Page 26 of When Sinners Hate
“You want me honest?” I shout. “Fine. You sell women as property – even mark them as yours. Of all the things I’ve done in my life, marrying a man that thinks that’s okay only gives me another reason to hate you.”
“And selling drugs up and down the country is more respectable?”
“Choosing to take drugs is a very different line of work.”
“Choosing? That’s an interesting take.”
The hatred I harbour for my father, for the position he put me in, and the fact that I’m now married to the family that killed my brother and yet still treated like nothing more than a plaything, builds the emotions swirling around my head and chest.
I step closer, making sure our bodies are touching, and look him in the eye. “My father used me as a reward for his criminal partners and to garner favour with others to build his empire – the empire he doesn’t see fit to share with me. I continue to be his pawn. I know how those women feel. And it’s certainly not the same as choosing to get high on coke.” I let him take in my words. I doubt they will be too much of a shock. “Theonly redeemable difference between you and my father is that you have a moral conscience to ensure at least the girls are older. My father didn’t care.”
The pain that lances through my chest at that admission is greater than I thought, but he wanted honesty. I can’t be more honest. And if this strategy is the wrong one to make any type of headway with him, then so be it.
I hold his gaze, unwavering in my truth.
“Honest is much better on you,” he says.
“Funny, it doesn’t always work out for the better.” Our proximity is heated, and I know that despite our animosity there’s chemistry. It's becoming a constant push and pull that’s as hate-filled as it is deadly. “Why is it alright for a seventeen-year-old girl to be down in your dungeon and not a sixteen-year-old? What is that moral compass?” I tilt my head and wait. “Surely, your profit would be greater for underaged girls. I know men would pay for that,” I spit, as anger flares through me and I remember when I was first given to a man.
“That’s the rule. One of the only ones.”
“That’s not an answer,” I seethe.
“The rules of my business aren’t for you to question.”
“That’s not going to stop me. And you know what, you make me sick. Although, at least now I know why you treat me with so little respect. You view women as property.”
His hand runs up my neck and tangles in my hair. The grip starts gentle, like a caress, but grows, sparking my nerves from the top of my head down my spine. “Careful, Alexia. I’ve indulged in your little show to satisfy my own curiosity. Don’t spoil it.”
“Uhh humm.”
Abel doesn’t acknowledge the interruption behind us immediately, keeping me in his hold. And still his dark eyes don’t move from holding mine captive. “You’re late, Knox.”
“You’re otherwise engaged.”
At that, he drops his hold of me and straightens his suit.
“I’m excused now, I take it?” I ask, looking between Knox and my husband.
“Yes. I’ll have someone take you home.”
“I’ll take your car. I can handle it.” I hold out my hand for the keys. After our little heart-to-heart, this will be an interesting test of my own. I’ve only been alone within the confines of his mother’s house since I arrived. Every trip or visit I’ve been escorted. Every move accounted for.
“And if I don’t trust you?”
“Well, that’s too bad. How is anyone meant to earn your trust without an opportunity?” I smile at him – one of the smiles I know he hates because I’ve used it a thousand times before him.
He’s hard to read. The crease on his forehead when he’s thinking is his only discernible tell. Of course, he doesn’t try to hide his feeling of distaste towards me well. But now, standing in this room after everything he’s done and shown me – everything I’ve confessed – he’s a giant question mark wrapped up in a damned, sexy suit.
“Abel, we have business,” Knox states.
It doesn’t rush Abel’s decision. It's like he's inspecting me for the first time. Perhaps analysing what this moment, or maybe my confession, means to him.
I hold my nerve and stand tall.
“Don’t make me regret this," he murmurs, as he pulls the keys from his pocket and drops them into my hand. My instinct is to wear my smile with pride, but I know that’s not what he wants. So, I nod and glide out of the room.
I take a deep breath when the door closes behind me, and I swear the oxygen sets the adrenaline pumping. Then, walkingout of the building, I head straight for the car. It’s been a while since I’ve driven one, but I’ll enjoy this joy ride.