3. Hawthorn
My eyes snap open, and I jolt awake when someone pokes me in the shoulder. Acting on instinct, I grab the arm of my attacker and use my own body weight to propel me out of bed, reversing our position until I’m behind them, my arm banded across their throat, restricting their oxygen.
I don’t normally wake up and choose violence, but my dad is a survivalist hobbyist, so oddly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve been woken up by someone attacking me in my bed. Both me and my brother have been trained in multiple martial arts and forms of both attack and self-defense. We’ve done survival training in all environments and some pretty heavy-duty war scenario training. My dad is a lovable wack job, but thanks to his rigorous training, if someone comes at me, at least I know I can defend myself.
As soon as I’m confident I’m in control of the situation, I blink through the remaining haze of sleep and look down at the person who just attacked me. Instead of finding my dad or one of my sparring partners beneath my hold, I’m shocked to realize I’m restraining a small blonde female.
For a moment, I panic, thinking I just accidentally grabbed Izzy, but then I see the long, pink-painted fingernails clawing at my arm and realize I’m not holding my friend, but her evil doppelg?nger.
Immediately releasing my hold on her, I lurch back, narrowing my eyes at her when she turns around to glare at me. “What the fuck are you doing in my room, Penelobitch?”
“Really, you psycho, what am I doing?” she shrieks.
“You’re the one that’s sneaking into my room in the middle of the fucking night, but I’m the psycho?” I snarl back.
“It’s five a.m., it’s hardly the middle of the night, and I was trying to wake you up,” she says, her angry fa?ade dissolving as she crosses her arms over her chest and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth nervously.
“Why?” I demand, crossing my arms across my chest and widening my stance.
Like my movement draws her attention, she glances down, and her eyes widen like she just this second realized that I’m not wearing any clothes. Her mouth falls open, and her expression becomes scandalized as she stares down at my dick that’s hanging happily between my legs.
I might hate this girl, but I’m not blind, and Penelope Rhodes is hot. Unfortunately, she’s also fucking evil, so I’m working with a semi-on, not a full-blown boner. But even when I’m not at full mast, I’m still pretty impressive. I have a big dick, that’s not boasting, just stating a fact.
“Oh my god, can you put some clothes on?” she gasps, actually lifting her hand to cover her eyes.
“I plan on going back to sleep as soon as you leave, so no, I’m not getting dressed. If you don’t like my dick, don’t look at it.”
Dropping her hand, her features morph into the angry, mean girl expression I’m used to seeing on her pretty face. As I watch, she inhales, closing her eyes for a brief moment before she opens them again, looking visibly…nicer. “Look, I need your help, okay?”
“What do you want me to help you with?” I ask suspiciously. I don’t like this girl. I know that Izzy wants to believe that she’s not pure evil; that she wants to break the will and forfeit the inheritance that’s terrorized both of their lives. But I’m not as willing to see the best in people as Izzy is. I think Penelope’s been backed into a corner by Izzy’s rebellion. I think she’s an opportunist who recognizes that she can’t win the game the way she’s been playing it, now that she and their parents can no longer keep Izzy in line.
Her gaze drops to my dick again, and her cheeks redden. “Can we please go somewhere and talk? Somewhere you have clothes on?”
“Look at me,” I demand.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust a single word out of your mouth, so if you’re asking me for something, I want you to be looking me in the face while you do it,” I snarl, shocked when she instantly complies.
“I just…I need to ask you for your help, and I’d really rather do that somewhere away from my sister where we can talk in private,” she says earnestly, her eyes full of honest fear, an expression I’ve only seen on her once before.
Instead of answering, I take a long moment to assess her, looking for any sign of the manipulative bullshit she’s so fucking good at. But despite her fidgeting beneath my scrutiny, it doesn’t feel like she’s acting right now. “I’d never betray your sister, she’s my friend, my family.”
This time she’s the one assessing me and not my dick, her gaze stays firmly focused on my face. “Good,” she finally says.
My lips curl up at the corners. I really fucking hate this girl, but if she’s trying not to be the snake I’ve always considered her to be, I can work with that. “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”
Without saying a word, her gaze dips one last time to my cock, and I tense my stomach, making my dick twitch. Her cheeks bloom with so much heat, I bet she’d be hot to the touch before she turns and rushes from the room. Something about seeing the embarrassed innocence on her evil fucking face amuses me, and I chuckle to myself as I grab some clothes and pull them on.
It doesn’t take me long to get dressed and brush my teeth, and less than five minutes later, I stroll into the dimly lit living room of the hotel suite we all stayed in last night. A part of me is expecting to find Penelope lounging against the cushions like an old-fashioned starlet, waiting to be gazed upon and appreciated. But instead, she’s sitting primly on the edge of the seat wearing the same dress she wore yesterday when she, Gulliver, and Izzy ran from their crazy parents’ house.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, and I pause for a minute to watch her while she’s unaware. Her posture is defeated, her head lowered like she doesn’t have the energy to lift it. A pang of sympathy ripples through me, but I bat it away. Until she proves herself to be the opposite, I’m assuming she’s just as much of the villain of this story as she’s been for the last three and a half years.
“I’m ready. Where do you want to go?” I ask, my voice loud enough for her to jump, then twist to look at me.
“Anywhere we won’t be overheard,” she says meekly, swallowing thickly as she gracefully rises from the sofa and takes a step toward the door.
“We can go to my boat, the crew won’t be there,” I suggest, not really wanting her in my personal space but unsure where else we can go that will guarantee our privacy and that we won’t be overheard.
“Okay.” She nods, placing a folded piece of paper on the coffee table before turning and heading for the door.
Crossing the room, I pick up the note she just left and scan the contents. Lifting my head, I watch her watch me, but neither of us speaks. Instead, I place the note back down and follow her out of the suite.
The hotel is quiet and still, too early for the guests to be moving around. We pass a few staff, but no one comments on Penelope’s cocktail dress or the ridiculously high heels she is wearing. “How the fuck do you walk in those stilts?” I sneer.
“Practice,” she snaps back, her tone full of snark and vitriol.
“Stop,” I demand, and her feet literally freeze to the spot as she becomes statue still. “Turn the fuck around and look at me.”
My dick twitches excitedly when she immediately spins all the way around on her stupid heels until she’s facing me.
“What?” she asks, her lips twisting into a sour expression like I’m beneath her interest, even though her body has obeyed my orders so perfectly.
“Let’s get one thing straight here, Princess. I am not one of your little fucking minions. If you want me to help you, then you need to start treating me with a little respect. I might fucking hate you, but I’ve never been disrespectful to you, and I expect the same in return.”
Her lips part, and shock flashes across her face. Has no one ever called her out for her holier-than-thou attitude before? “I’m…” she stutters. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad we understand each other, let’s go,” I say, walking past her and toward the elevator.
“That’s it?” she asks, her voice unsure.
“That’s it. I told you I wasn’t happy with your behavior. I explained why and what I expect of you, and you apologized. It’s done, so let’s go.” Pressing the call button for the elevator, I motion for her to go ahead when the doors slide open, watching as she walks forward, her heels clicking on the tile floor. “Do you need to get a change of clothes?”
“Everything I own is at my house, and I don’t plan to go back there, so until the store’s open, I’m stuck with this,” she says, gesturing to her tight-fitting dress. “I suppose I could have worn the pajamas Izabella lent me, but I think I’m less of a spectacle in this than in pajama pants with donuts on them.”
I shrug, then smirk. “I don’t know, in that dress, at this time of the morning, you look like you’re doing the walk of shame.”
Her eyes widen comically large. “I do not.”
“Princess, you’re in a skin-tight dress and hooker heels at…”—I look at my watch—“almost five thirty in the morning. You look like you’re either a very high-class prostitute who just finished working or a socialite getting home from a hookup.”
The look of horror that takes over her face is hilarious, but I manage to bite back the laugh that threatens to break free. “We’ll stop somewhere and find you something more casual to wear, don’t worry about it.”
“Where are we going to find a store open at this time in the morning?” she groans, self-consciously smoothing down the wrinkles in her cocktail dress.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour mall near the financial district, we’ll go there first. We can pick you up something to wear and grab some food. Then we can go to the marina to talk.”
When we arrive in the lobby, the elevator doors slide open, and I grab her hand, not allowing her a chance to worry about who might be judging her as I tow her behind me, guiding her out of the hotel and toward the valet station.
Five minutes later, we’re sitting inside my Mercedes, cruising along the quiet early morning streets of Green Acres, California, in surprisingly comfortable silence. I don’t really know Penelope that well. Truthfully, beyond my general dislike of her bitchy, mean girl persona and my loathing for the despicable way she’s treated her sister, I barely know her at all.
My family is rich, but apparently not old money rich enough to have made it onto Reginald Rhodes the Second’s list of suitable husbands for his great-granddaughter. So unlike Gulliver, I’ve never been a target for Penelope or her mother’s attention.
Since I met Izzy and heard how fucked up the last few years have been for her because of her sister and parents, I labeled Penelope as a heartless, evil bitch, and despite her behavior in the last few weeks, I’ve haven’t seen anything that’s really changed my opinion of her. For years, she’s helped her parents hide and enslave Izzy. She forced her twin to give up her own identity just so that she could pretend to be Penelope, and help her pass high school with an all-important 4.0 GPA.
In the world we live in, money is power, but even without Reginald Rhodes’s fortune, Penelope and her parents are still wealthier than most people could ever imagine being. If we were all poor, I think the Rhodeses’ single-minded pursuit of this inheritance and Penelope’s willingness to be completely controlled by a dead man’s rules would be at least more understandable and possibly even acceptable. But none of us will ever understand the concept of being poor, and for me, that’s what makes her behavior inexcusable.
Izzy is convinced that Penelope is as much a pawn in their parents’ game as she was. But given everything her sister has done in the last few years, I think Izzy wants her sister to be innocent, and this is all just wishful thinking on her part. She wants her twin to be redeemable, and I can understand that desire, but I’m not willing to overlook everything Penelope’s done so easily.
Glancing at the girl who looks so much like my friend but couldn’t be more different, I try to see what Izzy sees in her sister. I try to consider that it’s possible that they manipulated Penelope in the same way they manipulated Izzy, and I suppose it could be true. But if she is a victim, what did they do to her to make her play her part so effectively? The girl’s parents are definitely twisted enough to do whatever it takes to get control over that money. In the last few months, they’ve shown that there are no lengths they’re not willing to go to. But what threat or hold could they have on Penelope that would make her go along with their plans?
“Why did you do it?” I ask, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Why did I do what?” she asks, her voice tired and weak.
“Why did you fuck Izzy over like that? She’s your twin sister.”
When she doesn’t speak, I turn and look at her, unsure of what I’ll find. But instead of anger at my question, she looks broken. Her mouth is downturned, her chin is dipped almost to her chest, and her fingers are agitatedly picking at her perfectly manicured nails in her lap.
“I asked you a question, Princess.”
“Why do you keep calling me Princess? I have a name.” From the sound of her voice, it’s clear she’s trying to sound like she normally does: snooty and unimpressed, but her tone has no intensity, and instead she sounds like she’s fighting back tears.
“I know what your name is, Penelope,” I scoff lightly. “But that’s what you are, isn’t it, a spoiled little princess? I think the nickname suits you better.”
“You’re a dick,” she hisses, but again, there’s no power in her voice, and instead of saying anything else, she quietly turns her head and stares out of the window.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Her sigh is shaky and resigned. “It doesn’t matter why I did it, I know what you all think of me, and you’re right, I’m a monster.”
“Just be honest,” I snap.
“Fine,” she hisses. “When it all started, I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. I was fourteen and terrified of screwing up and losing my family billions of dollars. Izabella offered to help me, and I needed her. By the time I realized that what we were doing wasn’t normal and that we weren’t being fair to her, I was too far into the lie to turn back. Every time I’d question things, my parents would assure me it was all okay. They told me that letting Izabella help was the right thing to do, that we all had our roles to play and that that was hers. I’d like to say that I had no idea how bad things had gotten, but if I’m honest, I just didn’t want to see how messed up things were until the day they attacked her.”
Her voice cracks, and I turn and glance at her, shocked to see her hurriedly wiping a tear from her cheek. Until this exact moment, I hadn’t believed she was capable of feeling bad. When Izzy dragged her out of that party weeks ago, drunk off her ass, I thought everything she’d done since then had just been to save her own skin, but maybe there’s more to it than just that.
“So, everything you’ve done in the last few weeks, everything you’ve done to try and break the will, it’s all been for her?”
I feel the weight of her gaze on me, and I risk another glance away from the road. Her eyes are glassy, and her lips are trembling as she forces them into a shaky smile. “I’d make myself sound better if I said yes, wouldn’t I?” she asks.
“Not if it’s a lie,” I say simply.
Inhaling slowly, she quietly scoffs. “Part of it is because of what they did to her, but mostly it’s to save myself,” she admits quietly, and that honesty, even though it’s ugly, impresses me.
“It’s okay to look after yourself, to be selfish,” I find myself saying, even though I don’t necessarily think it’s true, at least not all the time.
“Maybe, for some people, but when selfish is your one and only defining characteristic, I’m not sure it’s so acceptable,” she says, laughing self-deprecatingly.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask, genuinely interested to hear her answer and wondering if she sees herself the way we see her.
“Selfish, stupid, vain, and weak-minded,” she says soberly.
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”
“So just selfish, vain, and weak-minded then.” She grins, wiping away more tears that she thinks I don’t see.
“I think we all have the capacity to be all of those things, it’s our choices that define us. Maybe what you’re doing for your sister now is your chance to be different. Izzy thinks you can be. She believes that you’re as much a victim in all of this as she is?—”
“She’s wrong,” Penelope says, cutting me off. “I’m not innocent, and I’m not a victim. I might not have understood what I was doing in the beginning, but in the last couple of years, I was fully complicit. I’m not some manipulated puppet, I’m exactly the monster you all know I am.”
Neither of us speaks again as we travel the few miles from the hotel to the mall. “Let’s find you something to wear that isn’t quite so…conspicuous,” I say, killing the engine and opening my car door.
When I round the car to the passenger side, I find Penelope sitting primly in the front seat, her hands clasped together in her lap, clearly waiting for her door to be opened for her. My lips twitch into a broad smile, and I shake my head as I consider once again the vast differences between her and her sister. If this was Izzy in the car right now, she’d have opened the door, even if I’d planned to be a gentleman and do it for her, because that’s just the type of girl she is. Maybe because Izzy has been so sheltered from real life for the last few years, she’s forgotten that she’s actually an indulged rich girl, but clearly Penelope hasn’t. She’s every inch the socialite, and I can’t help but want to play with her a little.
Instead of reaching out and opening the door, I cross my arms across my chest and wait. After a minute or so, she looks out the window and spots me standing there. When it becomes obvious that I’m not planning to open her door for her, she looks down at the handle like she’s never seen one before in her life and finally opens it herself.
“I wondered how long it would take you,” I say with a sarcastic smirk.
“You could have just opened it for me,” she snaps peevishly, all traces of the vulnerable girl from a few minutes ago gone.
“I could have, but where would be the fun in that? I promise you’re not too rich to open your own door.”
Muttering beneath her breath, she slides gracefully from the car and then sashays across the lot, like she’s walking a runway, not heading to find an outfit so she doesn’t look like a hooker.
“Princess, stop,” I snap, not moving or uncrossing my arms.
I’m pleasantly surprised, and almost a little too happy, when she immediately reacts to my tone and stops walking, spinning around to face me. Not allowing myself to smile or praise her for reacting the way I told her to, when I explained what I expected from her earlier, I tip my chin in the direction of her still-open car door.
Her brow furrows, then she looks from me, to the door, and back again, before she rolls her eyes, stomps back to me, and slams the door shut, muttering beneath her breath.
Laughing quietly, I lock my car and stroll after her, enjoying the way her long, lean legs move as she walks and how the too-tight dress she’s wearing emphasizes her almost non-existent curves. At first glance, she and Izzy are completely identical, but as I study Penelope for the first time, it’s obvious that there are differences between the two girls. Both of them are slim, but where Izzy seems healthy, Penelope looks dainty. I’ve never seen Princess in anything other than skirts and dresses, and I wonder if that’s deliberate, because I have a feeling that in jeans, Penelope would look like a waif.
The longer I stare, the more fragile she looks, and a wave of protectiveness rolls through me. I fight the confusing urge to sweep her off her feet and take her somewhere to feed her. But Penelope isn’t my problem. We’re not friends. She wants something from me, and the only reason we’re together right now is because I need to know what it is.
Forcing myself to stop staring at her ass, I speed up my stride until I’m walking beside her as we reach the automatic doors that lead into the mall. Considering it’s not quite six in the morning, there are plenty of people wandering between the shops and restaurants. “Food or clothes first?” I ask.
“If I actually do look like a…” She lowers her voice. “Prostitute, then I think I need to find clothes, although I’ve never heard of most of these stores. Do you think there’s a Gucci or a Prada here?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “I very much doubt there’s a Prada store in a twenty-four-hour mall.”
“Then how can I get clothes here?” she asks innocently.
“Why don’t you try something a little different?” I suggest. “Your sister wears casual stuff, jeans and shorts.”
“Mom would kill me,” she gasps, shaking her head as a panicked expression flashes across her face.
I recognize the look, it’s the same one that Izzy had when Gulliver sprung the engagement on her outside of school. It’s a mixture of terror and panic, and that protective urge I felt toward her earlier bubbles closer to the surface once more.
“What the fuck does it have to do with your mom? You left, remember? Because your parents are fucking psychos and they wanted you to drug and rape your sister’s fiancé.” She flinches at my cutting words, but I’m not going to sugarcoat how fucking crazy they are. “So, who cares if your mom would lose her shit about you buying a pair of jeans? Hell, get a pair just because she’d hate them.”
Instead of building her up, my words seem to have the opposite effect, and she curls into herself a little, wrapping her right arm across her chest and holding on to her left arm at the elbow so tightly that her fingers have gone white.
When she lifts her head and looks at me, all of her usual snotty confidence is gone, and she looks young, fragile, and terrified. I don’t know why I do it, but I move on instinct, drawn to her vulnerability. Reaching for her, I pull her to me and wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly against my chest.
I’m not surprised when she stiffens in my hold and doesn’t return my hug, but instead of loosening my grip, I just hold her tighter, silently offering her the comfort I’m still not entirely sure she deserves. After spending just this short amount of time with her, it’s clear that Penelope is just as fucked-up as Izzy is. The main difference between the girls is that when she was backed into a corner by her parents, Izzy came out swinging; she’s a fighter, but I don’t think Penelope has any clue how to fight for herself. Just like she freely admitted, Princess isn’t innocent in the way Izzy suffered, but I’m starting to question if Izzy was right in saying that her sister might be a victim of her parents too. Either that, or she’s just an incredibly good actress.
Reluctantly releasing her, I step back and clear my throat. Lifting her chin, she inhales deeply, and when her timid eyes find mine again, they’re full of confusion. I know she wants to know why I just offered her comfort, but the truth is, I don’t know why I did it, it just felt like the right thing to do.
So instead, I curl my hand around her wrist and drag her toward a Calvin Klein store. “Let’s go and buy you something your mom would fucking hate.”
“What size do you wear?” I ask, towing her through the store until we’re standing in front of a rack of skinny jeans.
“A two.”
“Jesus,” I murmur, grabbing clothes that look small enough to fit a child from the racks.
“Hawthorn,” she whispers anxiously, but I ignore her, reaching for her wrist again and leading her toward the changing room. “Try these on,” I say, thrusting the pile of clothes into her arms and shooing her into the cubicle.
“I can’t wear these,” she says, her eyes wide and a little scandalized as she lifts the tiny pair of black shorts I’d chosen for her into the air.
“Izzy has a pair smaller than that, and she looks hot as fuck in them. I’ve never seen you wear anything but tight dresses that look like they came out of your crazy mom’s closet.”
“I’m not my sister,” she says, her voice breaking a little, even as fire flares to life in her eyes.
“Trust me, Princess, I’m well aware you’re not Izzy. But you are fucking identical, and she looks good in shorts. So, stop being so fucking difficult and just go and try them,” I snap, pushing her further into the changing room and drawing the curtain.
The moment I hear the telltale rustling of fabric, I exhale and turn away, refusing to accept that I wouldn’t hate catching a glimpse of her while she undresses. “How’s it going?” I ask after a few minutes.
“I look weird,” she whines.
“Show me,” I demand. Part of me is expecting her to tell me to go fuck myself, but instead, the curtain slides back, revealing Penelope Rhodes in skin-tight jeans and a pink shirt. “Jeans, yes, shirt, no.”
“I look ridiculous,” she moans, her lips twisted into a grimace as she fiddles with the hem of her shirt.
Ignoring her pouting, I step past her and grab a different top. “The jeans are hot, but try this shirt instead,” I direct, shooing her back into the changing room and pulling the curtain across again.
“This is so humiliating. I have a closet full of couture, why are we buying off the rack?” she moans. “Now I look slutty and weird,” she announces, opening the curtain with a flourish.
“You look hot,” I say, eyeing the way the fitted black crop top clings to her small pert breasts and shows off her toned stomach. She and Izzy might look the same, but their energy is so different, and right now, Penelope’s pissed-off insecurity is kind of sexy. Dressed like this, it’s clear to see just how much smaller she is than her sister. Her waist is so tiny in the jeans that I think I could wrap my hands around her and my thumbs would touch.
She turns to look at herself in the mirror, her brow wrinkling with distaste. “I think the last time I owned jeans, I was twelve.”
“Izzy wears jeans.” I shrug.
“She might have them, but she never wore them out in public, Mom says they’re the clothes of the working class.”
“Princess, your mom is a bitch,” I say coldly, daring her to disagree.
Instead, her laugh is high and sweet. “She really is. I still think I look weird, but I’m going to buy them and wear them just out of spite. I hope someone she knows sees me and tells her; she’d be appalled to see me dressed like this. Do you think there’s anywhere here that I can get some sneakers too, and maybe a pair of sweatpants? Oh, and I need a hairband, I want to tie my hair up.”
A calculating smile spreads across her lips, reminding me of the evil, manipulative bitch who exploited her sister, but for some reason I’m not as disgusted by it as I normally am. Maybe it’s because right now she’s not plotting against Izzy, but her mother instead.
It’s funny that both girls started their rebellion against their parents with their clothes. Izzy purged her entire wardrobe of anything that made her look like her sister, and Penelope is picking stuff that she knows will piss their mom off.
By the time we leave the mall, Penelope is in the jeans and top she tried on, with a cropped sweatshirt that only reveals a slither of bare skin. Her feet are clad in a sick pair of Nike sneakers, and her hair is in a high ponytail that swings back and forth as she walks.
She looks totally different and yet familiar at the same time. Without her sexy dresses and six-inch heels, Princess looks younger, sweeter, and sad. There’s an innate melancholy in her eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever seen in someone our age before. Izzy’s trauma is different, when Gulliver backed her into a corner, she came out swinging, throwing barbs with her words, and making sure that we all knew how pissed she was. But Penelope doesn’t seem to have that fire. I can sense some kind of anger simmering beneath her usually perfect exterior, but it’s so stifled I’m not sure it would emerge even if she was really pushed to the edge.
The more time I spend with her, the more obvious it is to see that the Rhodes have really done a number on both girls, only in very different ways. There’s no question that Penelope has some damage, although I don’t presume to know anything about how it affects her. But I do wonder, if Izzy had been the eldest twin, how she would have reacted to her parents’ manipulations? Would she have let them treat her like a cash cow, or would she have rebelled before it dissolved into threats and violence?
The moment she’s seated in the car, all of Penelope’s spite-driven rebellion starts to dissolve, and she becomes quiet and withdrawn. Penelope isn’t my friend or my problem. I shouldn’t care that her fingers are shaking a little as she pulls the tie from her hair and finger-combs it until it’s hanging in her usual style. But I saw the fire starting to burn in her, and now watching as it’s doused by whatever war is going on in her head affects me more than it should.
A part of me wonders if this is all a game and if she’s playing with me. Penelope Rhodes is a talented actress; she’s spent years toying with the boys on her list. She’s flirted with them, complimented them, chased them, and anything else her evil bitch of a mother coached her to do to endear herself to all of her potential future husbands. No matter how much sympathy I might be feeling for her right now, I can’t forget that she’s not above using manipulation to get what she wants.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask as I pull my car into a drive-through fast food place just around the corner from the marina.
“Oh, I’m not hungry, thank you. I normally just have a green juice for breakfast.”
My lips turn down into a scowl. “No.”
“No?” she echoes back at me, her brows pulled together in confusion.
“I’m ordering breakfast for us, so what do you want?” I growl.
“I can’t eat anything. Do you know how many calories are in the food they serve here?” Panic laces her tone as she shakes her head emphatically. “I can’t eat anything.”
Something about the way she repeats the same phrase twice sends me on high alert, making my hackles raise. “Princess, you can eat whatever the fuck you want. You’re skin and fucking bone, now tell me what you want to eat, or I’ll pick for you.”
Her eyes dart to the menu, widening a little before she shakes her head again. “I can’t eat any of this, Hawthorn. I’m not allowed carbs. I can’t eat anything.”
For a second, I question if this is just another bullshit manipulation tactic, but then I remember Izzy saying she only ate pizza for the first time last year when she visited family overseas on her own. I think she said something about their mother saying the girls would get fat.
“Hawthorn,” she begs.
My name on her lips triggers something, and I find myself nodding. Turning to the speaker to order, I reel off a selection of food. “Juice, coffee, or both?” I ask Penelope.
“Water, please,” she says meekly, and for the hundredth time this morning, I want to punch Trudy Rhodes in the face for being such a fucking cunt.
“Juice and coffee with creamer and a shot of caramel syrup it is,” I tell her, ignoring her wide-eyed protest. After ordering our drinks, I move to the window and pay, refusing to acknowledge the fretful anxiety that’s pulsing from the girl beside me in agitated waves. Every emotion that she exudes feels almost painfully real, but I’m still not confident that her behavior this morning has been honest. I wish I knew which version of Penelope was the real one. Is she the docile girl or the conniving Machiavellian woman?
Once I’ve collected our food, we drive the rest of the way to the marina in tense silence. Every ounce of rebellion has dissolved from Penelope, and she’s stiff, her posture so rigid that her spine isn’t even resting against the back of the seat. Penelope doesn’t wait for me to open her car door when I pull into my space in the marina parking lot. She primly climbs out of the car the moment the engine cuts off, waiting silently for me to lead the way to my boat. Despite the shopping and the stop for food, it’s only just after seven, and the marina is quiet and empty, except for a few early risers getting ready to make the most of a full day on the water.
Neither of us speaks as I carry the bags of food and drinks and lead the way across the lot to the jetty where my yacht is moored. Handing the bags of food to Penelope, I slide the gangplank down and secure it in place, then take the food back from her and gesture for her to lead the way.
More confidently than I expect, she climbs aboard and waits for me on the deck. “Inside or out?” I ask.
“Would anyone be able to hear us if we sat outside?” she questions, her voice weak.
“Depending on the way the wind is blowing, the people on the closest boats might be able to. Inside would definitely be more private.”
“Inside then, please. I’d rather no one overhear us,” she whispers, darting her gaze from side to side as if she’s wondering who could be listening to us right now.
Nodding, I pull my keys from my pocket and quickly unlock the door, gesturing for her to go inside. I love this yacht, it’s my escape, my freedom, and the thing that makes me happiest in the world. My parents and brother are awesome, but they all suffer from serious wanderlust. Spending more than a few months in one place has them itching for the next big adventure. They always want to try a new town or country, and as a kid, that meant me and my brother packing up and going with them every time they decided to move. When I started high school at Green Acres Academy, I put my foot down and refused to drop everything and travel with them at their whims. This boat is my only throwback to that transient life. It’s rare that I miss the freedom of traveling, but when I do, I hoist the sails and lose myself in the limitless nature of the ocean for a few hours.
Unlike some of the kids at school, I don’t use my yacht as a place to hold parties or bring girls here to fuck them. This is my private space, and until Gulliver brought Izzy out to sail with us, my family and the guys were the only people to step aboard—apart from my crew.
In such a short amount of time, Izzy has become the sister I never had. She’s so resilient and just fucking awesome to be around. I love her, and even more, I love her for Gulliver, they’re so perfect for each other, and even though we’re young, I really can see them going the distance.
Izzy and Penelope might be twins, but I’m reminded once again that Penelope isn’t her sister when she sits primly down on one of the couches. I can’t explain it, but even though it shouldn’t, it feels okay to have Princess here with me, and I don’t really understand why. Maybe I’m forgetting who she is because of how different she looks right now.
Clearing my throat, I turn away from her and busy myself emptying the bags of food out onto the table. Opening each of the lids, I reveal eggs, crispy bacon, pancakes, hash browns, breakfast casserole, steak, toast, and some fruit salad. Taking the overly sweet coffee I ordered for her, I hand it to her, then slide the two cups of juice onto the table beside the food.
“Can you demean yourself and eat out of the boxes?” I ask sarcastically.
“The coffee is fine,” she says, eyeing the cup like it’s going to bite her.
“I’ll get you a plate,” I sigh.
“No, really…” She trails off when she realizes I’m ignoring her.
Heading into the galley, I grab plates, silverware, and napkins, then make my way back into the living room. “Do you want some of everything?” I ask, poised to add whatever she picks onto her plate for her.
“I can’t…” Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head.
“Why not?” I ask.
As I watch, an all-too-familiar sneer curls up the corners of her lips, disguising the panic that was all over her features only seconds ago. “I don’t eat anything that’s not organic, I follow a strict macrobiotic diet,” she snaps, her tone derisive.
If I hadn’t seen the transformation for myself, I’d probably have assumed she was just being a snobby bitch right now. I don’t know how I know everything she’s saying, and the way she’s acting is a lie, but I know it is. Something about the food or eating is making her panic, and her way of dealing with that is to fall back on her superior attitude. Only this time, I’m not fooled.
“Lie,” I growl.
“Excuse me?” she asks, arching her perfectly shaped eyebrow imperiously at me.
“Everything you just said was a lie, Princess. So why don’t you try again? And I want the truth this time. Why can’t you eat this food?” I demand, my voice steely and cold.
“I just can’t,” she snaps, lifting her coffee to her lips, then lowering it back to the table without taking a sip.
“Do you have allergies? Are you a vegan?”
She parts her lips, but before she speaks, I already know that anything she says is going to be a lie.
“No. I want the truth,” I snap, losing patience.
“I’m not allowed to eat any of this,” she whispers, her eyes downcast like she can’t be both honest and look at me at the same time.
“Why? Because your mom told you you can’t have carbs?” I ask with a snicker. The silence that follows is telling, and I can’t help but shake my head in disgust. Stabbing a forkful of pancake, I dip it into the pot of maple syrup and hold it up to Penelope’s lips. “Eat,” I order.
“There’s between one hundred and fifty and two hundred calories in that pancake. I can’t eat that,” she whisper-yells, her eyes wide like a frightened animal.
“Princess, eat the damn pancake. Your mom isn’t here, she doesn’t have any say over what you eat anymore. She doesn’t get to control you anymore.”
Her eyes go glassy, and for a moment, I think she might actually cry. Something about the way she’s struggling with this calls to something inside of me. Instead of getting frustrated with the way an eighteen-year-old woman is refusing to eat something because her mom told her she couldn’t, I lift the forkful of food up higher, narrow my eyes, then say, “Eat, I dare you.”
Her eyes flutter shut, then open again, and instead of the trauma, I see a hint of the fire she’d shown me at the mall. Eventually, her lips part, and she tentatively leans forward and takes the food into her mouth.
The moment her lips close, she starts to chew, and I watch, enthralled, as her eyes fall shut and the most seductive moan slips from her. Swallowing thickly, I ignore my swelling cock and instead stare at her, desperate to hear the sound again, but it doesn’t come.
“More,” I demand, cutting off more food and holding it up to her lips.
When she moans again, I swear I almost come in my pants.
I shouldn’t be this turned on, fully dressed, with a girl I hate, but I am, and I need more. Stabbing a strawberry onto the fork, I feed that to her next, watching as the juices make her lips shiny and wishing I could lick it off.
Over and over, I feed her bites of all of the different foods, loving how she reacts to them like she’s never experienced them before. I don’t understand it, but it’s one of the most erotic experiences of my life, and between each forkful I bring to her lips, I take one for myself, sharing a fork with her and wishing once again that I could taste her on my lips.
“No more,” she protests, her eyes euphoric as she lifts a hand and covers her mouth.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. As soon as I calculate how many calories I just ate, I’m going to freak out, but for now, I’m just enjoying the sugar rush,” she says, her eyes closed and a bright, almost unrecognizable smile across her full lips.
“Never regret enjoying food, Princess, it’s one of life’s greatest pleasures,” I purr, lifting my hand and swiping a shiny pebble of syrup from her lip with my thumb before sucking it into my mouth.
Her eyes snap open, and her tongue bobs out, sliding over her bottom lip to taste where I just touched her. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or not, but the action only thickens the air that seems to be swirling between us.
“What did you want to talk to me about, Penelope?” I ask, clearing my throat and physically leaning back, doing my best to ignore the lust that’s pulsing between us.
Her expression instantly sobers, and I wish I hadn’t said anything because a mask settles into place, ruining her blissful expression. In an instant, the sweet girl from only seconds ago is gone, leaving the all-too-familiar evil twin in her place.
Clearing her throat, her entire posture changes. Straightening her spine, she crosses her feet at the ankles and links her fingers together in her lap. “I want to break the will,” she says in a politely professional tone, that belies all of the intimacy we’ve just shared.
“Okay…did you think of a new idea to get around all the teachers being on your parents’ payroll?” I ask, unsure why she needed to have this conversation away from her sister and the others.
“No, I think it’s safe to agree that the school is very firmly under my parents’ control. But there’s another way to end all of this,” she says quietly, her gaze fixed on her hands, pointedly avoiding looking at my face.
“Princess, I’ve already warned you that I expect you to look at me when you’re talking to me.”
Her chin snaps up, and her eyes lock with mine.
“Thank you. Now I need you to explain. What do you think you can do that will break the will, and why does that involve me?”
“I want you to have sex with me.”