Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
No. I’m actually gawking at this point, entirely taken by the scene without my consent.
The soft glow of the afternoon sun hits him at an angle, catching on the cut line of his cheekbone and the scar that slashes through his right eyebrow. The one that should ruin his looks, but, instead, sharpens them into something unlawfully attractive.
His gray eyes flick up for a second, reflecting the light, like storm clouds condensing in the distance.
Someone interrupts my comprehensive stalking sesh.
The brunette.
I completely deleted her from the scene, but she’s now standing in front of him, half blocking my view.
She leans against her car, twirling her hair, giving him the “I’m available” smile. And Marcus—who’s on the verge of being castrated—steps closer, listens, then flashes her that fucking smirk.
He wipes a smear of oil from the back of his neck, and her eyes go wide like she just discovered a new religion.
My stomach twists as if someone reached inside and set a firecracker off.
Ridiculous.
Irrational.
It’s a feeling I shouldn’t have.
I don’t even like Marcus Osborn.
So him flirting with a random shitty sedan owner shouldn’t feel like this.
Whatever this is.
I definitely shouldn’t feel the need to march across the street, shove her aside, and tell him to stop looking like that.
Smirking like that.
Existing like that.
She laughs at something he says, and that firecracker lurking in my stomach like a monster detonates again—louder this time, sharp enough that I have to close my eyes briefly.
When I open them again, I’m already striding toward them.
No, I’m not jealous of a random woman over a man I absolutely do not want or care about or even know.
I’m just here to punish him.
And I have to remove any obstacle that’s in my way.
20
MARCUS
The last person I expected to see anywhere near the shop is now storming toward me.
Jenna is saying something, but it doesn’t penetrate my ears, as I’m fully distracted by the menace walking in like he owns the place.
The first thing I notice is that Preston looks good—well, as good as he can, considering he’s visibly tense.
Possibly enraged.
A red blotch creeps up the fair skin of his neck, tinting his ears subtly.
Anger is good.
At least he’s not a ghost of himself like when I found him at the top of that cliff. High, disoriented, broken.
I’d rather see him bursting with his usual entitlement and anger than drowning in a sea of pain.
Not that I should give a damn about any of his moods, but apparently, I do—no matter how much I’ve attempted to deny it. At this point, it’s a complication I need to deal with.
Preston is a complication of epic proportions.
Someone I’m not sure how to stop from invading my thoughts non-consensually. At all times.
Like a fucking incurable chronic illness.
As he marches into the shop, it’s hard not to see just how much he doesn’t belong here.
He’s dressed in expensive jeans, an off-white sweater, and a knee-length camel-colored cashmere coat that could be smudged by the very air in the shop.
The town, even.
He should look like an eyesore in this place, but he’s just…majestic. Elegant without trying, beautiful to the point that it’s dazzling.
Some passersby on the street are glancing his way, probably without realizing it. He’s that irresistible.
The floppy golden hair parted to the side, the inquisitive green eyes, the defined set of his jaw, and the pure masculine energy he exudes are just effortlessly attention-grabbing.
I’ve always found Preston’s beauty mesmerizing. Since the time he dangled his feet while sitting on that branch in Dad’s garden.
It’s been fifteen years, but as he approaches me, I still think he’s the most beautiful specimen that ever walked the earth.
Fairy princes aren’t a mere figment of the imagination; they’re real, and Preston is the personification of those mythical beings.
Now, he’s more masculine and violent, but he still looks ethereal, possessing physical perfection. Tall, but not a giant, muscular, but not bulky, beautiful, but not soft. Looks approachable, but is actually headstrong, heartless, and sadistic.
Sometimes, like now, I feel like he’s not real. Just like that time when I mistook him for a fairy. It’s like he was supposed to belong to another universe but somehow slipped between the cracks and ended up here.
Right in front of me.
Like my untold birthday wish.
I find myself fantasizing about blinding each and every person who looks at him, plucking their eyes out, and bashing their heads in.
Excessive, maybe. But I’m at that point of no return, where I choose to fully embrace the complication.
There’s no point in fighting this pull I have toward Preston anyway, so I might as well soak it in, mold him into exactly what I want.
I slide my gaze from him to Jenna, pretending to erase him, though that’s impossible when his presence invades all my senses.
“It should be good to go,” I say. “If you hear the noise again, bring it back up and I’ll have a look to see if we need to change the wheel bearing.”