Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
If that’s how much he hates Evie, I’m surprised he went to the effort of buttering the bread. Why not simply serve it dry? Fear bursts through my veins, turning my palms sweaty, but I school my features and stare at him with quiet defiance. I let anger take over instead. If I don’t, terror will consume me.
“You’re a typical Warren.” He lets me go with a shove. “High and mighty on your throne.”
“You don’t know me.” Ignoring the pain in my side, I push to my feet. “Haven’t you learned it’s a tactical error to make assumptions?”
Fury sparks in his eyes. Their color is darker than Roman’s, a deeper brown. He balls his hand and lifts his arm. It takes all my courage and then some not to cower. After a second, he drops his arm to his side.
The door opens. The man turns his head in that direction, flexing his fingers as if he’d still like to hit me.
Roman stands in the frame. He looks from the broken plate and spilled food on the floor to the man next to me and asks in a clipped voice, “Mateo?”
The man, Mateo, marches to the door. “I served her as per your request.” He pushes past Roman and leaves.
Roman closes the door. He studies me for a moment before he says, “You met my brother.” Closing the distance, he stops short of me. “Throwing tantrums isn’t going to win you any favors around here.”
I assume he’s referring to the bread on the floor.
“Pick it up,” he says, his tone controlled and uncompromising. “I won’t stand for this kind of behavior. I told you, the option is always yours.”
I open my mouth to tell him he can order his brother to pick it up since it’s Mateo’s mess, but he stills me with a finger on my lips.
“Did I tell you to speak, Evie?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He removes his hand from my mouth as if my skin has burned him and continues with a sudden frostiness, “Then don’t.”
He’s angry, and it’s not the hatred he harbors for his enemy, Bell. This anger feels personal, although I have no idea what caused his ire.
Choosing my battles wisely, I kneel and gather the shards of porcelain. He crosses his arms and widens his stance as I crawl over the floor to collect all the pieces. When I’ve stacked the bread on top of the broken crockery, he pushes the trashcan next to the coffee table toward me with the tip of his boot. I dump everything inside and catch the edge of the table to pull myself up, but before I can straighten, he cups my jaw with a broad hand and splays his fingers over my face.
His fingers dig into my cheeks as he tilts my head and forces me to meet his gaze. A fire burns in his eyes, the flames dark and ominous like the painting on his wall. “You make me hard when you kneel in front of me. I like it a little too much, so no more temper tantrums. It’ll only put you in a compromising position. Are we clear?”
I jerk my face to the side, escaping his touch.
He lets me. When I push to my feet, he grips my elbows to assist me.
“Since you threw your dinner on the floor, I take it you’re not hungry,” he says.
Bending down, he picks a slice of bread from the trashcan and studies it as he turns it over. He clenches his jaw but says nothing as he drops the bread back in the trashcan and wipes his fingers on the napkin in the tray. With sudden single-minded determination, he takes my arm and pulls me to the door.
My panic escalates. No matter how brave I’m pretending to be, I’m scared. My training didn’t prepare me for the fear that makes me want to throw up.
He yanks open the door and drags me across the hallway to a door on the other side. Opening it, he pushes me inside. I stumble, catching myself before I fall. It’s a bedroom the same size as his. The furnishings are similar, but instead of black, the accent color is caramel brown.
“There are clothes in the dressing room,” he says behind me.
I spin around.
He drags a disapproving gaze over me. “You don’t have to wear mine.”
I backtrack deeper into the room as he leans an arm on the doorframe above and watches me with a predator gleam reflecting in his russet eyes.
“You’ll sleep here,” he says, emphasizing the order as if to convince both of us.
Relief surges through me. For a few awful moments, I thought he was going to make me share his room. Then the fear-induced fog clears a little and his words sink in. Sleep here? He bought clothes? For how long is he planning on keeping me?