Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Evie strokes her cat, who has fallen asleep in her lap. Neither of us has said a word since we vowed to be silent, but when my property comes into view, she sighs. “Oh, to be rich…”
“You like it?”
“I don’t think I could ‘like’ any prison. Look at those tall walls; look at that big gate. I bet you’ve kept people here as prisoners before.” Bitterness laces her voice.
“That’s a losing bet.”
“So, I’m special, am I?” she says sarcastically.
She is, but I don’t tell her that.
“If you’re ready to start talking, I might not have to keep you here.”
“Might not,” she repeats. “That’s an interesting way to phrase it.”
I pull up outside the gate, lower my window, and brush my thumb against the pad. The gate makes a mechanical whirling noise as it opens onto the pathway that winds toward the main entrance.
“So, if I want to escape, I’ll need to cut off your thumb,” she says.
I smirk at her. “Do you think you’re capable of that?”
She raises an eyebrow with the sassiness I’m already finding addictive. “Don’t tempt me.”
She’s the one who’s tempting me every single second. At several points during the drive, I’ve struggled to keep the hunger in me at bay.
I was relieved when her cat clambered into her lap just because it meant I couldn’t devour her legs with my eyes, imagine slipping my hand between them, gently pushing them apart, pressing against her sex and discovering if her rejection of me is all for show… or if her body would tell secrets through the wetness of her desire.
These aren’t the thoughts I should have at a time like this, but sue me. I’m a man and she’s hotter than hell.
The garage opens automatically as I approach, then closes behind us.
“You’ve got two choices now,” I say, as we sit in the semidarkness of the electric lights. “You can come with me to the panic room while I figure out what to do next. Or I’ll take you there.”
“Take me there, huh? That sounds like a euphemism. Almost like you don’t want to admit what you’re doing. You don’t want to accept that you’re kidnapping me.”
“I’m keeping you safe—”
“If protecting somebody means doing something against their will, is that really protection?”
“Yes.”
“Try saying that like you mean it.”
“It’s clear something happened to you, Evie, something that makes you think you can’t trust me—”
“Cut the psychoanalysis. Just open the door. Let’s get this over with.”
I unlock the door and climb from the car. She immediately throws her door open and runs for the exit, grabbing the handle and turning it violently. It rattles in the frame as she tries to force it open. Turning to me, she shakes her head.
“I was right, then. This is a prison.”
I approach her, my hands at my sides. This is starting to feel wrong. I’ve come too far, though, and if I let her free, The Vultures will be free to do whatever they want to her. I could call Rafe, have him watch her instead. But this feels like my responsibility.
“It won’t be forever,” I say, going to the wall and swiping another pad. A door in the floor clicks and then slides open, revealing a clean, lit staircase. “This is my panic room, more of an underground apartment, really. It has everything you need.”
“What if I made you drag me down there?” she says. “How would that fit with your nice-guy act? Oh, wait, but you’re not a nice guy. I remember what you said. ‘You’re lucky you caught me in my thirties. Or your brains would be splattered all over this wall…’ That’s what you told Mason. Who are you, then, Dom?”
I shake my head. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
She carefully lays her cat down, then marches right up to me. “How many women have you brought here? What sick stuff do you do to them?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“Let me go.”
“Not happening – not yet. This is for your own good.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” she mutters.
I sigh. “Have it your way.”
She gasps when I lift her off her feet, cradling her to my chest again, my hand greedily sinking into her suppleness as I carry her down the stairs, her cat trailing after us.
When she throws her arms around me, I grunt in surprise. She snaps, “I just don’t want to you to drop me.” As she clings on, I can almost trick myself into believing it’s because she wants to.
Placing her down, I stand at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to call my contact and find out what’s going on. If you won’t tell me, he will. I’ll get some food for the cat, too.”
“His name is Meatball,” she says as I turn away.
“I’m going to keep you and Meatball safe.”