Fuuuuck.
“You’re one privileged muthafucka.” He shakes his head, releasing a low, rumbling chuckle. But if “ain’t shit funny” was a sound, that would be it. “A blind one, too.”
I frown. It’s the second time he’s said something along those lines to me.
“Privileged?” The “blind” comment didn’t offend me as much as that one. No,insultme. Because Asad had mefucked up. “Your big ass really standing here accusing me of being privileged? The same muthafucka who only had to walk through the front door of my home to be labeled the golden child by a man who couldn’t even tell you my favorite color if I held a Glock to his forehead. Whose every wish and need were granted before he even opened his mouth to voice it? Who inherited a kingdom simply by owning a dick and a pair of balls?” I screw my face up. “And you wonder why I can’t trust none of this bullshit—why I can’t trust you. Because of the shit you just allowed to come out of your mouth. Standing there like the injured party when the reason for the hell I endured, the reason you have the keys to a stolen empire, was just sitting at the right-hand side of your table. Youknow what’s fucking privilege? Being so goddamn arrogant to think I would ever believe you meant anything good for me as long as you remain aligned with that bitch of a moth—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He moves so fast I don’t have time to blink, much less move. One moment, he’s glaring at me from across a safe distance, and in the next, his body is crushed against mine, hard, steely muscles to my softer curves, his big fists twisted in the lapels of my suit jacket. Snatching me up so only the tips of my stilettoes scrape the floor.
Faint echoes of alarm blare in my head, my chest, quiver in my belly. But they’re nearly suffocated by the razor-sharp, greedy edge of anticipation slowly piercing me, slicing deep. Seeping dirty excitement into my bloodstream.
This is us. This has always been us, if I’m being repulsively, yet starkly, honest.
Hatred denying lust. Revulsion masking fascination. Resentment justifying shame.
Asad Prince has always been easy to loathe.
And easier to crave.
I cover his fist, grabbing at his clenched fingers, attempting to wrench them away from me. But this is more than a struggle to free myself from his grip. It’s a futile struggle to escape the truth.
Disgust races across Asad’s face, and then he releases me so fast, I stumble backward, my heels almost slipping out from underneath me. I quickly steady myself, but there’s nothing I can do for the erratic racing of my pulse, the frantic pounding of my heart… the slick, hungry ache of my pussy.
“I swear to God, for someone so fucking smart, you don’t see a muthafuckin’ thing. The world doesn’t revolve around you, ma, and you don’t corner the market on tragedy and loss,” he says, voice so cold, so flat, I almost wish he’d shout at me, read me for filth. But this… this emptiness has a dread yawning wide behind my sternum, and I don’t know how to close it. How to fill it.
“Asad—” I whisper.
“Nah, for once, shut the fuck up and listen.” His words are a slap in the mouth, and they sting. I taste phantom blood on my tongue. Shameful blood, and I don’t even know why. Asad takes a step forward, silver eyes dark, big body drawn tight, and for the very first time in thirteen long years, I see him as… breakable. “I can tell you the details of how Kimberly Jacobs Cross died. The time, date, the cause. It’s all I’ve heard from you. All I’ve heard from Michelle. You hate Michelle for coming in and trying to replace her with your father, and Michelle hates your mother for simply existing. And because of that, she’s this presence that’s never really been gone. Not even a ghost, because they at least pass on at some point, but your mother is as present, as… as sentient as if she never left. And in all this fucking tug-of-war, no one has ever mentioned Khalil Amir Prince. He’s been forgotten by everyone. Everyone but me.”
I stare at him, speechless.
No, that’s not exactly true.
Too many words crowd into my head, scramble up the back of my throat. But they’re mired in the quicksand of guilt, slowly sucked down as useless and inadequate.
Because even though I’ve never heard the name of Khalil Amir Prince before, I still know who he is—Asad’s father.
Even if the last name didn’t give it away, the reverence wrapped around the syllables would’ve.
“No one seems to give a flying fuck about a man who grew up in the shithole of LA County’s foster care system but still put himself through college and an apprenticeship while working two jobs. He built one of the most successful jewelry businesses and an unimpeachable reputation by hours, years, of hard work, perseverance, and integrity. He was a good man, an honest man. A better father. His only fault was falling in love with and marrying a faithless, greedy bitch who only saw him as a stepping stone for more and could never be satisfied with what she had. My father’s downfall was refusing to see people—namely, his wife—for whothey were and instead for who he wanted them to be. And by the time he did, it was way too fucking late.”
Something spasms across his face. That samesomethingflickers in his storm-darkened eyes. My stomach hollows, the bottom plummeting into free fall.
No.
I don’t realize I must’ve said it aloud until his eyebrow arches and he slightly turns his head, narrowing his gaze. The look he pins on me is somewhere between sarcastic amusement and incredulity.
“No?” he asks. “You were the recipient of her”—his mouth quirks at the corners—“love often. You don’t think she’s capable of it?”
He still doesn’t come out and explicitly say Michelle’s sin—her crime—but he alludes to it, and my mind still can’t fully grasp that she… that she would…
“Your mother is a monster. I’ve never, nor will I ever, deny that. Still, abuse is one thing. But… but…” I can’t even say it. Can’t shove the word off my tongue.
“Murder. That’s what you seem to be having a hard time saying. Murder. And if you really believe Michelle isn’t capable of it to get what she wants, then you haven’t been paying attention. Or you’re as willfully blind as my father was.”
I shake my head, briefly closing my eyes. “It’s not—” Shit.