Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I thought about more, scrambling for tidbits about my life that might make some kind of impact, make me seem less vapid and shallow. “I’ve never fallen in love. I’ve been in a handful of relationships where I said the words. I meant them at the time, but I’ve never been so in love with a human that I can’t breathe without knowing they love me back. Where my heart only beats for them. And I want that.”
I ended the last part on a whisper, close to tears but refusing to cry.
The man in front of me tilted his head ever so slightly, regarding me as if he were trying to open me up with his penetrating green eyes. “As enlightening as all of this information is, can you tell me why you’re choosing to share it with me?”
I blinked at him. He sounded so even. Businesslike. Plus, he hadn’t pulled a gun from underneath his desk and shot me in the face the way I had imagined this might go. Despite the fact that I hadn’t actually done anything that should result in me being shot in the face. But I reasoned that many people—most people, even—who were shot in the face weren’t expecting it.
Plus, I tended to be dramatic.
“I read that you should personalize yourself to your killer,” I explained, unable to break eye contact. “Make them understand that you’re a person. A unique one with friends and family and a life. Give them information about you. So that’s what I’m doing.”
I was pretty sure the article hadn’t said that you should actually clarify what you were doing to your would-be killer since it might lose some of its effect.
“You think I’m going to kill you?” he asked, his mossy green eyes fixated on me. The way he looked at me sent my heart into a frenzy and my blood turned hot. His attention was rapt, he was leaning forward on his desk ever so slightly.
I blinked at him. He spoke in a flat tone but in a way that said he thought I was absolutely batshit crazy to think he was going to kill me.
I was not crazy. Dramatic as mentioned, sure. Emotional? Definitely. Romantic? Also yes. But not crazy. My ultimate goal in life was to avoid crazy. And considering crazy was somewhat of a trigger word for me, it sparked fury within me. This man insinuating that I was unhinged when he was the one who’d had me dragged up here.
So I tilted my head and cocked my hip in the classic female battle stance. “Um, your goon, who is like mobster hitman material from any movie, snatched me off the dance floor, took me down the murder hallway, and now I’m up here,” I waved around the office, “which is definitely a secret villain lair of some kind. And there’re all sorts of stories about you being a hitman or crime lord, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have bruises on my arm tomorrow to prove that. That is, of course, if I’m alive tomorrow, which all of these aforementioned details have put in to question.”
His eyes narrowed as I spoke, and he was out of his chair before I finished speaking. I didn’t retreat as I should’ve as he stalked toward me. I was too busy staring at the way he moved. Predatory. Like a man in charge of not only his whole body but the entire room. And everyone in it. It terrified me, but there was also something else that ... enchanted me. Nothing about this man should’ve enchanted me. Or interested me. Certainly shouldn’t have aroused me.
His fingers were on my bare skin before I could fathom what was going on. His grip was firm. Not painful though. His fingers were long, manicured, hands large and powerful looking. He could circle my entire upper arm in his grip. I didn’t jerk away, didn’t even try to.
He inspected the area where the skin had started to bloom with the telltale signs of a bruise. Which wasn’t really saying much since I bruised easily. Bumping my leg on a coffee table would end up looking like I’d hit it with a hammer. It was saying much, a lot actually, that I was going to be marked by a man who had touched me without my permission and who’d used his grip to manhandle me and drag me in to this situation. Yes, that was saying a whole fucking lot.
“He marked you,” the man observed, his voice quiet yet it boomed somehow. The deep masculinity of his voice penetrated my skin, brushed at my bones.
Something about his hushed tone sent goosebumps moving up my arms. That and the fact that he was touching me. Technically against my will too. I should’ve been totally fucking terrified that the man who I was convinced was going to murder me a handful of seconds ago was now touching me. I was not scared. Well, I was a little scared. Maybe a lot. But I felt something else too. Something completely opposite of fear. Something I’d likely have to pay a lot of money for a therapist to unpack after this was all over. If I survived this.