I turn to walk away, taking one last look at that picture.
“I’m your son, too. So why do you hate me so much? Am I not good enough?” I hate the words as soon as they fall from my lips. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t want the answers. The moment I learned who he was, the questions stirred. I just never had the balls to ask.
Nothing. Not a flinch, or even a twitch of muscle. Just that goddamn ticking clock mocking me. My jaw locks until my teeth grind together. My throat burns with things I can’t say, things I’m not allowed to say.
“Don’t mistake obligation for care. Naivety won’t get you far.”
My eyes fall without permission, that old reflex snapping my spine in half. The paperweight catches the light. A blend of brass and silver, a knight frozen mid-battle, twin swords crossed over its chest, bloodred pearls for eyes.
A monument to loyalty, strength, and honor.
Funny.
The man sitting behind it is none of those things. He’s the worst kind of evil, the kind that hides behind his wealth, buying the silence of those he hurts. No consequences, no reckoning.
I don’t need him to answer the question; the minute he decided to provide for us financially but not be in my life says it all. The shame of ever wanting more from him automaticallytakes hold. I hate that he gets to me. That he makes me feel like some stupid kid hoping the man who threw him away might reach back.
He never does.
And maybe that’s the real curse.
Because if I’m nothing to him, then why in the hell has Richard Williamsburg been paying to keep me alive?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SAM
As soon as I step foot inside the café, it’s overwhelming. People are everywhere. In line waiting to order. Over near the napkin stations. There’s even a small line starting to form outside the ladies’ room.
Meeting off campus was supposed to be imperative for Alex. I can hear him now, his voice low and demanding.
Tell anyone you’re tutoring me and there’ll be consequences.
Fine by me, buddy.I don’t exactly want anyone seeing me with him either. He’s definitely no walk in the park himself, and after last night, I’m starting to second-guess this whole thing.
Offering to help was the first mistake; showing up might just be the second. I scan the room in search of him, craning to see around people, and with each passing second my nerves start to fray.
Not because I’m afraid of him. I’m not. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s everything else that gets to me. The tension that is so clearly thickening between us, the heat still lingering beneath my skin, the ghost of his touch. And now I’m supposed to sit in front of him for the next hour and tutor him?
I can barely stand him as it is, but now that he’s had his fingers inside me, every part of me feels… compromised. No one warnsyou that the worst part about being touched like that, despite how good said touching makes you feel, is the after. It’s the act of trying to pretend everything is normal. Like you aren’t hyperaware of your own body in the places where their touch still lingers. Like you don’t feel it every time you shift in your seat or cross your legs or breathe too deep. Sweat slicks my palm, and suddenly there’s no air left in this place.
This is Alex Williamsburg, for Christ’s sake. There is absolutely no way we’ll be able to just get on like nothing happened. Like I didn’t fall apart in his hands, as if he didn’t watch me come undone. No. Not Alex. He’ll wear it like a victory and will surely find joy in rubbing my nose in it.
He had me. Not truly but close enough.
“I can’t do this,” I mutter, turning on my heel to head for the door.
But then reasoning starts and I stop in my tracks, hand on the knob, heart thudding as if it’s arguing both sides.
Run.That would certainly be the easiest option. Only it won’t solve my problem.
Remember why you’re here.To make it stop—the bullying, the taunting. I just want to get through the rest of this season in one piece. Then I can put this all behind me.
With a shake of my shoulders, I pull them back and lift my chin. I’m not here because I want to be near him, but because I don’t have a choice. It’s a business transaction.
Pulling out my phone, I step off to the side of the café entrance, away from the swirl of latte orders and clinking mugs. My thumb hovers over our text thread, jaw clenching as I force myself to type.
Sam:I’m here. Where are you?
