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)
I think about the times I've watched her through the windows. I've memorized every expression on her face. Every habit. Every joy.
The cat kneads his claws into my chest, and I wince. “Easy now, lad,” I mutter. “I'm not a feckin' scratching post.” He does it again, harder, like he's punishing me. Fair enough. I deserve worse than that.
When the sky starts to lighten outside, just barely, that pre-dawn glow of gray, I hear her wake. Her breathing changes. Then a small sound in the back of her throat, disoriented before she remembers.
I keep my eyes closed, my breathing even, and pretend I'm still asleep so I can observe what she does when she thinks I am. Give her a moment to herself, without me staring at her.
The bed creaks. Footsteps, soft and hesitant, pad across the floor toward the bathroom, and the door closes with a quiet click.
I open my eyes. The cat's gone. Smart bastard.
I sit up, roll my shoulders, and work out the kinks in my neck. I check my watch—half five. It’s early, but I've always been an early riser, a habit from a life that requires vigilance and responsibility.
The water runs in the bathroom, and I imagine her splashing her face and staring at herself in the mirror, trying to understand why the fuck she was taken, and what the fuck happens next. Trying to feel safe.
I stand and fold the blanket, stack it with the pillow, then place it on the chair near the corner. I slouch a bit and look away, trying to make myself look less threatening, less like the man who kidnapped her and is waiting for her every move.
Doesn't work. I know what I look like.
The bathroom door opens, and she stands there in her pajamas, her dark hair in a tousled braid, so damn fetching. The morning light from the window catches her just right, and I can see the outline of her body through the thin fabric. Christ. She's not wearing a bra.
Lancelot winds between her ankles, meowing softly, and she reaches down to pick him up, the movement making her pajama top gape open just enough that I have to look away before I do something stupid.
Oh my fucking god.
“Morning, lass,” I say quietly, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn't respond, just stares at me.
“I'll make breakfast. You hungry?”
“No.”
There's no fucking way Bianca will starve herself on my watch.
“Of course you are. You'll eat breakfast today if I have to hold you on my lap and spoon-feed you myself.”
I move toward the door to give her space, then stop close enough to catch the vanilla scent again. I’m close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. I turn to her. “Bianca.”
She tenses, and I watch her chest rise and fall faster. Fear, aye. But something else too, something in the way her eyes dart to my mouth before jerking away.
“I meant what I said last night, lass. I'm not going to hurt you. I know you don't believe me yet, but you will.”
Her dark eyes meet mine. Defiant. Terrified. Beautiful. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to close the distance between us, not to press her against the wall and show her exactly what I want from her. What I've wanted for six fucking years.
“How long am I here?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That's not an answer.” Her voice trembles, but she doesn't back down. Brave girl.
“It's the only one I've got.” I let my eyes drop to her mouth one more time before I turn and walk out, because if I stay one more second, I won't be able to stop myself from touching her.
Breakfast. It’s time for breakfast.
Chapter Ten
Bianca
I hover in the doorway between the bedroom and the main room, watching him move around the kitchen like he's done this a thousand times before.
Meanwhile, I’m pretending I'm not so starving I feel faint.
What do I really know about this man? Nothing except his name is Ashland. He’s dangerous; he says he's the one who saved me—though I don't remember many details of that night—and he says he's been watching me for six years.
Oh, and he also thinks kidnapping is an acceptable form of protection.
Of course, the details he rattled off about my life confirm that he has indeed been watching—no, stalking me.
I shiver and rub my hands over my arms. He pauses slightly and turns a bit so I'm visible in his peripheral vision, but then goes back to cooking, as if he doesn't want to frighten me or scare me away.
I am starving… ravenously, dangerously hungry. There are dots in my vision when I look around, and my stomach won't stop growling. Even now, knowing I'm starving, there’s still a part of me that thinks, Good, I can lose a few pounds.