She balks, legs locking, and her chin jerking up defiantly. I smirk in spite of myself. Stubborn, contrary girl. It's as amusing as it is frustrating. I really ought to haul her across my lap and give her a spanking since she loves defying my authority. Nowthat'san appealing thought. Penelope draped across my lap, those firm thighs wriggling, her perfect ass bare.
"Why?"
"Because we're leaving. I'm taking you across the line. I've already negotiated it with your brothers."
I don't need the five grand he's agreed to pay, but it looks even more suspicious if she just turns up on their side of the line without a struggle.
Her eyes narrow, and her arms cross over her chest. She's swimming in an overlarge hoodie, her slim form disappearing within its folds. It's one of mine, though I rarely wear it. It's gratifying to see something of mine on her. It's a small but tangible mark she's placed on herself, showing anyone looking that she's mine.
"No."
I quirk a brow at her. "Did that sound like a fucking request?"
"No," she repeats stubbornly. "You're not going to drag me to the boundary line and play target practice with my brothers. You could be killed. So could they. I'm not going to be a party to that."
I notice she places my name first in that order, above her brothers. Does she even know that she's placing my safety as a high priority?
"I can take care of myself. It's already been decided. Get in the fucking car."
She takes two steps back, back leg sliding into position so she can put power behind a damn good punch if she needs to. A rumbling laugh rolls from me. She wants to fight? I'll crush her flat. It'll be interesting to see her try, though.
"Get in the car, Penelope. This is the last time I'll ask nicely."
"Did you kill Trinity?"
The question derails me, and the humor of the situation drains away at once.
"Did your father tell you that?" I ask coolly. "He's a filthy fucking liar."
She bristles, those smoldering eyes settling into a simmer. She'll blow her top at the wrong word from me. I jerk my gaze to Kylie, who's observing us with the horrified fascination of a person watching a train wreck. I jab a thumb at the house.
"Go. And if you repeat a word of what you heard, I'll kill you."
She squeaks in fright and bolts toward the house, moving as fast as she can in heels. Penelope hasn't budged, and she seems to get angrier by the second.
"You don't know my father."
I bark a bitter laugh. "Oh, I knew him. Far better than you did. You want answers? Get in the fucking car. Then I'll tell you what your sainted father did to me."
Penelope hesitates, her desire to maintain her alleged moral high ground battling with her curiosity. The need for answers wins out because she stalks to the passenger's side door and yanks it open, sliding in with the air of a petulant teenager. I open my door with equal force and settle into the driver's side. I temper the urge to gun the Camaro down the road.
"Answers," she prompts.
"What do you know?" I ask, stalling.
"That she was your wife. That she's Brooklyn's mother. That I look freakishly like her, and that's why you fucked me."
She can't conceal the hurt she feels at the last statement.
"I fucked you because I want your father to spin in his grave. It's the least he deserves. I fucked you because you're my type. And I fucked you because I wanted to, not because you look like her."
"Liar. You said her name."
I blow out a breath. "I said it because no one else has made me feel a damn thing during sex. Not a single one. Not until you."
She blinks once, and a mask settles into place, trying to hide the surprise and pleasure she feels at the statement.
"Really?"
