Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Shaking her head, she says with a dismissive smile, “Noah is tired. He’s been running all day. I’d like to finish early if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.” I take her in, how tired she looks. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She turns around without saying a word.
I watch her as she walks away. She’s still my Tatiana, yet she’s also different. She was only nineteen when I last saw her in New York. So young, innocent, and full of love. So bubbly and filled with dreams. She turned twenty a short month after she ran. The thought of a twenty-year old inexperienced woman on her own in the city, a woman who was pregnant and grieving her mother, still turns my gut inside-out. I wish I could change that, but it is what it is. Water under the bridge.
At twenty-four, she’s not that much older, but circumstances forced her to grow up quickly. Instead of optimistic and shy, she’s scared and bitter. Tough. Strong. She had to be to survive.
That’s what gives me hope.
If she survived everything she did, she may just have a chance of surviving me.
Chapter
Nine
Tatiana
* * *
The sun is already spilling through the gaps in the blinds when I wake up. I sit up in bed. The place next to me is empty. The Rolex lies neatly on Dante’s pillow as if he expected me to turn my head that way first—toward him. He also knew the first thing I’d look for is the time.
Scoffing, I pick up the watch. He really knows me too well. I hate that he does, but it was my fault for letting him in. Even at nineteen, I should’ve known better. After all, my father warned me about him. So did Leander and my mom.
It’s almost seven.
What?
Rubbing my eyes, I check the time again.
Yep. Seven.
I never sleep so late. Nor does Noah. I’m surprised he hasn’t stormed into the room and jumped onto the bed to demand his breakfast yet. He must’ve been exhausted from all the exercise yesterday. He’s never run so much in one day. He’s playing catchup for all the times he had to stay inside with me and content himself with inventing indoor games.
A rush of tenderness overwhelms me. I can’t deny that the freedom is good for Noah, but it’s only freedom within the confines of a prison. He’s too young to realize he doesn’t have a choice. For someone who’s had very little options up to now, both for safety reasons and a lack of money, being able to play outside and live in a big house must seem like enormous privileges.
Yet Dante won’t keep his own son a prisoner. Noah will grow up and go to school. He’ll become a strong man who’ll make his own decisions. What I dread most is that Dante will mentor him to take over his business.
However, as a man, Noah will have choices women in our families don’t always have. His father won’t be able to force him into something he doesn’t want. The thought that my son will live the life he chooses soothes me. It’s the knowledge I cling to in the uncertain future that spreads darkly in front of me.
Every muscle in my body protests when I get out of bed. Yesterday, I pushed myself to limits I didn’t know I had. I didn’t only work so hard because I wanted to finish the job on time but also because the physical labor helps me not to think about Dante, a subject my mind seems to return to when it’s not occupied.
The worst is the ache between my legs. With every step I take to the shower, I still feel him inside me. I relive every wrecking punch of his hips with the dull pain that throbs deep in my core.
I was too tired to wash my hair last night. As I shampoo the rebellious curls now, my actions automatic and distracted, my mind goes to Dante’s words, to what he’d said before he fucked me last night—that it could be like before.
He’d always been incredibly gentle with me, as if I were made of paper-thin glass that would shatter if he closed his fist a little too tightly around it.
He was right. I made him work hard for me. He’d steal secret touches whenever he could, brushing a finger over my thigh under a restaurant table or cupping my nape in a dominant hold when he walked me to his car. He’d flatten his palm on the small of my back whenever we were out in public where no one would recognize us, a light but possessive touch that was both protective and a warning to other men that I was taken.
When I finally allowed him to kiss me, he conquered my mouth with dexterous but tender skill. His hands on my breasts over my clothes made me ache for him with the most tormenting agony.