Page 44 of Twisted Knight

“Should I be worried about you?”

“No, I—what do you mean? I don’t go there for me. It’s for others. I play for the women who live there. And—how do you know about the Sanctuary?”

“I know Fairmont,” he says with a resolute tone that says, No more questions. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you play for them?”

“The cello. I play it.”

“The Westmore Women’s League pretends to give back. How touching.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He lifts a lone brow and smirks. “Again. Nothing new.”

“And you’re wrong. My volunteering has nothing to do with that god-awful organization.” I grimace at the thought. “It’s called music therapy. Something for the women to get lost in for a bit. To feel without judgment. To … I don’t know.” Why do I feel stupid talking about this with him like it’s some misdeed?

“So you come here, play some music, and then post your good deed all over your socials so everyone can see what a good human you are. Rich woman. Poor neighborhood. Don’t look now, but your god complex is showing.”

“For the record, you don’t have to work at it—the me not liking you part. That just comes naturally.”

His chuckle is low and even. “There are a lot of things that keep me up at night. Whether I’m liked or not isn’t one of them.”

“Great. Always such a pleasure, Knight.” For a man who wants me out of here, he’s sure chatty.

“Hmpf.” He nods but I can’t read his expression. “So she’s a model, a businesswoman, a musician, and charitable with her time. Quite the superficial combo.”

“Music is … look, I want to be here,” I snap. Why do I feel the need to explain myself? “My intentions are genuine. Not that you have any experience with being that.”

“You’re going to have to hit me harder than that if you’re trying to leave a mark.” He smirks.

I’m so fed up with people—men—discounting me that I lash back. “What about you? What about you can I pick apart and question and criticize?”

He holds his arms out. “Be my guest.”

“On second thought, you’re not worth my time.”

“You say that, but I’m all you can think about. You can admit it. I’m used to it.”

“Hardly.”

“And yet you’re still standing here.”

“And yet you’re still standing here,” I mimic. “How does it feel knowing you were a person who was born to ruin others’ hopes and dreams?”

“No, that part was taught to me.” Something flickers in the depths of his eyes—a cold, calculating chill—that I can’t read and hate that I actually want to.

“Warning heeded.” I reach for the handle of the door to pull it closed but he puts his hand on it to stop me. “This? My being here? It’s for me. It’s to honor my gran. It’s not for social media clout or Westmore society consumption.”

The muscle in his jaw flexes like he’s fighting the truth in my words. “We all have our reasons, don’t we?”

It’s the look he gives me, that split second of hesitation before he closes my car door, that gives me pause.

It’s the one that says he can’t quite figure me out.

And the one I shoot him in return says I don’t want him to.

THIRTEEN

Holden