Black Thorns (Thorns Duet #2) by Rina Kent

“East for me.” Knox pats my shoulder. “You don’t mind taking one for the team and going to the old folks’ area, do you, Bastian? They love you.”

“All the pure people do. Not my fault you’re rotten.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Daniel whispers, and Knox flips me off.

I leave their side with a smirk and head toward a small gathering of businessmen. I recognize them from the days I used to play the good grandson.

They come from old money and know how to manage it—their money, that is. They’re now represented by one of our rival firms, Carson & Carson, which is owned by the father of my friend, Asher, who currently works for them.

Although he specializes in international law, he’ll have my balls if he knows I’m gunning for their clients.

But then again, if the roles were reversed, he would do the same. Both of us still like the challenge, just like when we first chose to play football back in middle school.

I summon my showtime smile. It’s harder to do that these days. Smiling. Whether it’s real or fake.

In fact, I’ve forgotten the last time I genuinely smiled. It was robbed from me the same day I lost the meaning of living and started to simply exist.

Working is the only thing that keeps my mind functioning and alert. And that’s why I intend to have more cases than I can handle.

Maybe that will manage to shut off whatever feelings try to rise to the surface.

Maybe that will help me get my soul back.

My feet come to a halt not far from the small group as tingling erupts at my nape.

At first, I think it’s just a figment of my imagination.

An untasteful fucking joke from my brain.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t be having the sensation that the world is being set on fucking fire and the only thing I can do is to stand there and watch.

I search my surroundings, because I know, I just know that she’s somewhere here.

She has to be.

My frantic gaze scans all the faces and attendees even as I remain in place. I survey the people at the bar and everyone coming inside, searching for those inquisitive dark eyes and rosy lips.

Searching for the face I’ve never been able to forget.

The face that I picture when I take shooting fucking lessons.

I pause when my eyes land on her brown ones. She’s standing near the corner with a champagne flute in her hand.

Her posture is erect, accentuated by a long black gown that skims the floor, and her hair, the color of the night, is gathered in a twist.

I’ve dreamed about this moment a million fucking times, but nothing, absolutely nothing could’ve prepared me for the view in front of me.

Her face is almost the same—petite, delicate, with soft lines contouring it. But it seems mature, touched by the hands of time. Her lips are a deep shade of red as they part the slightest bit.

Lips that I’ve feasted on and whose taste I still remember. It’s turned fucking bitter over time, but it’s still there all the same.

A diamond necklace that must’ve cost a company’s budget wraps around her delicate throat.

The same throat that I’ve grabbed countless times and have marked just as many.

Her arm is looped around an Asian man’s who is wearing frameless glasses.

Her lips part when my eyes connect with hers. They’re also the same, dark, haunting, but they’re now a little bit strange, a little bit changed.

A little bit far away.

She inhales a breath, which from this distance, I can almost hear, then feel trickling against my fucking skin.

It’s her.

Naomi.

The one who broke me.

Broke us.

Now, it’s time I do the same.





16





Naomi





How is it possible for years to blur together as if they never existed?

A single moment.

A single glance.

A single second of eye contact.

And it all bursts back in as if it were never gone. All the details are still the same but somehow not.

The tropical green color of his eyes has darkened, almost dulled. His sharp features have lost all playfulness and they’re now gloomier, more serious.

More lethal.

Any boyishness has disappeared and he’s all man now. Masculinity drips from every part of him, whether it’s the cut of his jaw, the dip in his heavy brows, or the thick veins covering the back of his hand as he grips the glass of champagne.

Unlike his haphazard look in the past, his hair is styled. The tuxedo is fitted to his developed body. He’s still as tall and muscular as in my memories, although he’s no longer an athlete.

There are a lot of things that he no longer possesses. Like the gleam in his eyes.

Maybe that part of him died.

Just like many parts of me did.

I’ve always thought about the time I’d meet Sebastian again. In my mind, I was sure that our paths would cross.

Maybe in Blackwood if I summoned the courage to go back. Or in New York, where he currently lives. Or in Japan, if he ever came over for business.

I subconsciously created all sorts of scenarios in my head about how I’d react. I trained myself to be unaffected, to only show a façade. I even practiced it in front of the mirror so I wouldn’t make mistakes.

So I would act like I’m supposed to.

But I should’ve known better.

Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when I’m face-to-face with him.