Page 26 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“I’m not a baby, you know.” Gone is the façade of politeness. Her tone is so cutting that I can only think of one comparison fitting enough to match the icy hostility—the insistence of a certain billionaire that I wasn’t his type, for instance.
I turn to face her, sensing my eyebrow raise. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”
“Who are you anyway?” She appraises me with a haughty flick of her chin, her arms crossed. “You’re not married to him. Even if you do have a ring on.” She nods to my left hand, and I clench said fingers into a fist, caught.
My cheeks flame, but something prevents me from backing down. Instead, I advance a step toward her, keeping my tone level. “And if I’m not?”
She bites her lower lip and seems to mull it over. Then she smiles, and it’s such a beautiful match to Vadim’s. The one he wears when his aim is cruel. “Did you read my file?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes. “My last family, the Robinsons, are moving to the other side of the country, just to get away from me.” Her smile grows wider as if she’s utterly pleased with that fact.
But her eyes are every bit as expressive as her father’s, revealing the truth in snippets that require deciphering.
“I don’t know what I did to scare them so much,” she says, throwing her hands into the air. “Maybe it was when I tried to microwave the cat?”
Any other time, with any other child, I’d be rightfully disgusted. Fearful, even. Maybe I should be in this case? I don’t know what it is about her gleeful, ghoulish expression that makes me perch on the end of her bed and cross my legs casually.
“Is that all?” I ask, an eyebrow raised. “I once threatened to turn my father’s prized stallion into glue. I even looked up the number for what I thought was the glue factory. Then I ran away with a duffle filled with barbie dolls and an entire box of pop tarts.”
She blinks, caught off guard.
“I didn’t make it far, mind you.” I extend my fingers, inspecting the pink polish. “I was barely past the tennis courts before I chickened out. Besides, I didn’t really want to hurt old Dauntless, anyway. I just wanted to make my parents squirm.” It’s an odd story to relay so bluntly. Something I predictably wouldn’t tell most people on our first meeting.
Magda frowns, unsure of how to process it.
“Did the Robinsons do something to you that made you want to make them squirm?” I ask, free of judgment.
She purses her lips. “No. But what if I want to makeyousquirm?”
“Hmm.” I think it over, then I lean forward and meet her gaze head-on. If I’m not mistaken, she flinches and takes a small step back. “Then try harder. I may look like a dumb bimbo, but I too, went through a hellion phase. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re planning—trust me, baby, I wrote the book.”
She wrinkles her nose, seemingly more confused than ever. “Why?” she demands.
I shrug as if the answer is obvious. “I wanted attention. I wanted to make my dad feel guilty. I wanted my mom to stop day drinking and look at me. I was bored. What made you want to provoke the Robinsons?”
Her piercing eyes narrow further. “You’re weird,” she declares, returning to her suitcase. She wrenches it open, and one by one withdraws what seems to be her few personal belongings. Displaying another one of Vadim’s quirks, she meticulously folds a cream-colored sweater and reaches for an orange shirt.
“We can take you shopping if you’d like,” I say, volunteering the use of Vadim’s magic credit card. “Do you like dresses? Pants?”
She doesn’t answer, preferring to sort her few outfits, leaving her book and stuffed animal on the bed. The case she grabs last. “This has to go in the fridge,” she says with all of the maturity of a miniature adult, not a seven-year-old. “It’s my insulin.”
“Okay. We’ll throw it in when we go downstairs. How about we speed things along?” I reach for a neatly folded jacket. “I can help you put these away—”
“Why?” Her tone isn’t quite as hostile, but her dark brows are furrowing, her frown skeptical. God, it’s so much like interacting with Vadim. Someone constantly on guard, mistrustful of any hint of kindness. For a horrible second, I wonder if his daughter’s upbringing was even a fraction as horrific as his. Then I push the thought away and tug the jacket from her grip, moving toward her closet as she watches on in shock.
“You have beautiful hair,” I tell her, ignoring the question. “I can braid it for you tonight, if you want. I used to love when my mom did that.”
“But you aren’t my mom,” she snipes almost in a singsong tone.
I ignore the bait and snatch an empty hanger from one of the many rails lining her very own massive walk-in closet. My brain skips ahead, envisioning all of the various clothing items she’ll need to stock it with. Pajamas. Day clothing. Night clothing. Dress-up clothing. If dressing her father was a challenge, I assume she’ll be just as surly to shop for. A challenge I’m willing to accept.
“Here,” I tell her, holding out my hand for the sweater in her grip. “Let me put your things away. Then we’ll go get some lunch, huh?”
So surly. So wary. To my surprise, she reluctantly steps forward and relinquishes the sweater. As I hang it, she reappears with the rest of her clothing balanced in her arms.
“What’s your name?” she asks almost grudgingly as I arrange her clothing according to color.
“Tiffany.”
She accepts the introduction with a sniff. “I’m hungry.”
