Page 46 of Maksim
Her jaw drops like she wasn’t expecting me to say that. After what she just went through, and after what I know she’ll go through again and again by having sleazy boyfriends like that, I wish I could hug her.
But that, unfortunately, is not how you reach a teenage girl like this one, nor Asher. Not yet. You must earn her respect before she’ll gift you her vulnerability.
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares so intensely, I question if she’s trying to melt my mind or something. “I live here.”
“Ah.” I nod. “Maksim’s sister. I did guess that.”
“Anya,” she corrects, shifting her weight.
She’s uncomfortable with me being here. Does he not usually have girls over?
“So I guess you’re the fuck of the week?” she asks.
Oh. Maybe he does have girls over.
I stare at her, keeping my face neutral. She speaks with such a snarky tone, but there’s a pain beneath her words that peeks over that hard exterior she’s trying so hard to put off. I bet she fools most people so well.
If he does have women over, I don’t think she likes it.
“No,” I say, unsure what I should say. “We’re friends.”
She quirks a brow and juts out her hip as she adjusts her crossed arms. “A friend who shows up unannounced when he isn’t here to rifle through our fridge?”
I glance at the open refrigerator and put the rest of the groceries away before closing it.
“I brought groceries, actually. I just came back from the store.”
“Where the fuck are your shoes?”
‘Fuck’ now too?
I turn to her and glimpse my bare feet. “It’s rude to wear shoes into others’ homes. It tracks in dirt.”
She laughs and leans against the bar. “Where did you get that idea? Your accent is thicker than Maksim’s, so obviously you aren’t from here.”
“I’m from Albania,” I say, proud.
She stares blankly. I bet she couldn’t point to it on a map.
“Why are you here?”
I shrug. “My father is American, so I suppose you could say half of me is too.”
A beautiful curtain of blonde waves shimmers as her head tilts, and she peers at me hatefully through blue eyes. “Cool, but why are you here, in my home, bringing shit to my fridge, dragging your dirty feet through my house? Women don’t hang out here during the day, so I know my brother’s dick can’t be that good. What, are you fishing for a green card or something?”
Now my neutral expression snaps. My eyes go wide, and I feel the blood rush to my ears. A powerful surge flows through my hand, tempting me to slap her.
Why are these people so. Fucking. Arrogant?
My teeth grit, and I inhale, ready to growl, but I’ve had enough fights with Asher to know it’s a mistake. She’s pushing me. She’s trying to get a reaction. She wants this.
I don’t have to fight hard to tame my anger because the fire in her eyes dwindles without me speaking a word. Her eyes aren't on my face anymore. They’ve lowered, to the left of me.
I look down, tensing when I realize what it is she’s looking at, but it’s too late to rip my hand out of sight. The shiny diamond I stupidly have worn on my left hand since confronting Daniel, the one I was sure I’d earned, seems to gleam brighter than ever in the light of the kitchen.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she asks, her voice low and weak. She clears her throat, but she isn’t hiding her pain well anymore. When she looks me in the eyes again, she forces herself to stand straighter. “So what, my brother bagged a mail-order bride? Is he that fucking pathetic?” She laughs a sickly, cruel laugh.
No.