She yanked her leg from his grasp and threw her body as far from him as the car door would allow. “Don’t touch me. I just can’t…can’t…” Her mind searched for a socially acceptable explanation for her words, but no thoughts floated out of the abyss other than the scream echoing inside her head: You’re my uncle. You’re my uncle.
She shouldn’t be surprised Gran had left out that humongous detail—that she’d had a son. Gran never spoke about her daughter, Isleen’s mom, either. Or the past. Never. Not ever. Gran’s motto—her rule—had always been “Focus forward.”
“Understood.” Fully aimed at her, his face was all hard lines and sharp angles. He probably intimidated most people, but to her, his face—seen so often in her dreams—had always been a salvation. Even his scars. They weren’t angry or ugly; they were beautiful with their intricate, fernlike pattern spreading up his neck to decorate half his face.
He shifted his attention from her and aimed it out the windshield. She wanted to do something, say something, so he’d turn those gorgeous tawny eyes on her again, but that was stupid and risky. It wouldn’t take a Mensa member to see she was love-starved and Xander was her favorite food. With effort, she forced herself to look forward at the driveway leading to her new life.
Xander drove them through an emerald forest toward a rainbow of color. The woods surrounding the car were a painter’s palette of greens, from chartreuse to deepest sage. Dusk hugged the edges of the landscape, and ahead of them at a large opening in the trees, violent hues of scarlet tipped bruised clouds. A breathy gasp escaped her lips. She didn’t want to look away. Monochromatic color had dominated her existence for so long that she had to blink back tears at the overstimulation.
Emotion burned the back of her throat and watered her eyes. She swiped away the wetness before it could streak down her cheeks. “It’s stunning.”
“Wait until you actually see the house,” Matt said from the backseat, his tone slightly sarcastic and laced with a dash of admiration. At least he wasn’t being nasty.
They rounded a sharp curve, leaving the forest canopy behind to make room for the behemoth-sized house perched on the side of the hill. But the word house was too miniscule to contain the structure. The word mansion only fit because of the size. The word castle was close, but too harsh and cold to convey the whimsy of all the windows and wood.
Gables overshot the expansive second story, and a wide porch wrapped itself around the place like a hug. Plush wicker chairs and a porch swing invited her to sit and watch the sunset to completion.
“Wow,” Isleen whispered. “This is where I’m going to live?” She stared out the window, straining her neck to take in the entire structure. Everything here seemed so large, so great, so unreal.
Xander parked in front of the massive arched entryway.
“Yep. This is your stop.” Matt’s tone carried a false lightness. “Unless you want to go home with Xander.”
“She’s staying here.” Without a word to her or a glance in her direction, Xander got out of the car, slamming the door so hard it rocked the vehicle. He walked to the drive that went on past the house and farther up the hill. His shoulders strained the fabric of his T-shirt, and his legs consumed the ground in paces so large she would have to run to keep up. That’s exactly what she wanted to do. Run after him.
All her muscles and tendons were poised, ready to chase him down and set a world record in the hundred-yard dash. She grabbed for the door handle, the explanations flooding her mouth: Your touch means everything to me, makes me feel whole and healthy and wanting so much more. You’re my uncle and it’s wrong to feel this way and I don’t know how else to not want you.
No. If she said that, she’d come off sounding like the love child of the demented and the perverted. She wouldn’t go after him. She forced herself to let go of the door.
Restrained, unused energy vibrated through her, triggering a thousand memories. Memories of feeling that exact way inside their prison and the only relief, the only escape, was when Queen had beaten the feeling out of her. Physical pain was a distraction from the mental anguish and so much easier to handle.
Isleen clenched her fists tight, so tight they shook, so tight the slender, barely there muscles in her arms strained. Before her mind could decipher her body’s intent, she punched down onto the fleshy part of her legs. Pain bloomed, a blessed distraction. She hit herself again. The desperate energy, the horrible urge to chase after him, eased. She beat her legs over and over—
Matt captured her wrists, locking them in his grip. “Stop it.”
His voice punched her out of the trance she’d been in. She shrank back from him, but he didn’t let go and didn’t look away from her, refusing her the dignity of denial.