Series: Lee Savino
Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I’m not the nice bear. That’s my twin, Teddy.
I keep my bear caged.
Until I meet Paloma and my bear goes wild.
She’s beautiful and talented, but something’s rotten in this mansion in the Hamptons.
Her foster father keeps her locked in a tower, surrounded by guards.
There are whispers of an auction–a virgin auction.
My bear’s about to break free and go on a rampage.
But I can’t let him out.
Even if I can save Paloma, I can never claim her.
Not even when she smells like wild orchids,
Not even when she feels like freedom,
Not when she is my future, and my fated mate.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Paloma
The moment the deadbolt to my bedroom door clicks into place, I dash for the closet.
Black clothes, so I won’t be seen against the building at night. Flexible toe socks, so my toes can grip the rough-hewn stone of the mansion.
I quickly strip out of my “work” dress and into my escape gear.
I have an estimated three to eight minutes until they figure out how to get power back up, and in that time, I need to be out to the balcony, down the wall, and into the ocean where the security cameras won’t pick me up, and thermoscans won’t see my heat signature.
“You got this, you got this, you got this,” I whisper-chant to myself as my trembling fingers draw the lock-picking tools out of the pouch. I’d stowed them in the pocket of these black yoga pants weeks ago after I caught the gardener’s thirteen-year-old son picking a lock to the garage during one of my rare unguarded moments in the garden. Thom had sent me out for a walk after telling me I was overweight and needed more exercise. I’d been thrilled to be allowed outside.
The boy told me he hadn’t meant any harm and was just practicing his lock-picking skills. He’d shown me the instruction book and tool kit he ordered online. I said I would keep it between us, but I had to confiscate his instruction book and tools. Mean of me but necessary. I’ll leave them in the flowerbed below my window. Maybe he’ll find them someday.
I drop to my knees in front of the French doors to the balcony.
Slipping the slender tension wrench into the lock, I apply pressure to its plug. Then I slide in the pin. I close my eyes to concentrate. I’ve practiced this at least a hundred times. I already know how to find and set each pin, one at a time, until the lock fully disengages. With a little more pressure on the tension wrench, I turn the plug.
Click.
This is as far as I’ve ever gotten. I couldn’t open the doors before because the electronic monitor at the top would notify Thom’s security team that a door had been breached. Now, with the power cut to the property, I have a moment.
I let out an exhale, stow the tools in my pocket, and use both hands to pull the doors open.
They don’t budge.
I scan the door frame. Did I miss something? A second lock? A physical bar or barrier? I don’t see anything.
“Come on,” I growl in an undertone. I pull harder.
It’s not moving.
“Juepucha,” I mutter. “Come on, you bitch.” I yank with all my strength. The doors fly open, and a gust of ocean breeze fills the room, making the curtains flap.
Yes!
My days as the girl in the tower are over. I slip out and silently shut the doors behind me.
You’ve heard the stories about girls in towers, right? Some of them are supposedly fair maidens. Some are princesses. Some have long hair that princes use as a climbing rope to save them.
Me? I guess I’m a mage of sorts. I can see the future of a company just by looking at its numbers.
Hence, my usefulness as a day trader.
I am also technically a maiden if that means virgin. The jury’s out on the fair part. Does that mean good-looking or pale-skinned? I was never sure. Whatever. I’m Latinx, so I identify as BIPOC if anyone is wondering. And I’m not a size four. Not even close.
I throw a leg over the carved marble railing that brackets the balcony to straddle it, then the other, balancing my weight on the one-inch ledge that rims the outside.
Don’t look down, I whisper.
My particular fairytale lacks the trellis for me to climb down, but metal wires run horizontally along the building to support the ivy. I lean out, wrap my toes around one of them, and test it with my weight. It holds.
Holding my breath, I transfer one hand to another wire. It cuts into my hands but serves. I leave the safety of the ledge and feel with my free foot for a wire below. It’s farther than I expect, but I eventually catch it. Then I realize some of the ivy boughs might be thick enough to hold me.
That works better. I scale down, seeking the wires with my feet but sliding my hands along the thicker ivy cords. I’m three floors up, a distance that feels far higher and longer to scale now that I’m doing it. And I’ve already wasted too much time.
The lights could come back on any second now.
The branch I’m holding is too thin, and it breaks. I plunge downward, my fingers grasping for something else to hold and finally catching. My skin tears, and my fingers burn, but I barely notice. All my focus is on getting down.