Page 109 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Nash’s tone was tighter than a coiled wire. “Last I checked, you have two parents, and your excuses are less entertaining than an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”
“I haven’t talked to my dad in four years.”
This made him pause.
For all of two seconds.
Then his face hardened like he didn’t believe me, and he finally, finally lowered his voice. It made his words sound like a hiss. “And I pay you over forty grand. I understand that’s nothing to a spoiled princess who has lived in a gilded castle all her life, but do you have one responsible bone in your body?”
“Yeah. This one.” I flipped him off, waving my middle finger in front of his face. I raised my voice, so everyone could hear, “And for the record, it’s bigger than your dick and feels better, too.”
I pivoted, clutching onto my mustard-colored tray like it was my lifeline. My tongue hurt from biting it, coated in blood and frustration. So many eyes stared at me, but I had never been the type to be humiliated by mass judgment.
No, only hazel eyes and a whip-fast tongue snuck under my skin and unsettled me.
When I glanced down at my food, it felt pathetic.
I felt pathetic.
The turkey taunted me.
It looked dry.
Shriveled.
Lonely.
My spirit animal wasn’t even a chihuahua named Muchacha anymore.
It was a dirty, sad slice of turkey that I still intended to eat because I was hungry and desperate and two heartbeats away from calling it quits and running to Virginia with outstretched palms and a leash for her to handle.
But Nash was right about one thing.
I was a princess, and I had traded in my ballgowns for battlefields.
He had started the battle, but I would win the war.
Nash’s taunts stung me, but I ignored him because he didn’t deserve mine. He stared at me from his seat at the couch.
Watching.
Waiting.
Never saying a word.
A hunter content to stalk his prey.
My pursuit for the Sisyphus statue had been less of a punishment and more of a reprieve from Nash. Now I was expected to sit in this office all day as he glared at me like he wasn’t sure what method he wanted to use to kill me.
I made sure to avoid the soup kitchen during peak hours in the week since our run-in, but I still had to sit in the same room as him during work.
“I’m just saying that you and Nash are always at each other’s th
roats, and I’ve never seen anything like it. No one stands up to him.” Ida Marie’s voice was a whisper.
She adjusted her sewing machine. We had taken over Nash’s desk to redo hemming on hundreds of textured gray curtains that came cheaper at this length.
“Everyone should,” I muttered back. “He’s a tyrant.”
