Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
He holds my gaze with those unsettling gray eyes, and I notice the dark lashes framing them, ridiculously long for a man so dangerous.
I shrug.
He looks at my cat with scorn, and the expression is almost comical on that hard face. “I thought it might help the situation, not because I like cats. Does he go outside for his—needs?” Clearly, he's been stalking just me, not my cat.
“No, of course not. He’s an indoor cat that needs a litter box.”
I can't believe I'm talking about my cat's toileting habits with my kidnapper.
“Fuck's sake,” he mutters as he frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets, the movement making his biceps flex beneath all those tattoos.
A beat passes. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough.”
“That's not an answer!”
His jaw clenches, and he seems to mull over the words, that muscle jumping again in a way that shouldn't be fascinating. “Since you were way too fucking young.”
My chest burns, and my heart flips over. “Too young for… for what?” I whisper. But this time, he doesn't answer.
I should be terrified. I am terrified, but underneath the fear, there's something else, something I don't have a name for, because he said he's protecting me, and those knuckles tell a story.
He's been watching me, to make sure I was… safe?
No, that's absurd. I can almost hear my mother chiding me.
Don't romanticize this, Bianca.
Get your head out of the clouds, Bianca.
This isn't a book, Bianca.
“Jesus, this is crazy,” I whisper. “You're mad, eh?”
“Aye.” He stands, and I cringe involuntarily. He towers over me, all that contained power and brutal strength, and I hate that some traitorous part of me notices the way his body moves with predatory grace. “We're all mad here,” he whispers.
I swallow hard. I didn't expect my kidnapper to take my cat, and I didn't expect him to quote Lewis Carroll.
He notices me backing away and stills, his whole body going quiet in a way that's somehow more threatening than movement. “I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca. I need you to believe that.”
“Then maybe don't kidnap me to start things off,” I whisper back.
“I had no choice.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I swallow. “We always have a choice.”
He sighs, running one tattooed hand over his shaved head in what seems like a frustrated gesture.
“Listen, love. I don’t know how else to tell you that I didn't bring you here to hurt you.”
My heart thumps, and I'm not sure why.
“Don't call me that.” My voice cracks. “You don't have the right. You don't know me.”
He smiles sadly this time, and the expression makes him look almost vulnerable, softening those brutal features. “No, lass. You don't know me. I know you better than most people in your life, Bianca. I've watched you become the person you are. Watched you navigate that minefield of a family. Watched you try so hard to be good, to be perfect, to never make waves.”
He steps closer to me, close enough that I can smell him—pine and smoke and something darker, more masculine. His silver eyes bore into mine. I know I should move away, but I'm rooted to this spot. For a second, I wonder if he’s a half-wolf who transforms under the light of a full moon.
“I know how good you are. Better than most people I've ever known. I've seen you when you didn't know anyone else was looking. When you stop performing for everyone else, I see the real you.”
“Stop.” My hands are shaking. “Just stop. Don't you have any fucking idea how creepy that is? Stop.”
He does, immediately, like the word is a physical barrier between us. He gives me a cursory look.
“If I gave you food now, would you eat it?” My stomach growls as I think of warm, crusty bread and a bowl of D'Agostino's pasta.
I'm starving. I haven't eaten in hours and have been trying to get by on as little as possible, knowing I was moving in with Marcus, who wouldn't approve.
I clench my teeth and hold his gaze. “No.”
Something flickers in his expression, and again, I'm vividly aware of how he's holding himself back, restraining something in him. “Right, then,” he says. “I'll show you to your room.”
Chapter Eight
Bianca
I feel like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. He's the big furry beast, with his hands shoved in his pockets, showing me to my room as if it's a peace offering, as if this weren't wrong and a well-made bed will make this right.
As if I wouldn't run if I got the chance.
Just like Belle.
I've always related to the bookish recluse no one quite understands. She found her friends in books and in places she'd never been, though unlike Belle, I've always wanted to stay in my town. Stay where things were safe and predictable.
And I don't have a father I've traded my freedom for.