Twisted Lies (Twisted, #4)

by Ana Huang

“Then I’ll let you—” The soft click of a door unlocking interrupted me. “Get in the car, Stella.” I got in the car.

The car smelled like rich leather and expensive spices, and it was eerily clean. No wrappers, no half-empty coffee cups, not even a speck of lint. I sank deeper into my seat and glanced at the man next to me.

“Dante Russo.”

I expected him to shake my hand, but to my surprise, he raised it and brushed his mouth across my knuckles instead.

Maybe it was the accent. I had a weakness for all things Italian.

“Perhaps if you took your own advice, you wouldn’t be sleeping in a different room than your fiancée.”

If Stella was my weakness, Vivian was his.

I wasn’t a sentimental person, but there were two areas of my life where my usual pragmatism didn’t apply: Stella and Magda.

The memory of her walking down the snow-covered street, her hair tossed wild by the wind and her eyes shining like jade, lingered in my brain. The warmth of her, like a ray of sunshine peeking out after a storm, lingered everywhere else.

Twin flames of resentment and frustration burned in my chest. I was weak for Stella Alonso, and I hated it.

Then, just because Madigan’s face annoyed me, I swapped his most valuable stocks for junk ones and donated a significant chunk of his cash to anti-sexual violence organizations.

Once I did, I could put my disturbing obsession with Stella Alonso behind me once and for all.

“If you’re done…” I didn’t think it was possible, but Christian’s voice turned even drier. “Switch seats with me.”

“What impression did I make on you?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“That bad?”

“No.”

“That good.”

“You don’t usually date.”

“And where is your date tonight?” “A bar.” “How specific.” “How none of your business.”

“Have fun on your date, Stella.”

But as I left for my date, I couldn’t focus on the man I was about to see. I was too busy thinking about whiskey eyes and black suits.

“I assume the whispered sweet nothings and good-night kiss are off the table.”

“Once is chance, twice is coincidence.”

“What’s three times, Mr. Harper?”

“Fate.” He slid onto the stool next to mine and nodded at the bartender, who greeted him with a deferential nod of his own and returned less than a minute later with a glass of rich amber liquid.

It was a notion for romantics and dreamers. Christian was neither. Romantics didn’t look at someone like they wanted to devour them until there was nothing left except ashes and ecstasy. Darkness and submission.

“No. A contract is fine.” “Good. And don’t worry, Ms. Alonso.” Laughter remained in Christian’s voice as he lifted his glass to his lips. “I don’t believe in love.”

Christian Harper was just a man. Not a king, even if he was richer than one, and not a god, even if he looked like one. I had nothing to be nervous about.

“This is for you.” I ignored the subtle pet unicorn dig and eyed the box with equal parts anticipation and wariness. “What is it?” “Your dress for tonight.”

“Try it on. See if it fits.” Christian leaned against the wall, his eyes glowing with soft satisfaction. “I’ll be here.”

Christian had gotten my measurements exactly right. Every inch of silk clung to my body like it’d been custom-made for me.

“Careful, Stella.” His low warning pulsed between my legs. “I’m not the gentleman you think I am.”

The seats for this event were eight thousand dollars a pop. I’d spent more than that on her dress, and it’d been worth every cent.

Green eyes. Green dress. Symbolic of life and nature. Green. Apparently it was my new favorite fucking color.

From the moment Stella had stepped into her living room wearing that damn dress, every other thought had crumbled into dust.

“Hey! Did you close the—” Her sentence cut off with a soft gasp when I closed the distance between us and backed her up until she was pressed against the wall. “Where were you?”

“Is everything okay? You’re acting weird.” No, they’re not. Things haven’t been okay since the day I first saw you.

“What I want…” I pressed a thumb against the pulse at the base of her neck. Its wild flutter told me she wasn’t as indifferent to the pull between us as she pretended to be. “Is for you to be safe. There are bad people in this world, Butterfly, and some of them are in the room right outside. So next time, I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a conversation with the queen of fucking England. Interrupt me. Understand?”

I didn’t care how long Kage and I had been friends. No one touched her except me.

“Are you still thinking about the painting, Stella?”

Trying to stay away from her was like the ocean trying to stay away from the shore. Impossible.

Between my McLaren and the semi-empty streets, I made it there in five minutes flat.

She reached for her shampoo, but I stopped her before she made contact. “I’ll do it.”

“Your suit will get wet,” she murmured. I didn’t spare my custom Brioni a glance. “I’ll survive.”

Touching her killed me, then brought me back to life again.

Christian’s penthouse took up the entire eleventh floor of the Mirage, which was as high as buildings got in DC due to the city’s height limit.

Me tied up, the rough scratch of ropes abrading my skin while a faceless stranger had his way with me. Hands collaring my throat, bites on my skin, and a hard, relentless rhythm that wrenched inhibited screams from my throat. Dark fantasies I only indulged in beneath the cover of night.

pools of molten amber. “If you saw yourself the way other people see you,” he said quietly, “you’d never doubt again.”

“How do other people see me?” Christian’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Like you’re the most beautiful, most remarkable thing they’ve ever seen.”