Page 46 of Widow's Walk

I snarl at my reflection in the tinted window. “There needed to be a special reason to even talk to me while living under the same roof,” I mutter, immediately regretting commenting at all. I can feel his eyes on me, heavy and simmering in the quietness of the vehicle. I’m sure with pity.

“No,” he finally says, releasing his hold on me. “No special occasion.”

Liar.

The Ortiz family has never been the type to regale or break bread together, especially for the sake of it. There’s always some ulterior motive.

It isn’t a long ride to their private airstrip where there’s a jet waiting for us. It’s not very spacious, unlike the one I was forced to take when I came here. Not a lot of headspace and no private bedroom in the back. But it’s luxurious, nonetheless.

I give his father and Dane amicable smiles and say hello, then Harlan a more genuine one as I take it upon myself to sit as far back as I can on one of the plush leather seats.

Blackwell stops near his family and looks torn, looking to me, then to his brothers. I school my features and pull out my phone to open a game of solitaire, then cross my legs, completely ignoring him.

He makes the wise decision and stays at the front to sit. We take off shortly, and as soon as a stewardess comes to see if I need anything, I order a bottle of wine without thinking. When she comes back with the bottle and a stemless glass for me, I request a side of bourbon to add.

Probably a horrible idea since I haven’t eaten much today, but aw well. It’ll make tonight slightly more tolerable.

I shoot the bourbon back and keep my face passive, even as it burns all the way down and fizzles like acid in my stomach. Then the real drinking begins.

The more my face heats from the alcohol consumption, the less tension I carry, and the more bored I get. Damnit, why didn’t Harlan sit back here with me? At least he would’ve been a good distraction.

I reach for the wine, filling another glass with a shaky grace. Just as I bring it to my lips, I catch Blackwell closing in like a storm cloud. I lean back and smile up at him, casual and unbothered, drink in hand.

He takes the seat next to me, his face grim. “I think you should slow down,” he says firmly, as if he’s speaking some wise words.

Right away, I’m triggered.

Does he have any idea how difficult it is to even breathe the same air as them? How badly I wish never to see that scum called family ever again? That this isn’t just discomfort. It’s a punishment. And being expected to act civil? That’s straight-up torture.

Out of defiance, I bring the rim of my glass to my lips and chug the whole thing. Then I snatch up the bottle to pour myself another, doing so with a very heavy hand. So heavy that I manage to fit what’s left of the bottle, filling it to the rim.

My nostrils flare as he gets up without saying anything, and before I can feel the gratification of being victorious, he draws the curtains shut, secluding us. When he turns around, I swallow around the wine like it’s a fucking rock.

Oh, shit. He’s pissed. Likereallypissed. But I relish it. He’s so fucking adorable when he’s mad. How does his calm demeanor scare me so much, but his rageful one turns me the fuck on?

Oh, right. Because I’m totally and completely fucked up in the head. I couldn’t ever do anything right in my family’s eyes, so I did everything in my power to defy them and do the total opposite. Now, it’s just how my brain works. What normal people do and think, I typically go against.

His head is tilted to one side because he’s too tall, but he looks no less daunting as he comes back for me. I lift the glass to my lips to drink, and the wine splashes over when he snatches it from my hand, spilling on me.

“What the fuck, Blackwell?” I shout as I look down at my lap, thanking God I wore all black. It sloshes over as he angrily takes it to the back, away from me.

This motherfucker.

I get up and practically crash into him as he’s coming back out empty-handed.Did he pour out my wine?!

“What is your problem?” I sneer.

He grasps my jaw with a strong hand, and I am not having it right now. I’m furious. Furious, I have to see my family. Furious, he doesn’t understand how it affects me. Furious, he dumped my goddamn wine!

I start yanking at his arm and swinging at him until I’m shoved back into my seat. I only falter a little, but then I add my legs into the fight. I’m trained, but right now I’m half drunk, and now, emotional. All I can do is flail my limbs, hoping I hurt him in some way.

“Clair,” he seethes in a gravelly tone. “If you do not stop, I swear I will put your ass over my knee.”

I stop. But my mind goes haywire. Thefuckingaudacity.

“You do that, and I swear to God, you will regret it. You think I’ve been wreaking havoc before? I can be a shitstorm of a nightmare for you.”

Through all the fury on his face, his mouth cracks, twitching at the corner as if he finds my threat cute. Growling, I start swinging again, and I don’t know how, and I don’t even know when, but my wrists are bound behind my back, and I’m forced against the back of the seat face first.

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