Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 141(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Without warning, he takes my right hand and holds it up, examining my fingers. Based on his smirk, I think he’s expecting to find a delicate hand that has never scrubbed dishes a day in their life. Instead, he finds nails cut down to the nub. Little scars on my fingers from accidental knife cuts while I cooked and cleaned for my whole family, a veritable servant. Slight calluses from all the fetching and carrying of firewood.
Draven’s jaw stiffens more the longer he looks.
He considers my face next, his expression curious and steadily growing angry.
“You’ve been mistreated,” he rasps for my ears alone.
Horrifyingly, tears smart in my eyes, I’m so caught off guard by his observation.
By the unexpected tenderness in his voice.
I want to run. I also…want to be held.
I don’t know what I want, but I’m laid so bare under his scrutiny, all these desires seem to bubble to the surface after a lifetime of being kept at bay. Like he’s coaxing them out of me.
“May I go clean the dishes now, chef?” I say, struggling to keep my voice even.
After a hesitation, he inclines his head and finally releases my wrist, his hand curling into a jerky fist after he lets me go.
It takes so much willpower to turn away from him and march to the sink, it scares me. But I need this job and the income it provides, so I staunchly ignore the eyes I feel drilling into my back all night…and I do what I do best. I focus on survival.
Chapter Two
Draven
Iam not a soft man.
In fact, a lot of my employees would refer to me as a tyrant. They would be right. Now, I’m barking at the sous chef to hurry up and plate the carre d’agneu, also known as rack of lamb and he has grown pale in the face, his hands clumsy as they drizzle the sauce that took me years of my life to perfect. Yes, I believe he would call me a tyrant.
That’s what I am.
That is the reputation I’ve built and grown comfortable with.
For her, for this Claire, however…
I find I am feeling rather soft.
In the center of my chest, at least.
There is another part of me that is unfortunately quite hard from watching her move so gracefully all evening—a fact that disgusts me to no end, because she is too young for a thirty-two-year-old man. Far too young. Inexperienced in the workplace, too, although she doesn’t let that slow her down. She doesn’t complain or stop for a well-deserved breath or flinch when the busboy enters the kitchen and noisily unloads a fresh mess into the sink. She just keeps scrubbing, like a tiny Cinderella, her blonde hair steadily coming loose from her bun.
I should be concentrating on the meal service.
Food is my life.
But I can’t help but notice that the apron strings irritate the back of her delicate neck until finally, she folds the apron down, leaving her in a tight white t-shirt, the thin material straining over her tits. And when the front of that shirt grows wet from the act of washing dishes, well…my cock can do nothing but stiffen in my trousers.
Where did you come from, Claire?
And who the fuck mistreated you?
Toward the end of dinner service, my brother, Pierre, waltzes into the kitchen with a clipboard nestled into the crook of his arm. No doubt he has been keeping track of profits all night, like the greedy bastard that he is. Still, as always, when I look at Pierre, guilt swamps my gut with such severity, such horrendous weight, that I press my hand to the spot.
“We have a very satisfied dining room,” he crows, eliciting a cheer from my staff. He gives each of them a tight smile, before turning his derision on me. “Mr. Brilliant strikes again, I suppose. Although I’m still waiting on the new fall menu. Has inspiration struck yet, Draven?”
I glance at the pot on the stove which contains the new sauce I’ve been experimenting with, to no avail. Nothing seems to make it right. “It will strike when it strikes,” I respond, repeating the same phrase I’ve repeated night after night for weeks. “If you don’t mind, we have a service to complete.”
Pierre smirks and turns his head—
And I watch with a hot, cloying irritation as my little Cinderella catches his eye.
My stomach sours at the blatant interest in his expression.
“Well, well, well…” Pierre says, sauntering in the dishwasher’s direction. “I had a feeling you were hiding something luscious beneath that coat.”
My brother’s words are still hanging in the air when I step in between him and Claire, a strange satisfaction coming over me when she instantly snuggles into my back. Oh…shit, that’s nice. Too nice. “We’re not going to speak to our employees like that,” I say to Pierre, lowering my voice to add, “Especially this one.”