Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
But courtesy has no place in this game.
I lower my hand and curl my fingers around the doorknob. I will push it open without warning. The door will swing wide, her light will spill into the darkened hallway, silhouetting me in the frame.
And just like Dracula, I will step boldly into her bedroom.
CHAPTER 31
RAVEN
My heart is thudding so hard I can feel the drumbeat in my veins, urging me to hurry. My fingers fumble at the back of the damned dress that clings to my ribcage with no mercy. The bodice cinches tight just under my breasts, then flares out into a gorgeous, calf-length silhouette. A part of me is breathless by how perfect it looks in the mirror—rich fabric catching the lamplight—but another part is convinced I’ll suffocate before the night is over.
Sucking in a lungful of air I can barely pull in thanks to the dress, I push my hair away from my neck and try again to reach the clasp at the back. I should have just kept the other dress on. Now, I’m going to be late. My arms shake with nerves as I drop them in frustration. Tonight is our first real outing since … the incident with the tree. Actually, since our marriage. I’m desperate to make a good impression. I want him to be proud of me amongst all those snobs.
The door clicks behind me suddenly, a soft metallic sound that makes me freeze. I haven’t finished fastening the dress, and if I let go of the front even for a second, it’ll slip down, baring my breasts. My cheeks heat in a mixture of panic. I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already inside, leaving me with no time to gather my wits.
“Earl,” I gasp, clutching at the front of my dress.
He stands there, impeccable in his tuxedo—dark fabric fitting every contour of his broad shoulders and down tapering at his waist. For half a second, my heart skips a beat at how damned good he looks, but then I catch sight of his face: cool, unreadable. The flare of desire I imagined seeing is either gone or was never there.
I’m the first to speak, my voice brittle with nerves. “You look very fetching.”
He offers nothing more than a faint grunt in acknowledgement. Instead, he moves closer, eyes sliding over my half-dressed state without a single spark of warmth. My stomach twists. I can’t tell if he’s just in one of his moods or if he truly doesn’t care anymore.
“Turn around and …” he murmurs, nodding at my hand bunched up in the fabric over my chest. “Let go.”
My heart stalls. The idea of letting go of the front of the dress and exposing myself to his cold almost hostile stare makes my entire body tighten. But I do it, my arms twitching with uncertainty as the material slips out of my hands. The bodice sags down, my breasts are laid bare to his eyes. A flush of heat crawls up my neck because both of us can see that my nipples are hard.
There is absolutely no expression at all on his face. It is completely, utterly, and frighteningly blank.
He steps behind me, but no closer than necessary. His touch is mechanical, almost impersonal, as he tugs the dress into place and fastens it with a surprising efficiency. He must have met a lot of clasps in the years since he’s been gone, must have known a lot of women. If he notices my breath hitch, he doesn’t show it. My skin prickles where his knuckles brush against me, but he doesn’t linger.
Once the dress is secure, I shift away and catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror. My face flushed, my eyes too bright, my chest rising and falling in unsteady waves. When I glance up, I see his reflection behind me: composed, distant, like a statue carved from ice. Completely detached.
I wait, hoping he’ll say something, but his gaze flickers away from me. He crosses the room to the velvet box on the small table by the door.
I swallow hard, the tension in the room thick enough to choke me. He picks up the box—clearly a jewelry case—and for an instant, my heart leaps. Is he about to show a shred of warmth by offering me something? Or is this just another chess move in his ongoing game of reminding me exactly how small and powerless I am next to his wealth?
He says nothing, his shoulders stiff. As he moves under the light I see how tired he is, dark smudges under his eyes that have known too many late nights. He’s been busy with renovations or expansions or something else I’m not allowed to help him with or enquire about. Maybe it’s everything combined—our twisted relationship, the new office, the demands of this new life. Maybe he’s just … done.