Page 20 of Wanting Wentworth

He doesn’t even flinch.

Slamming the hatch, I stomp my way up the porch steps but it’s no use. I could jam a stick of dynamite in his ear and light the fuse if I wanted to. Damien’s brother is a heavy sleeper.

Carrying the groceries into the house, I make fast work of putting them away. Left with nothing else to do, I contemplate just leaving him out there, but I don’t think I could handle another death on my conscience.

Now, empty box tucked against my hip, I head back out to the porch.

Yup, he’s still sleeping.

The hat is gone to reveal a dark head of hair that’s clipped short on the sides and left longer on top, so long it falls across his forehead, the silky black strands of it shining blue in the lights left on in the house.

Stepping closer, I catch a glimpse of ink reaching up from the neckline of his T-shirt to flirt with this collarbone and the set of tattoos that run vertically along each side of his neck.

Acta non Verba on one side.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis on the other.

Suddenly feeling like I’m reading his diary, I take a step back. “Hey—” I deliver a half-hearted kick to the bottom of his boot with the tow of mine. When that doesn’t work, I give him another, this one sharper. “Hey.”

“What?” He practically growls it at me, those black eyes of his suddenly open and glaring at me in the dark.

“You can’t sleep out here—especially with the door open like that.” I jerk my chin at the open door before taking a step back while I move my empty box in front of me like a shield. “Not unless you want to make friends with a grizzly.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t apologize or say wow, I’m a dumb city asshole, or even call me a liar and accuse me of trying to scare him. Nope—Damien’s brother just stares at me with that sinister, black gaze of his for what feels like forever before he finally straightens himself in the chair. Standing up slowly, I watch him unfold himself, inch by inch, until he’s standing over me and we’re separated by nothing more than my flimsy cardboard shield.

Just when I’m sure he’s about ready to grab me and shake me silly or maybe just launch me off the porch, he takes a step back before turning away from me completely. I watch while he moves through the open front door and shuts it behind him without saying another word.

TWELVE

Kaitlyn

Thanks to a slightly drunk Abbey and her parade of friends I somehow got wrangled into driving home when I picked her up from the Saddle, I didn’t crawl into bed until after 1AM, so when my alarm goes off two and a half hours later, I seriously consider chucking it into the hallway and keep on sleeping. My dad’s not here—he won’t know what time I got up and it’s not like Abbey is going to tell him, not after last night. I could sleep in, have a nice, leisurely breakfast. Enjoy my coffee while watching the sunrise in my spot by the barn and still make it to Northpoint by 6AM.

Northpoint.

The thought pulls me out of bed before Princess Abbey can even start to complain about the alarm because there’s a giant guarding Northpoint and if I want to keep the peace, I have to get in and out before he wakes up.

Why? What’s the use, Kait? Your future’s already set. There’s no escaping it. This time next year, you’re going to be Mrs. Brock Morris. Just give up.

Fuck that, Kaity—don’t you dare just roll over and play dead.

“I never realized you had such a morbid sense of humor until after you died,” I say out loud, whispering it in the dark.

“What say?” Abbey mumbles sleepily from the twin bed next to mine.

“Nothing.” Sitting up, I push my legs over the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Go back to sleep.”

Abbey mumbles something else I don’t understand before she turns over and starts to snore.

Dressed and ready to go, fifteen minutes later, I gather my backpack and pull on my boots before heading to the barn where I feed Two-tone and his cohorts their breakfast before claiming my usual seat outside the open door.

Mom called at around nine last night to check in and after some awkward small talk, she got to the real point of her call.

“I should have warned you,” she says quietly. “About the Brock Morris business. It all just happened so fast and I—”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I tell her, even though it isn’t. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“You’ll keep going to school.” She says it firmly. “Just because you’ll be married, that doesn’t mean you can’t get an—”

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