Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Hold on a minute.
Manly. . .Dark. . .Towels.
They might have a shaving razor. Holy hell, they might have a weapon in here.
I start flinging drawers open, still wrapped in a towel, desperately trying to find something to injure Beat with. I don’t even care if he hears. Give me a razor and I will dice this 6’5 Goliath to pieces the size of Barbacoa. Talent can be outworked and rage can outweigh size. That’s the motto I live by.
Beat bangs on the door again, and it wails on its hinges.
“Hey. . .you,” he grunts. He doesn’t even know my name. “If you make me open this door myself, you’ll be fucking sorry.”
I ignore him. He can’t rape or harm me. Godfrey made that clear. Honestly? I’m not even that scared of him. He’s been nothing but compassionate to me so far, in his own, angry, Stockton way. Damn it, though. They have absolutely nothing in these drawers. Empty, empty, empty. What’s wrong with these men? Do they not live here, or did they think about this scenario beforehand? Probably the latter. I’m just about to turn around and pick up my dress when the door swings open and Guy Fawkes’s face greets me again, bat-shit crazy galore. The drawers are all open. I threw most of their contents on the floor in my desperate search for a weapon.
This is not looking good for me.
I stumble back, but he shoots his arm out, yanking me by the towel flush against his body. I bump into his hard abs, my eyes zeroing in on the curves of his pecs.
Okay, I take it back. A little scared now.
“You wanna play like that?” he grits out, his voice hoarse. I gulp as I scan his eyes for the very first time. Honey brown, almost greenish. . .and full. So full. Full of things I shouldn’t see. Of soul. Of pain. Of a story behind a man I mustn’t personify.
Breaking eye contact, I pick up my dress from the floor. So what? Hot killer guy has a soul. Big fucking deal.
Big. Broken. Maybe even a little good, underneath all those calloused layers life wrapped him in. Indebted to Godfrey, and is filed under Must-Recruit-To-My-Side. Likes: Reading (he had a book in his back pocket), the color black and sarcasm. Dislikes: Ink, Godfrey, Seb. . .not me.
To him, I’m still a clean slate. Although that’s starting to change.
I’m waiting for a slap or a punch to arrive, every muscle in my body tensing, but he just stares at me through his mask with those eyes.
“What’s your name?” he growls, not unlike a beast.
“Prescott.”
“Stupid name.”
“Allow me not to take offense, considering the fact that you call yourself Beat.”
I’m sure he smiles behind this mask, though there’s no way I could tell. His body relaxes, which prompts me to breathe normally again.
“You need some ground rules, Country Club, so let me lay them out for you, before you do anything stupid that’d land your ass in trouble. One—if I find you looking for a weapon again, you lose all privileges. No showers. No peeing. No getting out of the basement. For all I care, you will sit in your own shit and piss until the Archers come and pick you up. Two—you disobey, you’ll be punished. Food will be scarce and in-between. Three—” his eyes close, and when they open again, there’s a flicker of something devious in them, “I’m not like them. I have no interest in making this unnecessarily painful for you. But don’t try anything that’d make me turn on you. I easily flip, and once I do. . .”
My nipples brush against the rough towel at his threat.
“I need shampoo, soap and tampons.” I try my luck. “And a stress ball. If you’re going to keep me here. . .” I trail off, thinking about the outside world I just caught a glimpse of. Squinting my eyes, shaking my head, letting the soft, wet strands of gold frame my face. “Just. . .please. It’s worse than prison.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he surprises me by saying. I nod curtly. The shampoo and tampons are luxuries I can live without. The stress ball, though. . .I’ve never gone out of the house without one. Not since a shrink I went to after the baby ordeal told me I should try and use one to release some of my anger. That’s what keeps me relatively sane. It’s what also keeps me a drug dealer, as opposed to a drug user.
“Thank you.”
He leads me back to my cellar, where he blindfolds me again. My hands are back to being tied. They want to keep me disorientated, and for a good reason. Godfrey told them I’m not who I appear to be. But whoever I am, I don’t want to be left with myself right now. With my thoughts, with my mind working overtime, trying to second-guess Camden and Godfrey’s next move.