And she feels like fucking heaven in my arms.
Her chest heaves, and I do a double-take as I recognize the shirt she’s wearing.
A growl sounds in the back of my throat. She might be pissed, but so am I. “Why thefuckare you wearing my brother’s shirt?”
She tips her chin up. “Because Kit is a far better fucking person than you,Rafael.”
Jealousy stabs at my chest as I release her, stepping back. Kit went to her last night. Took care of her. I take in the fresh scent of her, the hint of mint.
Then my eyes drop to her wrists.
“What,” I say carefully, “thefuck, is that on your wrists?”
Anastasia stills at the change in my tone. She glances down, realization lighting her face. “What – you didn’t think the chains would leave a mark?”
I can’t stop staring at the angry, purple bruising. “They don’t leave marks like that.”
Anastasia yanks down the edges of Kit’s shirt. “They do when they’re put on too tightly and left on for too fucking long. Any more genius observations, or can I get on with my work now?”
My eyes fly up at the shakiness in her voice. “Anastasia—,”
“No,” she forces out. Her hands reach up, shoving at my chest until I reluctantly back up a few steps. “You don’t get to do that, Rafe. You don’t.”
“Do what?” I rasp.
Her finger stabs into my chest. “You don’t get to take control of my life, treat me like dirt and then look at me as ifyou’rethe wounded hero. Fuck off with that narrative.”
My eyes narrow, my temper igniting again. “What, you thinkyou’rethe wronged one here? Theugly stepsister? We’re hardly the only people you seem to have fucked over. Just the first.”
Although, who knows. Maybe there were others before us. There sure as hell were others after.
It’s a direct hit, and her face shutters. It gives me the exact same feeling as it did ten years ago. It still makes me feel like shit.
“Thanks to you,” she forces out, “I have years of this to look forward to. So let me work, Rafe. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Please.”
“Fine,” I snap, turning away.
She wants to work?
She can fucking work.
13 - Stasi
Rafe takes me at my word.
The next morning, I stare wordlessly around me at the flour coating the floor in a thick layer. My mop and brush have disappeared completely, leaving me to struggle on my hands and knees for hours as I scrub, trying to pick up the thick sludge until my back and knees are screaming for relief.
When Rafe comes down, he walks past me without a word.
The next day is eggs, much to everyone’s disgust. The whites stick to the floor, getting into the cracks.
Then it’s sugar.
Oats.
Flouragain.
Something every single damn day, even though Ellen moves her whole kitchen around to try and stop him from raiding it.
