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 never said I was being nice.” I set my fork down and lean forward. “Again. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Do you hear me?”
Her eyes meet mine, uncertain.
“What if you have to go away again?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I wish I could make you understand how serious I am about keeping you safe.”
She's quiet for a moment, then shifts in her seat, wincing again. “Did you… Did you get what Lancelot needs?”
“Aye. It's in the car. I'll bring it up after dinner.”
“Thank you.” She pauses, her fork hovering. “Where'd you go today?”
“Had to go back to the family house. Business to attend to.” I take another sip of water, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You want wine, lass?”
“Aye,” she says, “I'd fucking love a glass of wine.”
This time, I don't mention anything about her language. I swear like a goddamn sailor. I'm sure as hell not going to censor her.
“Right.” I push up from the table and walk over to the refrigerator. The wine I pull out is perfectly chilled—waiting for her.
“It's my favorite kind, of course,” she says quietly, watching me. “It's creepy, you know?”
“Aye, you mentioned that.” I grab a glass, then pour slowly, letting her watch. “I wasn't going to waste my time buying something you wouldn't like, was I?”
“I suppose not.” She shifts in her seat, and I catch that wince again. “Still creepy.”
Get used to it.
I bring the glass back to her, setting it down close enough that our fingers brush. She doesn't pull away. “I know what you like, Bianca. All of it.”
Her breath catches, just barely, but I hear it.
“You're not drinking?” she asks, recovering.
“No.” I settle back into my chair, my eyes on her as she lifts the glass. “Someone's got to stay sober. Make sure you don't do anything foolish.”
She takes a sip, and Christ, the way her lips touch the rim makes my jaw tighten. I don’t know what brought down her guard. Being carried back to the cabin by me?
The kiss?
The spanking?
But she’s… not as abrasive as before.
“Like what?”
“Like thinking you can slip away while I'm asleep.” I lean back, casual, but my voice drops. “You're not going anywhere, lass. Not without me.”
She holds my gaze over the rim of her glass, color rising in her cheeks again. But she doesn't pull away, doesn’t flinch. Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, exposing her pale throat. I want to sink my teeth into it.
She frowns down at her ankle. “Hmm. Do you reckon it’s broken?”
“Don’t think so,” I say, looking down at it. I kneel in front of her.
My hand wraps around her ankle, so delicate I could snap it with barely a thought, and she shivers. Not from fear. I know fear. I've seen it in countless eyes, tasted it in the air.
This is something else entirely.
Her skin pebbles with goose bumps, spreading up her calf like wildfire.
She lets me touch her and doesn’t fight it. Just watches me with those dark eyes, like she's trying to solve the puzzle of what I am.
“Doesn't look like it.” I run my thumb along the bone. “If it were broken, it'd be at an odd angle. It'd be swollen to fuck. It's not that bad, just painful. I think you got yourself a right good bruise.”
“That makes two then,” she mutters, before her pretty cheeks flush pink again and she looks away.
Fuck.
I can't help the heat in my gaze as I look at her and imagine my handprint bruised across the perfect curve of her arse cheeks, branded there like a claim.
“Good,” I murmur as my cock aches behind my zipper. “That ought to fucking teach you.”
Her cheeks flush a deeper pink, spreading down her throat.
“Why were you with your family?” she asks suddenly. “Do you have an obligation?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Trying to make conversation,” she says.
But she's not. She's trying to dig for information, testing the boundaries of what I'll tell her.
“We had legal matters to tend to for my brother,” I say quickly. Too quickly. I shouldn't tell her that I have a brother who died. I shouldn't tell her anything about Donovan. If she figures out that I'm a fucking McCarthy…
Could she hate me any more than she already does?
Absolutely.
But nothing resembling recognition lights her eyes. Thank fuck.
She pushes the plate aside. “Did I eat enough for you? It's like you're fattening me up like Hansel and Gretel.”
“I'm not trying to change anything about you, lass,” I say quietly, meaning every word. “You’re already fucking perfect.”
“Why do you keep saying things like that?” she whispers.
“Because if I say it often enough, eventually, you’ll believe it.”
She stifles a yawn, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she averts her eyes. “I'm tired.”
“Aye?” I study her, noting the shadows under her eyes. “The ankle hurts like a motherfucker, right?”