Fall For My Ex's Mafia Dad

Chapter 0068

Kent comes to my side, grabbing my right arm and pulling it forward as he moves to the other side of

the table. He still holds my arm firmly in his grip as he goes, making be bend over the table to move

with him – All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

Which, I suddenly realize, is precisely what Kent wanted.

When I’m bent at the waist, my torso stretched across the table, Kent produces a set of handcuffs

attached by their chain to a metal loop on the table’s edge. While I watch, he snaps the handcuffs tight

around my right wrist, attaching me firmly to the metal table.

Then, he looks at me. “Your other wrist,” he demands, holding out his hand for it across the table.

“No!” I shout, scared but also suddenly furious. I’m not going to be complicit in my own torture.

“Fay,” he says, his voice threatening. “This will be much easier on you if you’re obedient.”

In response I tighten my lips and stand up as straight as I can, curling my other arm behind my back.

“No.”

Inside of my head, a very quiet voice is screaming at me to just do as he says – he won’t be cruel to

you if you do what he says! – Just tell him what he wants to know and you’ll be fine! –

But I’ve been here long enough to know that Kent Lippert is going to be cruel no matter what he does –

it’s in his blood, or some other intrinsic part of him.

And god damnit, I’m sick of being the good little girl who does as she’s told in this world. It hasn’t gotten

me anywhere yet, and it’s not going to start now, just because he’s got me chained to a metal table in

his basement.

“Fay Alden,” Kent says, lowering himself to look me in the eye. “Give me your arm. Now.”

“No,” I throw back at him, matching his tone and his glare.

I shock myself here, again. Moments ago, I was trembling as he pulled me down the stairs. What the

hell snapped in me to make me so suddenly defiant?

As Kent’s mouth pulls back in a frustrated snarl and he storms around the table, grabbing my left arm

and pulling it back with him as he returns to the other side of the table, I realize that it’s this –

This –

As I watch the anger on Kent’s face, I realize that I’ve riled him. Kent Lippert – always so calm, so in

control, so even-keeled in the face of danger, opposition, hell even gunfire –

Kent Lippert reacts when I stand up to him. It pisses him off.

And part of me really, really likes pissing him off.

Bullies, I think, snarling myself, they hate it when someone finds a chink in their armor. And I’m the

chink in his.

This, I could use to my advantage.

Still, there’s not much I can do as Kent pulls my left arm around to the other side of the table, clicking

the other half of the handcuffs around my wrist. Then, he stands back, studying his handywork.

I pull back on the chain once, testing it, and seeing how firmly it holds. The handcuffs bite sharply into

my wrists, making me wince, so I lean forward again, resting my elbows on the table and looking up

into Kent’s face. Casually, I clasp my hands together.

I see him open his mouth to speak, but before he can his eye falls on the engagement ring on my left

hand. Quickly, he moves to unlink my hands and pull it off my ring finger, slipping it into his pocket.

Without thinking, I feel a retort coming to my lips.

“What, Kent,” I say, my voice soft. “Can’t beat me with your wife’s ring on my hand? Something feel

wrong about that?”

Even I’m shocked at the words that just came out of my mouth. Jesus Christ, who am I?

I see him flinch – just barely – but then he raises his eyes to mine, his face perfectly calm. “That’s

enough, Fay,” he says. “I’ll be asking the questions.”

He folds his arms and I hold his gaze, not moving an inch.

“What was that note,” he asks, his words quick.

“I don’t know,” I say, matching his pace.

“Then why,” he pushes, his voice harder, “was it in your room.”

“Because Fiona gave it to me.”

He presses his hands to the table. “Then you do know what it is.”

I narrow my eye at him. “I know what it is as far as I know that it’s a piece of paper with bad poetry

written on it, sure,” I say. Again, I surprise myself with my attitude and confidence – it by no means

matches what I feel inside. “But as for what it means, or what it’s for, I don’t know.”