Page 79 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
And he goes silent. Still.
As if he were a snake waiting to strike.
“Well, you wanted to talk, so talk,” I say, my tone and spine firm and unwilling to let him play games. Even now, I can see his stunt of coming to the door in a state of undress for what it is: a mind game.
“Why did you answer the door without clothes?” I blurt out, and Storm’s face barely moves when he answers.
“I went for a run to burn off some energy. It lasted longer than I’d planned. I hopped in the shower before you came.”
I nod slowly, accepting his statement, even if I’m still skeptical of his motivations.
Storm tilts his head to the side, his moss-green eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them. He’s never looked at me like this.
Like…I’m someone he abhors.
“Do they know?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Who?” I ask with numb lips.
He inhales slowly, that blank expression never leaving his face.
“My children. Tempest and Raiden,” he replies slowly, seeming to caress their names as he says them. “Do they know who their father is? Have you ever shown them a picture or told them my name?”
With each word, a mix of anger and hurt hardens their delivery, and by the end of his sentence, his eyes have gone from frigid to a blazing inferno.
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, because the answer is….
“No,” I say, infusing as much clarity into the world as possible. “I haven’t told them anything about you.”
He inhales a startled breath, a hand flying to his chest where he rubs the space over his heart. It’s an absent, distracted movement, as if he’s physically trying to keep the organ from falling out of his chest.
“So what? They think they were born from immaculate conception? Or do they think some other nigga is their daddy?” He leans forward at the last question. “Zane Gibson, perhaps?”
I shake my head, my heart rate picking up.
“No, they don’t think that. They haven’t even really met Zane.”
He makes a rough, disbelieving sound.
“They haven’t! I’ve told them…” I stop, completely drawn into his gaze. I get a flash of…something. Not a memory, not a premonition. It’s almost like an alternative timeline, and in it, Storm and I didn’t break up, and instead of sitting with me in outrage, he sits there while we discussus.Or what schooling would look like for the twins. Or him begging me tofinallylet him put another baby in me now that I’ve “arrived.”
He wouldn’t look at me as if he hated me. He would look at me as if he loved me.
Tears flood my waterline, and I look down at my lap, twisting my fingers to prevent them from falling.
“You told themwhat, Shae?” Each word is like a bullet to my chest.
I suck in a shaky breath and speak through the nausea.
“I’ve told them their father lives far away and can’t see them.”
Storm goes quiet, still, and searing pain shoots up and down my esophagus.
“Storm, I’m sorry?—”
“No,” he grinds out. “Save your sorrys.”
I swallow, an edge of fear and indignation warring within me. I’m not a weak woman. I can stand up to all sorts of intimidating people and make them kneel.
