Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Well, lucky you ain’t me,” I mutter.
I walk straight past him and down the hallway. The corridor is narrow, more shadow than light, the breathless hush only making me angrier. My boots are loud as hell on the old linoleum, and I make sure to stomp extra hard to warn him I’m coming. I stop at his door, not even taking a second to pause before I swing it open.
He’s in bed.
He’s not alone.
I can feel all the blood rushing to my face.
There’s a woman half-curled around his back, platinum hair on the pillow and bare arm thrown over his chest. Neither of them is wearing much. Knox’s torso is all muscle, shoulders impossibly wide, and as he pushes himself up—slowly, like he’s waking from a hangover—I catch a flash of the entirety of him. Including the part that I have thought about, but tried to deny.
His cock.
Hard in all its morning glory.
So fucking big and thick I can’t seem to drag my eyes away.
He is fully naked.
I mean, in all my life, I have never, ever seen anything like it in person.
I’m blushing before my brain catches up.
“Fuck’s sake, you ever knock?” he rumbles, voice sleep-rough and unapologetic.
He rolls to the edge of the bed and stands up, stretching. Even from across the room, I can see every muscle fiber in his stomach. It’s unfair. It’s inhuman. And his cock—Jesus Christ—if there had ever been a time I needed to not see something, it was now. I manage to pull my gaze away, and when I finally meet his, he is watching me. He laughs, a mean little spark in his eye.
The woman on the bed makes a groggy sound and pulls the sheet over herself, shooting me a glare that says I’d be a dead woman if she could muster the energy.
“Put some fucking clothes on,” I manage, voice shaking with anger and something else I refuse to name.
He grins, not even trying to cover up, and takes his sweet damn time pulling on a pair of black jeans from the floor. He doesn’t bother with underwear. He zips up, then scratches his jaw, green eyes never leaving mine. The woman pouts but doesn’t move, just watches the show with tired, bored eyes.
“You could’ve called,” he says.
“You’ve been lying to me, Knox. I know it. I want the fucking truth.”
He cocks his head at me, the same way a wolf does just before it decides whether or not to bite. He looks somewhat confused.
“Out,” I bark at the woman. “Get out.”
She glares, but Knox jerks his chin, and she sighs and stands, pulling the sheet around her as she slips out, mumbling under her breath. He sits on the edge of the bed, shooting me an intense glare. “So? You goin’ to tell me why you came stormin’ in here carryin’ on, or do I have to guess?”
“I got a visit from Ralston Cupp this morning,” I say. “He brought friends. And pictures of Ruger, beaten half to death. They threatened me, Knox. They threatened my brother. And you didn’t warn me, you didn’t say a word. You didn’t tell me Harper was doing things she shouldn’t have been doing. Instead, you let me move into that place knowing I was in danger.”
His face doesn’t move. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Some tiny part of me actually believes him because there is a look in his eyes that shows me he is shocked.
“They said Harper was working with them, and now I was supposed to finish the job. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
He just stands there, all six foot whatever of him, and his face goes hard as granite. “Callie, I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about.”
I glare at him, wishing I could slap the arrogance right off his face. “Ralston Cupp. Ruger. Apparently, Harper was working with them, and now they claim I owe them a favor. Why the fuck would they say that if it wasn’t true? You think I’m so stupid I’d come here and make this up and actually believe you don’t know that your woman was working with the devil?”
“No,” he says, voice like a barely-tethered snarl.
I watch him, searching desperately for something—remorse, confusion, guilt, a mask slipping—but all I catch is the ridged edge of his jaw, straining.
“Stop lying,” I whisper-hiss.
“I. Don’t. Know. What. The. Fuck. You’re. Talking. About.”
“So you expect me to believe that Harper was going around behind your back, too? That the love of your life, the perfect fucking angel, was in bed with the big dogs, and you didn’t know about it?”
He takes a step toward me, fists clenching, and for a split second, I prepare for him to hit something—maybe the wall, maybe a chair, maybe even me, though I highly doubt his rage would ever veer in that particular direction. I want him to do it; I want him to lash out, to give me a reason to stop believing in him.