Forged: An Altered Series Prequel by Jennifer Rush Page A

shallow thing to give weight to, but it can be a weapon, used in the same way as humor, or cunning, or intellect. You use what you got.
    Growing up, my mother had always said I was beautiful, but it was never meant as praise. She had the rare gift of turning compliments into disparaging remarks.
    My being beautiful was seen as a weakness in her eyes, as if I would “rest on my laurels” for the rest of my life and let the less attractive people wait on me. When I was seven, she cut my long, auburn hair to a short, short boy cut. I was called Daniel that entire year at school.
    When I turned fourteen and grew C-cup boobs, she bought me compression bras.
    It wasn’t until about a year ago that I started to realize that being pretty wasn’t such a bad thing. And just to drive the point home to my mother, I started wearing tighter shirts, shorter skirts, and push-up bras. She tried grounding me, but by that point I’d outgrown her, both physically and mentally. I’d learned how to intimidate her from the best teacher: my father.
    My mother backed off after a while.
    Thankfully, she’d all but ignored Anna. I only hoped she continued to ignore her while I was gone.
    “Dani,” the good-looking man said. In the soft overhead lighting, his dirty blond hair appeared wet, but I suspected it was some kind of hair product to keep it slicked back. Darker stubble covered his face.
    He wore a plain white button-up, the top two buttons undone, and a tailored black suit jacket that hinted at toned arms. Sitting beside him, on the desk, was a pair of camel-brown leather gloves.
    In his left hand, he held a file, and in his right was a tumbler of amber liquid.
    He took a swig and set the glass down as I eased into one of two chairs. I checked his desk for a nameplate but found none.
     “It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled, displaying a row of flawless white teeth.
    “We haven’t met,” I reminded him. “I don’t know you. I don’t even know your name.”
    The smile widened. He dropped the file next to the tumbler and pulled in a breath to respond.
    I cut him off. “And don’t say touché.”
    He raised a brow. “Why not?”
    “Because that’s what most people would say.”
    “And you don’t think I’m most people?”
    I glanced around the room, assessing. What people choose to surround themselves with says a lot about who they are.
    Behind him, hanging from gallery wire, were watercolor paintings. The art depicted different women, faces only, in bold black line work. On top of them were random strokes of paint, vibrant colors like neon green and pink and teal.
    On his desk, besides the requisite computer and office supplies, was a framed picture of a young girl and a golden retriever, and then an artist’s mannequin. Which made me wonder if the watercolors behind him were his.
    He spread out his hands. “So?”
    “Not most people,” I replied.
    He smirked, and grabbed the tumbler again. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”
    “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    “It was meant as one.” He let that set in. I tried so damn hard to keep a straight face. “Should we get started, then?” he said.
    “Maybe you could tell me your name before we start whatever it is we’re starting.”
    “I suppose that’s fair. It’s Connor Van Norstrand.”
    “That’s an ornate name.”
    “It’s Dutch.”
    I crossed one leg over the other and caught Connor staring at my bare knees. That sort of attention was something I might be able to use to my advantage later on, if there was ever a scenario where I needed an advantage.
     “How old are you?” I asked.
    He drained the last of his drink. I wondered, absently, what it was he was drinking. The kind of liquor a guy drinks also says a lot. My dad drank cheap whiskey.
    He gestured at the now empty tumbler. “Old enough to consume.”
    “Anyone is old enough to consume . Doesn’t mean it’s legal.”
    “True.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his