Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
He frowned. “Me? No.” He paused a beat. “Belial might, though.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She pulled a face. “I think it would be best if you told it not to ever do that.”
The entity snorted at that, finding her quite entertaining. “Belial does as it pleases a lot of the time,” Luka said, sweeping a hand over the brand on her stomach.
“You look amused. Why? What did that damn demon do?” She lifted her head, and her face went slack. “What the hell is this?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Belial wanted to leave bruises and welts on you, but you said no to being whipped. So it . . . improvised.” And it was rather smug about it. She now had what looked like welts criss-crossed over each other, overlaid by gray bruises.
She glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You want to. Which is quite frankly confusing. It doesn’t at all bother you that your demon so boldly branded me?”
“Why would it?” He slowly pushed his fingers inside her, humming as her slick pussy clenched them tight. “This” —he swirled his fingers—“is all the fuck mine for the next few months. Seeing my entities’ brands on you won’t bother me any.”
“And if my demon decides to return the favor?”
Luka pursed his lips. “I suppose turnabout is fair play.”
CHAPTER SIX
A light blaring sound filled the room a week later, slashing right through Naomi’s concentration. She blinked, taking a mental step back from her work. Cell phone alarm, she realized.
Whenever she let her creative side free, she lost all sense of time. Loud-ass alarms were essential or she’d struggle to snap out of her zone. In this instance, it was a reminder that she needed to get ready for her shift at the pizzeria.
Grimacing in disappointment, she set down her paint palette and brush. The tarp spread out over the hardwood floor made a crackling sound beneath her feet as she walked over to where her phone rested on the windowsill. She tapped the screen, switching off the alarm.
Her arm a little tired, she rolled her stiff shoulder with a low groan. Though she’d much rather keep painting, it was likely best that she was forced to take a break.
She was never glad to leave this particular room. She loved her workspace. There was ample lighting—both natural and artificial—and a tip-top ventilation system. She’d brought things into the room that inspired her—carvings, vases, small sculptures, and also framed paintings of various artists, which she’d hung on the walls. The plentiful scents were both comforting and inspiring: oil paints, pine canvases, turpentine, and linseed oil.
Her corner storage area held a cabinet, drawers, and cubby shelves with baskets for all her supplies and tools. But plenty of those objects ended up in places they shouldn’t, like vases or jars or old coffee tins, because organization wasn’t really her jam.
No one could call the room tidy. It was chaos at its finest. Blobs and streaks of paint were just about everywhere. Empty mugs, discarded water bottles, old paint rags, and granola bar wrappers had managed to find homes in places they shouldn’t. An overflowing trash can sat beneath the utility sink near her small coffee/tea station.
Her work spot was right in the center of the room, her large easel angled in a way that caught the natural light streaming through the window. Though the room was cluttered, she had enough space around her spot that she could inch back from the easel and view her work from every angle.
Other easels of different sizes were propped against a wall alongside her paintings – some finished, some unfinished—as well as bare canvases. Many other objects were also pushed against the walls, including a stepladder, buckets, crates, a small refrigerator, stool, drawing table, and workbench. There was also a bookcase, which held reference and art books.
After washing her brush in the utility sink and scrubbing her hands with mint soap, she nabbed a mango smoothie from her mini refrigerator and swiftly knocked it back. It wasn’t until right then that she realized just how thirsty she’d been. When in her zone, there was no guarantee that hunger, thirst, or even the need to pee would penetrate.
Not wanting to interrupt her unnecessarily while she worked, her loved ones only ever reached out to her if they needed to make contact. Not Luka, though, as he had no idea about her main profession. Hence his earlier I’ll be at your place no later than nine telepathic shoutout.
Not wanting to tread excess paint through the house, Naomi kicked off her sneakers before leaving her workspace. She then locked the door with the key that she typically kept on the top of the frame. She always kept it secured shut. If Luka wondered why, he hadn’t asked.
Though he tossed some personal questions her way, they were never too personal, and his intention was usually only to change the path of the conversation. She pulled the same verbal stunt if he approached a topic that she didn’t like to cover. And so they often went around in circles, only revealing snatches of this and that to each other.