Page 40 of Wanting Wentworth

Like he was hiding.

“Hi.” Pushing the thought aside, I toss him a quick, nervous smile over my shoulder while I offload my backpack onto the counter. Stalling for time, I unzip it, rummaging around in its belly for my latest plastic container full of baked goods—because would you mind having sex with me seems like an odd conversation starter, especially when you’ve only known the person you’re asking for less than a week. “I hope you like pistachios.” Pulling the container free, I force myself to turn around and face him, that stupid, nervous smile plastered all over my face. “My mother traded—” Something about the way he’s looking at me cuts me short. Turns my fumbling nervousness into wary apprehension. “Is something wrong?” The question bubbles in my gut, leeching my mouth dry when all Went does is stand there and continue to stare at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday. It was Sunday and—”

“So, what happened?” Went says, cutting me off before I have a chance to dig myself into an even deeper hole. “Your boyfriend found out that you’ve been sneaking up here—”

“Boyfriend?” Now it’s my turn to interrupt him. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Ohhh... that’s right.” His jaw clamps together so tight I can hear his teeth grinding against each other from here. “He’s not your boyfriend—he’s your fiancé.”

“Wha—” I feel the flush that flooded my cheeks only a few seconds ago rush south in a fast whoosh that leaves me dizzy. I shake my head, trying to untangle it from its sudden scramble. “How...”

“How do you think?” He spits the words at me when I can’t figure out how to form my own.

Damien.

In a moment of weakness, I told Damien about my Brock Morris nightmare and he told his brother.

Because of course he did.

“Is that why you quit school?” Not quite done with me, Went gives me another one of those nasty smirks. “Because some dumb, son of a cattle rancher finally gave in and agreed to put a ring on it—and hey, who needs an education when you’ve got a rich douchewad on the hook?”

It’s like he slapped me, the words coming at me so hard and fast, I suck in a sharp breath and grit my teeth to cut off the sudden sting of tears. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh... I think I do.” He cocks his head, gaze narrowed into a baleful, black glare. “I bet your son of a cattle rancher would love to know where those hands of yours have been... not to mention your mouth.” Coming toward me, each slow measured step pushing me back until the edge of the island is wedged into my lower back and he’s standing over me, just like the other morning, except this time he looks like he wants to spit on me. “Or that while you were busy petting me like a goddamned dog, I was as hard as a fucking rock and you didn’t seem to mind...” The corner of his mouth lifts in a humorless smirk. “Matter of fact, you very much seemed to like it.”

“I—that’s not—” Taking another step, Mortified, I look up at him, fighting to make sense of what’s happening. “You—”

“Asked for it.” He finishes my sentence again. “Maybe I did...” Mouth tightening slightly around the words like the admission tastes bad on his tongue, he glares down at me, those baleful black eyes skewering me in place. “But I didn’t know about him and I was dumb enough to think you were different.”

Something about the way he looks at me when he says it squeezes my gut with shame, the sudden grip of it so hard it takes my breath away.

Hurt.

He looks hurt.

Mouth open, my still stumbling brain trying to form a coherent thought, I shake my head and let the first words I can think of tumble out of it. “I’m sorry.”

Not how dare you?

Not who the hell do you think you are?

Not my father is forcing me to marry him.

I’m sorry.

Like every other time in my life, I take the blame. Assume responsibility for a situation that is out of my control.

For a second, Went just stands there and glares at me, dark eyes narrowed. Mouth twisted in what looks like disgust. “I really don’t give a shit if you’re sorry.” Taking a step back, he opens up the space between us. “From now on, I can scrub my own fucking toilet and anything I need while I’m here, I’ll get from my brother—all I want from you is for you to get out, right fucking now, and to never see you again.”

My brain starts scrambling again, breath hitching in my chest like it’s just been caved in with a wrecking ball. “I—”

“Get. Out.” He doesn’t scream it. Doesn’t reach for me and throw me out the back door. He pushes the words through clenched teeth, his tone wavering just enough to tell me that he’s fighting to stay calm. That one more word from me will—

“Now.”

Turning away from him, I bolt. Through the mudroom and out the backdoor, letting it slam between us with a resounding, final bang.

TWENTY-TWO

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