Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 228(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
She shakes her head. “It’s gone. How is that possible?”
I grin broadly. “Good. I was hoping my serum would heal your vertigo. If we’re lucky, it won’t happen ever again. But there are no guarantees. I want you to be careful for a while until we’re sure. I’ll keep a close eye on you. No heavy lifting, no climbing, no running.” I narrow my gaze at her, making sure she understands.
She licks her lips and glances around. “You want me to stay here?”
“Forever.” It’s not shocking that she keeps questioning me. Humans don’t understand our ways. She’ll begin to believe me in the coming hours as the bond between us strengthens and she realizes she has no more interest in parting from me than I do her.
“Vincent will lose his shit.”
“You let me worry about Vincent. You won’t be seeing him again.”
She gasps. “He might shoot you. You’re stealing his slave.” She winces as the words leave her lips. “I don’t mean that in the literal sense. It’s just that he expects me to cook and clean for him. He’s not going to like finding out his dinner won’t be ready at six tonight.”
I growl low. “I suspect you literally are that asshole’s slave. We’re not hashing semantics. Does he give you options?”
“No,” she murmurs.
I set a hand on the bed on the other side of her legs and lean in. “Does he let you come and go as you please? Does he hit you when you don’t clean or cook to his standards? Does he yell at you every day of your life? Does he tell you you’re worthless, and no one would ever want you? Are you completely isolated from society?”
It’s a brutal list, but I suspect I’m correct. The asshole is a classic abuser. Cora’s mother died when she was sixteen, and that fucker forced her to become his indentured servant from that moment on.
She looks down, wringing her hands in her lap. I notice she’s not wincing. Already her arm feels better.
I move my hand to her thigh. “Yes or no, Little doll?” I ask softly. I want her to acknowledge the state of her life.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“That’s the definition of a slave, Cora.” I’m fuming inside at how he’s used my Little girl for four years, but I control my outward appearance.
She lifts her gaze, sits taller, and looks me in the eyes. “What do you expect from me as your claimed mate? How is this different? I don’t even know you. You just forced me to stay.”
I scoot closer and slide my hand to hers. Holding her fingers, I say, “As my mate, I expect you to be healthy, safe, and happy. I’ll do everything in my power every day of my life to ensure that’s the case. You will not cook and clean for me. I will take care of you. Not the other way around. I realize you don’t know me, but you felt the draw toward me even before I bit you. We’re bonded now. That feeling will grow every hour.”
She’s staring at me, blinking, jaw dropped again. “You don’t want me to cook and clean?”
“No. Never. Lion shifters take care of their mates. Not the other way around.”
Her gaze stays on mine. She’s shocked and absorbing my words.
I pick up her injured hand and gently prod around her wrist. “Can you make a fist for me now, Little doll?”
She bends her fingers in. Not tightly, but enough that I can see the improvement.
“We’ll be careful with it tonight. I suspect it will be all healed by morning.”
“That’s insane.”
I grin. “Welcome to my pride.” I lower her hand to her lap and slide my palm up her arm, over her shoulder, and around to cup the back of her neck. Her thick, brown hair is gorgeous, and I like it even better now that she’s not using it as a curtain to hide her face.
Damn, she’s pretty. Huge green eyes stare at me in wonder. Her pulse is racing. She’s breathing heavily. As I hold her gaze, she whimpers and fidgets. Arousal she’s unlikely to have ever experienced consumes her.
“Don’t fight it, Little doll,” I murmur softly.
Her breathing grows heavier.
I grab the sippy cup she was using from the bed, set it on the nightstand, and move in closer. “Has anyone ever kissed you, Cora?”
“No.” Her cheeks turn pink.
“How many boys did you date in high school?”
The color on her face deepens, and she looks away.
Something about her demeanor makes me want to punch a hole in the wall, and that’s not a sensation I experience often. I’ve been beyond angry several times today. It’s for her. I’m furious at how she’s been treated. “Cora…” I warn. “Answer me.”
“I dropped out,” she tells me in a voice I can barely hear.
“You dropped out of high school?” My own voice rises.