You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 112

"You psychopathic monster!" My voice broke on the edges of fury and grief. "How dare you? How could you kill him?"

He didn't flinch. Calmly like I was some TV noise, he reached for a new glass, pouring with steady hands. The faint slosh of wine taunted me.

Fury burnt hotter in my chest. I tried to reach for the glass, but his rough hand closed around my wrist, bringing me to a stop.

His eyes flickered with a cold fire. "You touch my glass again and I'll make sure you don't recognize your hands when I'm done with them."

The door clicked open and closed behind us, the trio slipping out and leaving me trapped with the monster.

Hot tears pricked my eyes, blurring the monster before me. When he finally released my wrist, the ghost of his grip still throbbed in my bones.

He went back to his wine while I stood there, breaking apart.

"Who the fuck made you a judge, huh!?" I screamed in frustration. "What did Grayson actually do that was so different from what you've done to me? At least, he didn't even succeed. But you...you fucking raped me!"

He drank from his glass.

"You haven't forgotten, have you? You whipped me and cuffed me to the bed just so I could be defenseless. You were worse than Grayson!"

"Of course I was," he said smoothly, tilting his head to look at me. "But that's the point, Rali. I'm the only one who gets to be worse. Your pathetic boss didn't even have the right to guess what color your bra was, let alone touch you. So, if I had to do it again, I'd kill him slower than I already did."

My hand flew before I realized it, striking his face. His head barely shifted, but the sting in my palm told me I'd hit hard.

"You're sick," the words trembled on my lips. "You're worse than the devil himself. You're an asshole!"

I tried hitting him again, but he turned fully and grabbed my wrist. So I grabbed his drink instead, hurling it in his face. Red streaked down his cheek, dripping from his jaw like blood.

Rage drowned me whole. I threw the empty glass too, just to spite him and laugh at his threat. My hands struck his chest again and again, fists and slaps and curses spilling like venom. God, I couldn't recall the last time I'd been this furious.

Suddenly, the world blurred.

He caught both my wrists in one brutal grip, shoved me backward until my spine slammed against the wall. His hand closed around my throat, squeezing enough to freeze the air in my lungs.

The fight in me stuttered. My nails clawed at his wrist, scraping uselessly. My world funneled into his face—the storm-grey eyes, the scar above his lip, the look of a man who would tear the universe apart just to keep me under his heel.

He slammed my head again before he finally let go.

I collapsed forward, clutching at my throat, gasping like a fish thrown on land. I didn't know which hurt more—the bruises swelling under his fingers or the hollow crack opening in my heart.

Beside me, glass shattered. He swept the Château Margaux off the counter on his way, letting the bottle die against the floor. The sting of the noise stabbed at my ears, but I buried the flinch.

He was already halfway to the door when the words ripped free of me: "I wish my father had left you rotting in the dark where you belonged. The worst day of my life wasn't when I met you. It's every day after."

He stopped dead, his back to me, the room holding its breath with him.

Seconds passed.

My chest still heaved.

He didn't turn, but for once, the silence didn't feel like dominance. It felt like a wound he was too proud to show me.

He resumed his pace, the door swinging wide and sealing quietly after his passage.