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)
As he talks, I hear Ashland's voice: Your fiancé has killed two wives before you.
A car revs its engine beside us, and when I look…
But no.
Why am I disappointed that Ashland isn't chasing me?
I was the one who left.
I can't believe I haven't told Marcus the truth. That he doesn't know why I left or what I did. I don't tell him I was kidnapped. I don't tell him what really happened.
I don't tell him there's another man who knows me better than Marcus ever tried to.
“Where's your cat?” Marcus says with a frown. “Your mother said you took your cat.”
“He's with a friend.” I swallow hard and remember the note I left for Ashland:
Please send back Lancelot.
“I have some work to do,” Marcus says, and his eyes flick to mine again. “I want something very clear, Bianca.”
I nod and swallow, feeling a bit nauseous.
“Don't you ever pull anything like that again,” he says quietly, his voice smooth and controlled. “I don't like being made to look foolish. And I don't appreciate having to worry about where my fiancée has run off to. Do you understand?”
His tone is so reasonable. So calm. But there's something underneath it that makes my skin crawl.
And somehow, his threatening tone is nothing like Ashland's. Where Ashland's is protective and fierce and—and hot, goddamn it—Marcus’s is just… calculating and cold.
Why does this feel so wrong?
I told myself the entire time I was with Ashland that I needed to escape. And here I am. Out. No longer a prisoner. No longer a captive.
Why do I feel so bereft?
Marcus barely glances at me for the rest of the ride.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” he says, and his eyes glint as he looks over my clothes, my curves. He presses his lips together but doesn't say anything.
I'm glad of it. I think if he made one comment about my body right now…
What am I doing? Why am I with him?
I fucking hate this.
But I don't hate being home.
When the car pulls up in front of my house, my mother comes to the front door, her eyes wide and searching for me, and a lump rises in my throat.
Ashland had actually texted my mam from time to time, keeping her in the loop. She's kept her distance from me, allowed me to have my space.
So I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for the door handle.
“I'll pick you up at seven,” Marcus says coldly. “We'll go out to dinner, and we'll discuss what's next.”
“I—thank you,” I say.
He reaches for my wrist, his grip a little too firm. I give him a curious look, but he only tugs me to him, puts his hand on the back of my head, and kisses me.
I stiffen.
It feels wrong.
It feels so fucking wrong, like kissing a wax statue, cold and lifeless. Nothing like…
“I missed you, Bianca,” he says against my lips.
Why does that feel like a lie?
“I want you to go inside and talk to your mother. I'm sure she's been worried. We'll sort everything out tonight at dinner.”
The old Bianca would have asked if he was angry with me. The old Bianca would have wanted to apologize.
Not now.
Maybe a little vacation from Marcus Crowning was exactly what I needed to see the truth.
“Bianca!”
Mam runs to the car, her arms outstretched, and gives me a warm embrace.
“I missed you,” she says. “Tell me everything.”
And that's when I realize I don't have that much to tell her. So I give her a weak smile. I've always been terrible at lying, so I don't think this is the time for me to start making up fibs.
“I'm tired, Mam,” I say. “And I've missed you.”
That, at least, is the truth.
“Well, who can blame you for wanting a little adventure?” She sighs and gives a long, wistful look at Marcus's retreating car. “No one wants to go straight from college into an engagement, do they? Not without a little freedom first.”
Right. Something like that.
I smile at my mother. Of course I don't tell her it wasn't that. I don't tell her anything at all.
“Interesting that you took Lancelot with you,” she says. “He came back a little while ago. Someone left him on the doorstep in his carrier.”
“Did they?” I give her a sharp look. “Who brought him back?”
“I didn't see,” she says with a shrug. “But it looks like he's been well cared for while he was gone, hasn't he? It's not exactly like he was a stray wandering the streets looking for scraps of food. He's plump as ever.”
“You didn't see anybody?”
“No. But there was a note.” She pulls a small folded paper from her pocket.
He missed you.
My hands shake as I take it.
Is that Ashland's handwriting?
Was he here? He brought my cat, and then he… went back?
He left?
I go up to my room and collapse on my bed. The weight of it all is absolutely exhausting.