Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
He ran.
This billionaire who has people open doors for him and people drive him around and people stand back when he comes off a lift. This man ran up the stairs to get to me.
He's still breathing hard.
Still gorgeous like I don’t want to remember.
And ready to kill.
His eyes haven't left me since the moment he came through the door. They're moving over me. Top of my head down. Then they snap back up to my face and stop there.
"Nicole."
Mr. Everford says my name in a tight, fierce voice.
"Are you alright?"
He's already crossing the room to me. The men in suits don't move. They know. He gets to me in three strides. He's tall. Taller than I'd registered when he was on the other side of a hotel hallway, taller than Sandy, tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep his eyes. The first thing he does is take my face in his hands.
Carefully.
His hands are warm. They're also shaking, which I don't understand at first because nothing about the rest of him is shaking.
He turns my chin one way then the other, checking my face for marks. “Did he hit you?”
I manage to shake my head, but it’s getting words out that I struggle with—
“H-He...”
—because it’s forcing me to relive what...happened.
“Did he get to...touch you?”
I want to say ‘no’. I want to tell him I’m fine. I just want to make sure that I’m not a victim. That I’m not...I’m not asking for this even though every time Mr. Everford sees me, it just happens to be when I am that. Victimized. First by my own husband, and now, Jerry.
But when I finally manage to choke something out—
"Y-You must really think I'm stupid."
I actually find myself trying to make a joke of the whole thing, but it's just the biggest mistake ever because somehow...the words have me laughing, and then I'm crying, and then I'm laughing and crying and I can't seem to stop. Even when it starts getting hard to breathe, I'm just laughing and laughing and crying and crying and—
"It's okay."
Mr. Everford hauls me into his arms as he says this, and I don’t understand why this makes me feel so strangely—
"You're safe now."
—safe.
"I'm sorry you had to go through this."
My safety is something I took for granted my whole life.
But now that it's really sinking in to me, how I was almost not safe—
"I'm sorry."
That's when my body starts trembling and my head starts feeling light.
I don't know if it's shock or delayed panic.
I don't know if it's PTSD or something else.
All I know is that all I can suddenly see is the wild, crazed look on Jerry's face. All I can remember is the crippling sense of helplessness that gripped my body when he shoved me against the wall. All I can hear is his grunt, his breath against my ear—
I'll make this a night you won't ever forget.
And after everything that's happened—
Sandy cheating on me.
Being kicked out of the house.
Being homeless.
Broke.
And almost being raped.
This time, it's real.
My world turning dark.
And I remember...just before the darkness swallowed me whole, I remember a part of me wishing that I would never wake up again.
Chapter Eleven
I CARRY HER OUT OF the stockroom, and the manager makes the mistake of trying to follow.
My men handle it, and I don't look back. Whatever the manager wants to say isn't for me, and the only thing in this building that matters to me right now is in my arms, and the only direction I'm walking is out.
Montero has the limousine door open before we reach the curb.
"Where to, sir?"
"My home."
"Understood, sir."
I get in with her still cradled against me, and I keep her there, settled in my lap, because the alternative is putting her down on the seat across from me and I'm not putting her down. Not yet.
The door shuts, the limo pulls away, and I finally let myself look at her.
Ah, Nicole.
Her eyes are closed and her head has fallen against my shoulder. Dead weight. The weight of a body that has stopped holding itself up. Her breathing is shallow but steady. The collar of her blouse is buttoned the wrong way—one button too high and one missed under it—and I can tell from the angle that she did it herself, in a hurry, with hands that weren't working properly.
Which means—
She tried to fix herself.
In the seconds between my men dragging Jerry off her and me reaching her, she tried to put her own clothes back in order, and she got it wrong, and she didn't notice she got it wrong, and now she's asleep against my shoulder with her buttons crooked.
My jaw locks, but I fight against the urge to fix it. The last thing she needs is something touching her without her permission.