Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
“No. I just like your voice,” he says, and his thumb presses lightly into my lower back again, steadying me mid-turn. “If you’re talking to me, you’re not trying to kill anybody I care about.”
I laugh, breathy and sharp. Do I believe him? Maybe. He sounds sincere, but he wouldn’t tell me if he had a weakness, would he? I angle my head back to look at his rugged face. “I’ve already apologized. Are you going to take revenge?”
He doesn’t smile. His jaw flexes. He says nothing. But his eyes say yes.
This is not comforting. “You’re making me nervous,” I say, and this time I mean it.
“Good.” His voice is too even. “You should be.”
He’s not threatening me. Not directly. But he doesn’t have to. The truth is worse than a threat. I’m the enemy, and I’m completely caught in his arms.
We dance another full song. Somehow, I move against him naturally, my body wanting more. A lot more from him. His hands are steady, his rhythm flawless, and every time I breathe in, I get that mix of expensive cologne and skin-warmed heat that makes my head spin. His touch never falters. Not too tight, not too soft. Controlled. Intentional. Deadly.
Which is exactly what I should be focusing on. Not the pressure of his palm, or the way he moves with me like we were made for this. Or the fact that part of me, a part that absolutely needs to shut up, is starting to enjoy the feeling of us plastered together.
Then someone taps a knife against a champagne glass. A soft ting ting ting echoes through the pavilion, pulling all attention toward the cake table.
“Oh, it’s speech time.” I’m breathless and a little dizzy. “Aren’t you the best man?”
“I really am,” he says, and there’s something deeply unfair about how good that sounds in his voice. Smooth, confident, unshakable. My brain short-circuits just a little.
He takes my hand, whether I like it or not, and I very much don’t. I have a date, who I can’t even see right now. Where is Wesley? Then Justice starts leading me through the crowd like I’m a very fancy, very glittery flight risk. People part like the sea for Moses. Only this time, Moses is carrying a hacker hostage in heels.
At the table, he snags a flute of champagne with his free hand like this is just another night out. This man is about to toast the bride and groom, and I’m still trying to remember how to breathe. The moment no one’s looking, I wrench my hand free and vanish around the other side, heading straight for Alana. Still trying to catch my breath, I grab a fresh glass of champagne, trying to act as if I wasn’t just dragged across the ballroom by Justice Beathach like his personal property.
From the other side of Thorn, Justice gives me a look. A behave look. The one that says I’m a project, a file he’s keeping open, a mess he’s determined to clean up. Since when did I become Justice Beathach’s hobby?
I glare back.
My stepmother moves closer. At around six feet tall, she looks elegant and lovely in a silver-toned ball gown, her thick brown hair up and her deadly blue eyes perfectly accentuated. The hair color is fresh with new highlights. Her longtime boyfriend, Horace Whimple, is at her side. She lowers her chin, her gaze hard on me. “Hello, Ella.”
“Hey, bitch,” I whisper.
Stacia chuckles from my other side, and I jump. I didn’t see my stepsister arrive. I turn to see her in a pretty pink gown with a rather cheap-looking silver sparkle purse, amusement in her dark eyes. Corinda is next to her, a tall and stunning blonde, and she looks over my head at Justice. “He’s hot. Not your type, Ella.”
“I know.” I don’t want Justice. “But he likes them smart, Corinda. Not your type, either.”
Her blue eyes flare.
Yeah, I can hit back.
I try to appear bored and shift my attention to the speeches. Rosalie steps up first to toast Alana, and the speech is beautiful. Poised, elegant, sharp. Exactly what I’d expect from a lawyer who can out-argue a senator and seduce a judge in one breath. Alana’s eyes glisten halfway through. Mine might have, too, if I wasn’t still coming down from the contact high of dancing with a man who can snap my neck with one arm and ruin my life with the other.
Then it’s Justice’s turn. He’s speaking for Thorn, and I’m not prepared. He’s quiet. Honest. Nothing flashy. No intimidation tactics. Just simple, brutal truth. A brother who loves fiercely. A man who protects what’s his.
Proving once again exactly why he’s dangerous.
Because underneath all that cold precision is something raw and deadly.
I shake myself out of the fear and concentrate. Watching Justice and Thorn, I wish I had a sister. But I’ve got Alana and Rosalie. We’re just as tight. Maybe tighter. Blood’s not the only thing that binds.