Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
And then Devyn Chaleur smiles.
It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who's used to getting everything he wants, and who's just found something that refuses to be gotten.
It's also, unfortunately, a devastating smile.
The kind that transforms his whole face, softens those sharp angles, makes him look almost human. Almost approachable. Almost like someone you could trust.
Which he isn't. Obviously. He's a mafia king with an army and a runaway bride and a legendary temper, and I am not going to be distracted by a nice smile.
Handsome smile.
I meant handsome. No, horrible. Horrible smile.
And he's someone else's groom, let's not forget that. His bride literally just ran away, so any attraction I might be feeling is completely inappropriate and also probably a symptom of whatever was in that tea—
But his bride ran away. So technically he's single now. Available. Ready to—
Oh my gosh, Bailey. Stop.
"Très bien," Devyn murmurs. Very well. "Then you'll pay the price for your silence."
He reaches out. Catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. Tilts my face up toward his.
His touch is warm. His hands are steady. No tremor, no hesitation. He touches me like he has every right to, like my personal space is just another thing he owns.
And my stupid, traitorous body likes it.
Heat blooms where his fingers meet my skin. My breath catches. My pulse does something complicated that definitely isn't fear, or at least isn't only fear.
His golden eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
And when his gaze comes back up to meet mine, there's something new in it. Something knowing. Something that says he felt that too, and he's very aware that I'm trying to pretend I didn't.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
"My bride ran away." His thumb traces along my jaw. Slow. Unhurried. "You will take her place."
My heart stops.
Starts again.
Starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples, my fingertips.
No.
No.
This is the one route I didn't read. The one hero I avoided. The one story I refused to let myself fall into.
And now I'm trapped in it.
"Bienvenue à ta nouvelle vie," Devyn says softly. Welcome to your new life. His golden eyes hold mine, and there's something in them I can't read. Something that lives in the shadows his perfect composure can't quite hide. "Bailey."
He knows my name.
How does he know my name?
But of course he does.
I'm the heroine of this story.
I just have no idea how it ends.
Chapter Two
THEY DON'T LET ME WALK.
Well. They try to let me walk. Two of Devyn's men flank me the moment we leave the chapel, their hands hovering near my arms in that universal gesture of move along now, and I do move. I'm moving. My legs are working, technically, even if they feel like they're made of something unreliable. Jello. Wet cement. Overcooked pasta.
But apparently I'm not moving fast enough.
I hear footsteps behind me. Quick. Decisive. And then the world tilts sideways, and I'm suddenly up.
Up, as in off my feet.
Up, as in cradled against a broad chest that smells like expensive cologne and something warmer underneath.
Up, as in Devyn Chaleur has just scooped me into his arms like I weigh nothing, and he's carrying me out of his own wedding chapel without breaking stride.
"What are you—put me down—"
"You were too slow."
That's it. That's his entire explanation. Four words, delivered in a tone so matter-of-fact you'd think he was explaining why the sky is blue. I was too slow, so obviously the only logical solution was to pick me up and carry me like a—like a—
"I can walk!"
"Slower than I'd like."
"That's not a reason to—"
"It's the only reason that matters."
His arms tighten fractionally, adjusting my weight like it's nothing, and I become acutely aware of several things at once.
One: His chest is very solid. Very, very solid. The kind of solid that makes you understand why women in romance novels are always swooning against things.
Two: His arms are very strong. Not straining-strong, not showing-off-strong, but casually-carrying-a-whole-human-without-breaking-a-sweat strong.
Three: He smells really, really good. Cedar and something smoky and warm skin and—
Stop smelling him, Bailey.
Four: His men are watching.
That last one snaps me back to reality. A dozen armed guards, trained and disciplined, and not one of them reacts to their boss carrying a strange woman out of the chapel like this is completely normal behavior. Like he does this all the time. Like they've learned not to question anything he does, no matter how insane it seems.
What kind of man inspires that level of obedience?
The kind from the book, Bailey. The kind you specifically avoided reading about.
I stop struggling. Not because I've accepted this—I have not accepted this—but because fighting him is clearly pointless, and also I'm a little worried about what happens if he decides to just drop me.