Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Perhaps I can find answers about what my father is hiding. Lycan promised to talk to me, to tell me the truth, but something tells me he will most certainly be keeping things he deems inappropriate from me.
All my life I’ve been treated like a child.
And I’m done allowing it.
Settling in the expensive leather chair, I cross my legs under my butt and pull myself closer to the heavy, wooden table, which has two drawers on either side of where I’m seated. The first one I tug on is locked, causing frustration to trickle through me. The next one slides open with ease, but all I find is a case of cigars and a stainless-steel lighter engraved with an intricate design of a wolf’s head. It looks like it’s howling at the moon. Underneath the etching is curled script, The Hunt.
Confusion furrows my brows, and I flick it open, unsure of what I’ll find under the cap, but it’s empty. A few streaks of black, which I’m guessing have come from the flame, but nothing more.
I open the top drawer to my left and find a small stack of envelopes and a notepad. Two sleek, silver fountain pens and a bottle of black ink. A red sealer stamp sits to the side, and once again, when I lift it, I find an engraving of a wolf’s head, but this time with the name Shaw under the collar of the beast.
I continue my search, opening the last of the drawers, and find this one filled with one thick folder. Black leather etched with Shaw on the front cover, and a zipper holding everything inside.
With trembling fingers, I lift it from its hiding place and set it on the desk. The hiss of the zipper echoes in my ears, causing me to wince, praying that the sound wasn’t as loud as it seemed. In the darkness, a whisper can be amplified to sound like a scream. And Lycan’s hearing must be as sharp as a trained hunter because I’m certain he could hear even the slightest noise.
Flicking open the folder, I pick up the page lying on top of the stack. It’s been written on the Shaw branding letterhead—a letter to my father. It’s the threat he sent to Dad to get him to sign over my hand in marriage.
But as my gaze scans the words, it doesn’t come across as a threat. Instead, Lycan seems to want to save me.
She doesn’t need to know the truth to go on living and enjoying her life. You’re the fuck up, not her. And I trust you’ll see things my way. If you or your wife come near me or try to break the contract, I’ll see to it your daughter will never speak to you again. The moment she learns of your indiscretions, she’ll walk away. Think very long and hard about it, Mr. Bardot. Do you really want to lose your daughter over a stupid mistake? Unless you think your stupidity isn’t an error, then I’ll take Scarlett and ensure she gets the life she deserves.
Don’t mistake me for a patient man. Also, do not think for one second I’m doing this for you. This is all for the girl. She will be mine, and the moment we walk out of your house, we won’t return.
“Have you read enough, fiancée?” Lycan’s deep baritone skitters across the silence toward me, the darkness swallowing his form, but his penetrating gaze is laser-sharp, and it’s on me. He doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, his thick, muscled arms folded across his broad, tanned, naked chest. Even in the dim light shining through the window, I can tell this man is more Adonis than human.
“I—I…” Words escape me. My throat clogs with guilt and shame at being caught red-handed, just like all my fears coming true.
“When I promised to tell you everything in the morning, I meant it,” he says, pushing away from the threshold and stepping into the room. My hungry gaze takes him in. He’s only wearing a pair of red plaid sleep pants. Every other part of him is bare—feet, chest, stomach, and those arms. A memory of what happened last night trickles through my mind, and I can’t stop from squirming in his chair.
He stops inches from the desk.
Dropping his hands to his sides, he pins me with a glare, and my intent stare eats up every other inch of him that was covered when he had his arms crossed. The dips and peaks of smooth skin taunt me, and the deep dip of his navel has a dark trail of hair sneaking down into the waistband of his pants.
“Are you enjoying the view, soon-to-be wife?” The amusement in his tone has me snapping my gaze to his face. Finding the corner of his mouth tipped, his green eyes blaze with intent, with malice, but also, with desire so hot it’s as if a volcano has erupted behind those deep, orbs.