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 leads me down the narrow hallway, his hand hovering near my elbow as if he wants to keep me upright, but he's not quite touching. The heat from his palm radiates against my skin anyway, making me hyperaware of how close he is.
Maybe he's afraid I'll bolt. Not like I haven't thought about it.
The floorboards creak under his weight, though he walks with surprising grace for such a big man.
The Beast. He's just like the Beast.
Is he as tortured as the one in the story?
No. I won't think of that. I'm not going to be sympathetic to him.
“This one's yours,” he says gruffly, pushing open a door.
The room is small but comfortable, even stunning. A four-poster bed with white linens, a worn rug on the floor, a nightstand with a lamp already glowing softly. The bed dominates the space, and I try not to think about where he might be sleeping. He did say this was my room, but…
He nods toward another door, breaking the tension. “Toilet's through there. Clean towels are in the cupboard.”
He pauses, and his gray eyes find mine, holding me captive as surely as the locked door will. “And there's a window in there, but it's small and bolted shut. Don't bother trying it, Bianca.”
“Is that why I get this room?” The words come out small and bitter. “Because you've made sure I can't escape?”
He doesn't apologize, just holds me with those steady eyes, and something passes between us‚ something dark and charged that makes my breath catch. “That's exactly why, lass.”
I want to scream at him, but I'm so tired and confused and hungry, a terrible combination that always makes me emotional and irrational.
He moves to the bed, sits on the edge like he's testing the mattress, and the frame groans under his weight. The sound is obscene in the quiet room.
“You'll be sleeping here.” He pats the mattress beside him, and my eyes catch the way his thighs spread as he sits, taking up space. Claiming territory. Then he gestures to the floor. “And that's where I'll be. With blankets and a pillow.” He rubs his jaw and mutters, “Comfortable enough, I reckon.”
So he's not sleeping in the bed with me, thank god. But I don't want him so close either.
“You can't…” My throat goes dry as I imagine him on the floor beside me, close enough to hear me breathe. Close enough to touch if I reached down. “You're not sleeping in this room with me.”
When he said he'd lead me to my room, I figured he'd sleep somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
“I have to,” he says, his eyes growing stern, and I shiver‚ not entirely from fear this time. His tone brooks no argument. “I have to make sure you're safe and don't do anything rash.”
“Like what?” I demand, my voice rising, desperate to break whatever spell he's weaving. “Like trying to escape? Isn't that the whole point of locking me up in the middle of nowhere?”
The words seem to hit him like a physical blow. He flinches, and something in his expression crumbles.
He stands slowly, but instead of coming toward me, he moves to lean against the dresser across the room, putting space between us and giving me room to breathe.
His head drops, and for a long moment, he just stands there, his hands gripping the edge of the dresser as if it's the only thing keeping him upright.
“Like, hurt yourself.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them.
My anger falters. “What?”
He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's fear there and something that looks dangerously close to grief.
“I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself, lass.” His voice breaks slightly on the words. “That you'll decide this is too much. That you'll…” He stops, his jaw working. “That you'll do something I can't fix.”
Oh.
Oh.
He's still across the room, still giving me space. But his eyes are pleading with me in a way his words can't quite manage.
“Please,” he whispers. “Just… promise me you won't. Promise me you'll fight me, scream at me, hate me all you want. But promise me you won't hurt yourself.”
I should use this. Should see this vulnerability as weakness and exploit it.
But instead, I hear myself say, “I won't.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The relief that washes over his face is so profound it's almost painful to witness.
His shoulders sag. “Thank you,” he whispers.
We stand there in silence, the lamplight casting soft shadows between us. He doesn't move. Doesn't try to close the distance.
But his eyes stay locked on mine with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
And despite everything—despite the absolute absurdity of this situation—I find myself noticing things I shouldn't.
The way his throat works when he swallows.
The vulnerable set to his shoulders.
The fullness of his lips when he's not frowning or giving orders.
The way he's looking at me like I'm something precious. Something worth protecting. Something worth breaking his own rules for.