Total pages in book: 205
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 204377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1022(@200wpm)___ 818(@250wpm)___ 681(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Denver
—
She watches from the bedroom window, her haunting green eyes fixed on the rainy gloom. On me.
She can’t see me. Not yet. She thinks she’s alone in her misery. She’s not.
I’ve finally come for her.
It’s time, Frankie.
Time to disappear with me.
She’ll never leave willingly. Of course not. She doesn’t know me. But I’ll rectify that.
Until then, her understanding of the situation will be a struggle. It’ll be an effort to bring her into the right way of thinking. She’ll fight and try to run, again and again, and I’ll take risks to keep her safe, again and again.
She’s worth it.
Without shifting her gaze from the window, she lifts an amber drink to her lips and licks the rim of the glass.
Kentucky bourbon. Always. With a splash of Amarena cherry juice and two cherries. Not the bright red ones. The dark, rich, juicy ones.
I bet her mouth tastes sweet and unique. Like her name.
Frankie.
It’s not short for Frances or Francine. Her parents named her after a grandfather she never met. Just like my parents named me after a city I’ll never visit.
We both lost our parents years ago, and I’m not sad they’re gone. We’re the ones stuck with the ill-fitting names.
But we fit together, and she has me now. That’s all she needs.
The longer I stand in the icy rain, waiting for her to look away from my hiding spot, the more certain I am that I’m making the right decision.
She’s worth every mile I traveled to this wet hole called Sitka, Alaska. She’s worth every second of the ice-cold naked swim I endured to slip undetected onto this private island. She’s worth all the preparations I made to steal her away and bring her home with me.
I’m doing this for you, Frankie.
And for my boys.
Christ, they’re going to love her. But not at first.
She’ll win them over. But not on purpose.
She’s unintentionally flirty. An accident waiting to happen. It’s those eyes. Those flirty, dirty, long-lingering, green eyes that make promises she doesn’t mean to make. She can’t help it.
Just like men can’t help growing hard at the sight of her.
Weak men.
I’m not hard. Then again, I’m not weak. I have discipline and patience, and she needs that. She needs me and my impeccable restraint.
Never mind that I couldn’t get hard right now if I tried. Not while standing stark nude in the freezing rain.
The cold doesn’t bother me. A little sleet is nothing compared to the subzero temperatures at home. I hope she has plenty of warm clothes and thick socks and a good pair of winter boots, and goddammit, why is she so pretty?
Long, wavy red hair shimmers like fire against her fair skin. All-natural. Full pink lips pout with despair. Also natural. And those tiny, upturned tits? Doesn’t get more natural than that.
She didn’t bother with a bra today as if to give her nipples permission to cut through her shirt and the glass window.
My boys will notice them, no matter their small size. She’s small everywhere—her nose, her hands, her breakable bones. The savages won’t know what to do with such a delicate, compact body. But they’ll learn. And they’ll thank me.
At last, she retreats from the window, and I make a break for the wraparound porch, bounding up the stairs in a few long strides.
I tread lightly, my footsteps soundless across the rain-soaked decking. With a waterproof bag of clothes tucked under my arm, I edge past one brightly lit window after another, stopping only when I reach the covered alcove of the rear door.
From the bag, I remove dry jeans, a thermal shirt, rope, and a pair of latex gloves. As I pull everything on, my attention doesn’t stray from the perimeter.
Towering trees canopy every acre of this private island, creating a false sense of isolation, an ambiance that wants so badly to be off the grid and roughing it. But there’s no roughing it here. There’s no barren wilderness. No endless winter. No hunger pangs.
The island runs on city power, for fuck’s sake. The closest hospital—where Frankie works—is only minutes away by boat, and the food isn’t caught or grown here. It’s delivered. By an overpaid servant. Just one of many who are employed by the lord of the manor.
Walking paths crisscross the property, but Frankie doesn’t walk on them. She runs. With full speed, high energy, and maximum endurance, she tears up those trails every day.
Good thing. Where I’m taking her, she’ll need every bit of that grit and stamina to survive.
More paths lead to the infinity pool, helicopter pad, gear shed, boathouse, and two docks made to hold large yachts. The main attraction, a cedar shingle and stone mansion, looks like something out of Alaskan Architectural Digest, if such a thing existed. It doesn’t.
No expense was spared on aesthetics and comfort. It’s the ultimate retreat home built for a billionaire who fishes for sport, not survival. Who decorates with hides from bears that were killed and skinned by someone else. Who pretends to be a man when really he’s just a pretentious little cunt.