Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
This sets the tone for my day, and I wear that like a badge of honor, filled with unspoken rage and a sense of being used. Something changed in me a few days ago, when he not only nearly took my father’s life but let me have the option to, and then again just hours later with Damian.
We have spent days apart. He comes in the middle of the night like a phantom of passion yet a ghostly reminder that to him it’s just another day. Feelings are sprouting in me, but from what? I don’t even want to be around him—or do I?
God, this is a personal hell to be in. My mind is a minefield of possible pain, and I can’t escape it. And up until a few weeks ago, I hated him. Now, I have this need and longing inside me to become something to him.
How desperate do I sound?
To crave the simple act of friendship from a man who knows no such thing and has made it clear he won’t even try. All he’s ever known is how to hate. How to use. How to kill. And I expect him to make an exception for me? Because I hold the title of being his wife and carry his last name? How foolish is that? How pathetic of me to think something so naïve and trivial.
That anger doesn’t stay dormant for long, not even close. Each minute and passing hour makes it grow like a hungry beast, clawing and fighting to find a way out of my skin. I sit with it, try to control it, ignore it, and combat it, but it festers and broils and burns me from the inside. Then I simply… snap.
First, I take three shots of whiskey, and then I grab a sharp kitchen knife and cut out my fucking tracker. It hurts like a bitch, and I’m surprised no one hears me crying out around the washcloth I bit down on. I’m able to stop the bleeding, but it takes some time. I have retribution on my mind, and I believe there’s nothing that can stop a madwoman.
I place the tracker in the closet in my underwear drawer and then keep on going like a dog with a bone. With three band-aids on my open cut and a makeshift tourniquet around my arm. I go into Nico’s office, a room he rarely leaves open. But that’s the housemaid’s fault, who forgot to lock up before she was done, and I now take advantage.
Rummaging through some papers on his desk, I find it almost instantly. The club. I rip off the corner of the paper where the address is printed and stick it in my pocket. Next, I go in search of my purse, finding the credit card he gave me. Before I step into the living area, I remove the tourniquet and replace the band-aids, and that’s when the first real obstacle I need to overcome presents itself.
“Mrs. Valiente? You all right? Do you need something?”
I turn and hide the card behind my back. Doing my best to hide all the negative emotions fighting for supremacy inside me, I plaster on a fake smile and shrug.“No, Farren. I was looking for my birth control. Can I have some privacy please?”
Like any man who has never understood women, he backs down quickly, the comment obviously making him uncomfortable.“Yes, ma'am.”
“Where is James?” I hadn't taken notice of my guards much today, but at this moment, I need to.
“He’s on a run for Mr. Valiente,” he responds, and I inwardly gloat.
“Hmm. Well. I will need to take my medicine with water. Would you mind going and getting me some? Make sure it's filled with ice.”
He eyes me over, almost as if he’ll refuse, because he’s my watchman and not my helper. I stand firmly in place and don’t bat a lash. I dare him to challenge me.
“Yes, ma’am.” He leaves me and goes to the kitchen. Turning, I go to pick up my phone, but my anger doesn’t overshadow my wisdom. There is no way this phone isn’t being tracked. If I bring it, he will find me. I have all I need—address, money, and my vengeance.
I hurry then, no looking back and no hesitating. Making it to the open elevator, I hit the button for the ground floor, and just moments before the doors close, I see Farren come out of the kitchen, and he yells as he drops the glass of water and starts running.
“Mrs. Valiente! Stop!” I hear his fist connect with the closed door just as the elevator jolts into movement, a muffled “fuck!” along with it, and I hold my breath. I wait for the elevator to stop at his roar, but it doesn’t, and I grin wickedly.
Watching each number as it goes down, I know I'm in the clear.