You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 116

RALI

The metal gates slid back at the tap of my phone.

For a beat, I sat there in my old car and just watched it, surprised I still had access. I thought I'd have been locked out or something.

"Jesus, Rali, what are you doing?" I muttered, my knuckles tapping the steering nervously. But my traitorous hands turned in anyway, pulling me toward the one place I'd sworn I wouldn't return to.

Sweat traced a line down the nape of my neck as I glanced up at the penthouse in front of me. I should have stayed in New Portland where 'safe' was at least a story I could tell myself. But ever since he stood in my room two days ago, my mind had been sick with him.

By the time my legs carried me to the door, I was praying in small, panicked sentences. Let him be out. Let him be anywhere but here. Let me have the mercy of unpacking in silence.

Not all prayers have ears.

Right there at the wine bar, seated like a rough-cut monarch with his legs thrown long and glass balanced in his grip, was the nemesis I ran from and back to. He wore black baggy pants and a shirt half-buttoned, half-undone—just enough to be indecent.

My heart gathered into a hard knot when I recalled our last moment at that very counter: the wine, my palms, the words I said...

That day still felt like a movie in my head.

I stalled at the doorway, my bag in hand, my feet wobbling. His eyes had already been on the door before I even walked in, like he'd been expecting me.

Slowly, a dark light woke behind his gray eyes; the kind I recognized. The one that said he was about to be as intimidating as hell.

A knife-thin smile cut across his mouth as he toyed with the wine in his glass. It was enough to walk chills up my spine in boots, and suddenly I reconsidered every step that had dragged me up here.

"You're back." His voice smelled of brimstone, the kind of voice that promised pain. "Thought daddy's favorite girl would want to spend some more time with him."

The sting landed; I swallowed around it.

He lifted his glass again, took an unhurried sip, then angled his head. "Ever heard the phrase: walking into a lion's den?" His tone was almost instructional. "It's when people step into places they weren't built to walk out of."

His lips hooked into something mean. "I'm afraid you just walked into one, Rali. And dens like mine don't issue return tickets."

It took everything in me not to stumble backward and bolt for the door. Who was I kidding? I wasn't getting out without his say-so.

My eyes dropped to the floor, panic quickly inching its way up.

"Come here, Rali."

A knot tied in my gut and yanked the rope straight to my throat. More sweat kissed the back of my nape where hair stuck.

Knowing I didn't have a choice, I dropped my bag and moved toward him. My pulse got loud enough to count. I wondered if he was counting too.

His eyes tracked me the whole way, proprietary, until I stood before him like a slave facing her master. Said eyes didn't leave me but kept watching as he emptied his glass like he had all the time in the world.

"Refill," he dished out the order.

I drew a breath that barely fit and focused on the task. With shaky hands, I reached for the half bottle of Mornaque Blanc on the countertop and gave his glass a refill.

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