Page 26 of Twins for the Enemy

I walk out of Farah’s room after turning up the temperature on her thermostat. I should have just let her freeze, but the idea of letting her be cold itched at my brain the whole time I was climbing.

When I saw her curled up on her bed, I would’ve done anything to make her warmer—give her the door to my bedroom, burn down the rest of the house so she could benefit from the warmth, jump under the sheets with her and make enough friction that we turn into scorched kindling.

The only reason I could walk away is because I didn’t want to wake her up, and the blanket I’d given her was made for winter camping.

My phone chirps loudly. I check it. The notification for the surveillance around my house shows a snapshot of the rear courtyard. I tap on the notification.

The snapshot expands. In the corner, a man is looking up at the mansion. Mid or late 20s and in black clothes. There is no way for anybody to accidentally stumble past my gate.

I have enemies. Not in a boastful way, but in a way that being the CEO of a powerful corporation naturally produces. Every disgruntled ex-employee, every envious competing CEO, and every son or daughter of the owner of a company that I bought wants to separate my jaw from my skull.

So, trying to break into my house to commit violence isn’t surprising.

I grab my gun, secured under a hidden compartment in my desk. I tuck it in my waistband before going back to Farah’s bedroom.

I shake her shoulders, harder than I intend to.

“What?” she mumbles.

“Somebody is breaking in. We have to get you in the bathroom.”

When she barely reacts, I pull the blankets off her. She’s wearing a white undershirt I lent her. It fits her loosely except around her breasts, where the material stretches. If I thought I was haunted by her before, seeing her in my undershirt makes me possessed.

As she sits up, rubbing her eyes—dramatically enough to be suspicious—I reach around her, gripping her waist. I pull her toward the edge of the bed. She nudges back against me, exhaustedly annoyed.

I should just leave her. She should be able to get in the bathroom and lock the door before whoever is outside the house gets in. My priority should be protecting the house, which, by extension, will protect her.

I don’t move.

She gets to her feet. Her eyes widen as she looks at me, understanding turning her eyes bright. “An intruder?”

“I suspect so,” I say, putting my hand on the small of her back and pushing her forward. She lets me guide her until she’s stepped into the bathroom. I grip onto the doorknob. “Lock this as soon as I close it. Don’t turn on the light. Keep quiet.”

“You’re a tyrant,” she mutters.

“If that’s—” I start to say, but I turn away and head to the entrance without finishing my thought.

If having the last word is what keeps you safe, so be it.

I grip the gun tighter, holding it close to my side as I turn around the northeastern corner of my house, scanning for movement. Something has taken over me that hasn’t happened before. I’ve been protective over Ellie and Olivia, but this feels sharply different.

It must be the twins. I never believed much in a biological drive, but my instincts have shifted too drastically to consider it’s caused by anything else. Self-preservation is gone outside of wanting to surviveto protect my family. I’ve become gritted teeth, ready to snap around any throat that could be a threat. If I break my jaw during it, it will be worth it if the threat is gone.

I see the shadow of the man as he lingers near the window. He must have realized the front door is locked, and he doesn’t know about the ones that are disguised as windows in the back.

He’ll regret not doing his research.

I raise the gun and circle around him. At the last second, he spins around. He’s face to face with my 9mm.

He doesn’t look like a pro, if it wasn’t evident enough by how clumsy and slow he is, so he wasn’t sent by an enemy company.

He also doesn’t look like one of my ex-employees. Not to stereotype him, but this man has never earned more than 20k a year.

That can only mean he’s the child of a parent who sold their company to me, and he considers it a huge injustice in his life.

Pathetic.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” I ask.

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