Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I give the command for the curtains to open. Daylight pours in, startling her.
“Going somewhere?” I ask.
“I need clothes.” There’s a glow to her skin, a hint of a blush, and she’s looking everywhere but at me.
“Do you?” I want to tease her, introduce the idea of walking around naked except for her collar, but she crosses her arms over her chest, and I relent. She’s feeling vulnerable, which is making her pull away. If a few thin layers of fabric make her feel safe, then there’s no harm.
“Here.” I cross the room and open the door to the correct walk-in closet. “This is all yours.”
“What?” She peeks in, and her eyes widen. “Of course,” she murmurs mostly to herself. I’ve given her a wardrobe before, back when she stayed at Hotel Magnifique. She’s starting to get used to how I anticipate her needs.
She wastes no time selecting a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, grabbing a lingerie set almost as an afterthought. To my disappointment, she disappears in the bathroom to change.
I make use of the moment of privacy to receive my morning report from my AI assistant. Stock prices, corporate negotiations, and, more importantly, the results of the forensic testing Hamish ran on the letters sent to Inara. So far, there’s no DNA or fingerprint evidence linking the Bondage Killer to the letters, but if there is, we’ll find it.
By the time Inara emerges, I’ve dressed for the day. She’s sleekly groomed and gorgeous in the casual clothes she favors for work. Her expression is closed off, a little wary. Her hand is at her throat, playing with the silver collar I placed around her neck.
She must have a lot on her mind, but she’s acting strange around me. Almost. . . shy.
I want her to be comfortable, but I savor her uncertainty. It says something about the monster I am that I enjoy having her off balance.
Even her trepidation is delicious.
“Are you sore?” I ask.
“Not really.” She’s still guarded. “Rex, we need to talk.”
“Of course.” I hold out my hand. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Breakfast.”
She glances at the window. “It’s late.”
“Brunch then.” She’s acting like she has somewhere to be. I need to have patience. Yesterday, she insisted on going to work. Now that a killer is stalking her, things have changed, and she’s probably adjusting.
I can take her mind off of everything for a little while.
“Let me show you what Roy Manor has to offer.” I’ve already ordered a full brunch spread, but I take the long way to the breakfast room, guiding her through two ballrooms and a gallery or two. She lets me lead, holding my hand and taking everything in with wide eyes and a solemn expression.
Only once does she tug my hand for me to stop. She stalls in front of a portrait of my family. Me, as a boy with my parents. Back when they were still alive.
She studies it but says nothing. I brace myself for the sight of my dead parents and force myself to look up at the painting as if it’s a bland landscape that means nothing to me.
The faces look the same, and I wonder how many of my memories have shifted to match this painting versus the reality of how they actually looked. Have I forgotten them?
But no, when I remember them, I hear their soft voices, the sound of their laughter. There was so much love saturating each moment we spent together. It doesn’t matter what they looked like. All that matters is the love.
That’s what I lost.
And now I stand before them with the woman I’ve chosen. I know what they’d think of her. But what would they think of me? I’ve become someone they wouldn’t recognize. Certainly not the sort of man they raised me to be. My father was a doctor, my mother a philanthropist, both focused on saving lives, not destroying them. They wouldn’t approve of my intense focus on keeping the city safe at all costs. They wouldn’t condone the lines I’ve crossed. The lives I’ve taken. They might mourn the man I’ve become.
But they would approve of Inara.
“I was seven when this was painted,” I tell her because I need to break the silence between us. I need her to know me in a way I haven’t allowed anyone else to know me since my parents died. “They hired the same master who did their wedding portrait. Family tradition.”
She looks down the long hall full of oil portraits on the wood-paneled walls. Generations of Roys stretching back to before my ancestors came to New Rome. “Ah.”
“After my parents died, I avoided this hall for years. Something about the way they’re smiling. They look like they’re looking forward to something.” I swallow, and it feels like razors are lining my throat.
She steps closer to me, and that makes the pain of talking about my parents worth it. “Like what?”