Red Thorns (Thorns Duet #1) by Rina Kent

“Wow. That’s such a cynical view of the world.”

He raises his brow, a small smile tugging on his lips. “You of all people ought to understand that since you’re sarcastic about everything.”

“Being sarcastic doesn’t make me cynical.”

“With your dark sense of humor, it does.”

“I don’t have a dark sense of humor.”

He lifts his hand and shows it to me. “See that?”

I frown. “What?”

“The black covering my hands when I accidentally touch your humor.”

“Not funny.” I fight a smile as I run my fingers over the script of his tattoo. “What does this mean?”

“My mind is my only cage.”

“That’s beautiful, especially coupled with the Japanese one. Did someone translate them for you?”

“No.”

“So you translated it yourself? That’s impressive. Usually people get all sorts of wrong stuff tattooed on them. I can speak for Japanese, but I heard it happens for Arabic, too.”

He raises a brow. “Is my Japanese correct?”

“Perfectly. When did you get them?”

“When I was eighteen.”

“I wish I was brave enough to get one.”

“We’ll go together and get matching tattoos.”

For some reason, that idea doesn’t seem so crazy to me. I snuggle into him as a chill travels down my spine. He’s so warm, and I don’t only mean physically.

There’s something about him that I’m slowly learning. He has a black and white view of the world but acts as if it’s gray. In a way, he’s emulating feelings he doesn’t have and I find that utterly fascinating.

Is it a defense or a coping mechanism? Or maybe he really is antisocial.

At any rate, all I want is to learn more about him, because apparently, I’ve been fooled by his image all this time.

When I shiver again, he reaches for his jacket and throws it over my nakedness. “Though it’s a pity to hide your tits.”

“Are you a sex addict?” I joke.

“Maybe. Who knows?” He lifts a shoulder as if that’s a normal occurrence. “Now, back to your beloved justice. Do you still believe in it?”

“I do. I believe in the concept that what goes around comes around.”

“Isn’t that karma?”

“Another form of how justice manifests.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you believe in justice?”

I lick my lips and I can feel my walls slowly crumbling. Maybe it’s the fact that our conversation is so easy or that I appreciate him holding me instead of leaving me a bit too much.

At any rate, the words leave me easier than I would’ve ever thought. “When I was in kindergarten, there were a bunch of white girls who bullied me. One of them said I was yellow like a banana and often called me names. She told me her mom said that it’s because of yellow people like me coming here all the time that her dad can’t find a job. Due to the constant jabs and bullying, I didn’t want to go to school anymore, even though I loved my kindergarten teachers. I hid in my closet and refused to come out. But one day, Mom grabbed me by the elbow and yanked me out of there.

“‘Did you do something wrong, Nao-chan?’ she asked me and when I shook my head, she said, ‘Then why are you hiding as if you did?’ So I explained the situation with big ugly tears. I felt so wronged, so victimized, and it made me frustrated. I thought Mom would share my feelings, but her expression remained stern as she told me, ‘Don’t be scared of people who judge you because of the color of your skin or where you came from. Look them in the eyes and show them with action that you’re here to stay.’ And I did. I got back to school and didn’t bow down. When they became vicious, I became just as vicious. Soon after, that girl and her friends lost interest and stopped bothering me.”

Sebastian remains silent for a beat before he asks, “Is that why you believe in justice?”

“It’s part of the reason. The other part is because I need it to be real.”

“What for?”

“So those who hurt people weaker than them pay.” My voice breaks at the end and it doesn’t escape his notice.

He stares down at me and I lower my gaze as I swallow. “I was nine and he was Mom’s boyfriend.”

I feel the way he turns rigid, how his muscles become as hard as granite. When he speaks, his voice is tight and closed, “What did he do?”

“He came into my room when Mom stepped out to do some late-night work. She didn’t usually leave me alone with him and he hadn’t made a move on me before. But I knew, somehow, since I didn’t feel comfortable around him. It was as if he was biding his time for the right moment.

“For that night. I remember…waking up startled as if I’d had a nightmare, but I couldn’t remember it. I recall my hazy vision slowly getting used to the darkness, to the motifs of the sun on my curtains, the curves of them and the way they seemed like headless monsters in the darkness. I’ve never forgotten that sight, even twelve years later. I also remember the scent of alcohol, pungent and harsh to my nostrils. It’s why I don’t like drinking much, even now. It’s strange how the brain remembers things like that, but I couldn’t erase them if I tried.