm. Nope. Hands only, I’m afraid.”
“Rafe.” She grabs for it, but I pull it back, out of her reach and enjoying the furious look on her faceimmensely.
“I hate you,” she snaps. I spend a highly satisfying few seconds watching as she drops to her knees and tries to grab the rice in her hands. Most of it just falls out. I start to whistle again as I make my way down the hall with the broom in my hands.
The attack comes just as I reach the end. I sense her coming a split second before a hand pulls down the back of my shirt collar, and I choke as a large handful of rice slides down my back. “Motherf—,”
Spinning, I grab Stasi’s hands. She snarls at me as I walk her backwards until she’s pressed into the wall. The satisfaction is clear in her eyes as I shake, feeling the rice slipping further down.
For fucks’ sake.
“You,” I hiss, “are a fucking terrible prisoner.”
“And you,” she snaps back, “are a cunt, Rafael Tate.”
She still has a mouth like a damn sailor. But this Stasi feels unfamiliar in my hands, all soft skin and doe eyes andcurves.
This Stasi is all woman. Furious, angry, passionate woman.
