Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 66952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“You take care, Gabriela. And don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a white knight come to rescue you from your tower. He’s as much a monster as I.”
4
Gabriela
It’s still early when I wake the next morning. Well, I guess it’s only a few hours later, not morning at all. The birds aren’t singing yet, that’s what gives away the time.
Because even before I open my eyes, I know I’m not alone.
I don’t move and I know I should try to keep my breathing even, but I can’t seem to breathe at all right now.
Aftershave.
My mind immediately goes to the night of my sixteenth birthday party. To the smell then.
Morgue.
At least it’s not that smell.
But it is him. I recognize the scent of his cologne from when we were in the study earlier. Recognize my inability to breathe when he’s in a room with me.
I turn my head to find him standing over my desk, finger holding my book open, reading in the little bit of moonlight that’s coming through the windows. I hadn’t closed my curtains before going to bed.
“Morning,” he says, startling me that he knew I was awake without even having to turn around.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I sit up and switch on the lamp beside my bed.
He closes the book, turns to look at me, his gaze roaming from my face down.
I touch my hair, still damp from my late shower, and glance down at my nightie, a dark blue silk tank that leaves little to the imagination.
I draw the blanket up a little, refusing to acknowledge his advantage over me. He’s fully dressed in a suit, a different one than the one he was wearing a few hours ago, and me in my bed, barely dressed, having just woken up.
“Where are your bags?” he asks, making a show of looking around the room. “I told you to be ready.”
“Is this for fucking real?”
He raises his eyebrows. His perfect eyebrows. But the amused expression vanishes quickly.
“I prefer you don’t use that sort of language.”
“Offends your delicate ears?”
Now he smiles wide. It’s a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease, and I see a dimple on his right cheek. It’s disarming. Like his eyes with their soft color.
He steps toward the bed and I find myself sitting up straighter. He comes right to my side and sits down on the edge, slowly allowing his gaze to slide over my face, lingering on my hair. I’m sure it’s huge around my head from sleep. Then his eyes trail down to the exposed part of my chest.
Heat flushes my cheeks and I look away, hugging the blanket tighter.
But he takes my jaw in his hand and turns my head so I’m looking at him again.
His eyes narrow but it’s not a malicious, calculated thing. I think he’s just really looking at me. And I’m hyper aware of what I must look like.
“Watch your mouth, understand?”
I want to say yes. I want to nod my head. Be agreeable. Because something about him scares me. Even now, even when he’s calm, and when he smiles like this, almost kindly.
Because he’s not kind. I know that.
“Do you understand, Gabriela?” he asks again.
I swallow, feel how his hold tightens just a little.
“This is where you answer yes. Or yes sir, if you prefer,” he suggests.
“How about go fuck yourself instead?” I offer.
There’s that smile again, and I force one corner of my mouth upward too. Inside my chest, my heart is racing.
“Ah, Gabriela,” he says, showing all his teeth now. “You will make this interesting.”
An instant later, his grip shifts to my hair and he shoves me face down onto the bed and smacks my ass so hard, I’m not sure what’s worse, the sting or the fact that he just did that.
He draws me back up to a seat and this time, his hand in my hair is a fist. And I see the thin veneer of his composure as he tugs my head backward, so it hurts my neck to look at him.
“You’re hurting—”
“Do. You. Understand?”
“Yes!” I cry out, tears filling my eyes from my hair being pulled so hard, from the humiliation of what he just did. From my stinging butt cheek.
“Good.”
He releases me and stands.
I immediately massage my scalp with one hand while with the other, I wipe at a stray tear.
“Your bags?” he asks, all calm and collected again.
I shake my head because I can’t speak. My throat has closed up with the effort of swallowing down my tears because yes, this is for fucking real. And this man, he’s not someone to be toyed with. He’s not the pathetic boy Charles McKinney is. He’s not even like that buffoon, John.
“What does that mean? You’re unprepared? I told you to be ready early.”
“It’s still night.” I sound like an idiot, but it’s all I can think to say.