Page 3 of You Were Always Mine
She rolls her eyes, muttering something about me being insufferable, and lies back on her bed, one arm thrown over her face.
“Goodnight, Kai.”
I should leave—that’s what she wants, what she expects—but I stand there a few seconds longer, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the bare skin of her legs catching the glow from the lamp, the sharp line of her collarbone.
When I finally pull the door closed, the image burns itself into me like a brand.
Scarlett
The kitchen is already alive when I walk in, sunlight dragging itself across the counters, spilling through the tall windows that overlook the garden my stepmother fusses over like it’s Eden itself. The smell of coffee is thick, bitter and sharp, clashing with the sweetness of toast and the faint tang of citrus. Everything in here gleams — stainless-steel appliances polished within an inch of their lives, marble counters cold and perfect, the long oak table stretching across the space like something out of a magazine.
Then there’s him.
Kai Everly.
Leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs like he owns it, chair tipped just enough to show he doesn’t care if it breaks beneath him. With a mug in his hand, lazy fingers wrapped around porcelain, dark hair messy like he rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to fix it — because he doesn’t need to. No matter what he does — whetherhe’s pulling a shirt over his broad shoulders or not bothering at all — he’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous.
His jaw is sharp enough to hurt, cheekbones cut like a weapon, mouth curved in that constant smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. Blue eyes, colder than they should be, burn brighter when they land on you. His throat, the hollow shifting as he swallows, the line of his collarbone disappearing into a plain grey T-shirt that clings to his chest — to the muscle in his arms when he moves. Veins snake down the backs of his hands, disappearing under skin tanned from nights I don’t want to picture.
And he’s not alone.
She’s perched on the counter, legs crossed, dress too short, blonde hair gleaming like spun sugar under the morning light. She’s laughing at something he said, tilting her head back, mouth painted in some expensive shade of red that doesn’t suit her but somehow makes her look even more untouchable. She’s beautiful. Not ordinarily beautiful — magazine-spread beautiful. The kind of girl men break rules for.
I freeze in the doorway, heart stuttering, because Kai looks at her like she’s an old habit — like this is easy, casual.
‘Really?’ she teases, nudging his arm with her foot. ‘You expect me to believe you didn’t mean to spill that drink on me?’
Kai’s grin widens, lazy and cruel. ‘Accidents happen. You’re the one who followed me home from the bar, sweetheart.’
Her laugh is soft, playful, fingers curling in her hair as she bites her lip like she’s trying to hide it.
And me? I can’t breathe.
I’ve seen Kai cold, I’ve seen him silent, I’ve seen him stare holes through me like he’s trying to carve me open. But this? This playful, easy version of him belongs to her — the stranger in our kitchen, her perfume thick and expensive, clinging to the air, clinging to him.
It makes something ugly claw up my throat.
I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just stand there in the doorway, fingers digging into the frame like maybe if I hold on hard enough, I’ll keep myself from doing something stupid. They don’t notice me at first — too caught up in each other, too loud with their laughter, her voice high and sweet, his low and rough, a sound that slips under my skin the way it always does.
She tosses her hair, all gloss and shine, and leans closer, her knees brushing his arm. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He just looks up at her with that lazy grin — the one that makes him look like sin personified — and says, ‘You really thought you could out-drink me? You should know better by now.’
She swats his shoulder, playful, like they’ve done this a hundred times. ‘You’re cocky.’
Kai tilts his head, smirk sharp. ‘I’m right.’
Her laughter bubbles out again, too bright, too light, filling every corner of the kitchen until I want to shatter something just to silence it. She slides off the counter with a little hop, her dress riding higher on her thighs, and I can’t stop staring at the way his eyes drag down her legs before flicking back up like it doesn’t matter. Like none of this matters.
But it does.
It matters because Kai doesn’t laugh like this at the dinner table. He doesn’t tease like this when it’s just us. With me, he’s sharp edges and heavy silences, eyes toodark, words too dangerous. With her, he’s light, careless, almost human.
I hate it.
I hate her.
I hate the way he leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, looking every inch the beautiful, arrogant bastard who knows exactly what he’s doing — broad shoulders stretching his shirt, stomach hard under the thin cotton, the hem riding up just enough to show the cut of muscle, the V of his hips disappearing under denim that clings to his thighs.
I hate myself most of all because I can’t look away.
