Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 84(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 84(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
He tries to speak, but the lack of oxygen turns his words into a choked mess of vowels and consonants. I keep him in place until his face borders on purple and his hands stop struggling against my wrists. I drive the heel of my boot into his shin to force him to the ground.
Larry howls in agony while he fights to fill his lungs back up.
But I’m not done with him yet. Dropping to his level, I grab a handful of his hair and smash his head into the side of the filing cabinet.
“What was that? Couldn’t understand a word you were saying.” I’m enjoying this a little too much, and the shrieking delight in my tone reaffirms it.
Larry cries out a constant loop of please stop and sorry, Natalie in an attempt to atone for his sins. Both fall on deaf ears, obscured by the sound of flesh striking metal and the pure satisfaction of watching him suffer.
“Dante.” Natalie’s voice hits my ear before her delicate hand falls on my shoulder. “He’s had enough.”
She instantly soothes the raging inferno, burning me to a crisp.
I release Larry’s head, and it falls into a puddle of blood, snot, and spit. I look up at Natalie over my shoulder, and she’s smiling at me.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says.
I take the hand on my shoulder and lead her out of the office. Attracted by the noise or maybe me carrying a barfly to the office, a few of Larry’s staff stand horrified outside the door.
We brush past them together, hand in hand, chuckling at the scene I’ve left behind.
12
NATALIE
“You came back for me.” I’m shocked at the sentence, and I’m the one saying it.
“Of course.” Dante’s in the kitchen, pouring himself a stiff whiskey while he brews me a cup of tea.
I found it hard to speak while we drove back to his place. A mix of the fear-induced panic Larry thrust on me and the overwhelming joy and excitement of seeing Dante again. But I know the real reason is because I was afraid I’d upset him. That he’d snap at any minute and tear into me for disobeying him after he bought me.
It never came. Not once while we drove did I get the sense of him being angry that I stormed out of his home, nor did he give me the impression when asking if I wanted tea or cocoa to still my nerves—a trick he learned from his grandmother to soothe even the most broken of hearts.
“I left things poorly, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t make it right,” Dante adds, bringing our drinks to the living room.
“But I was horrible to you.” I accept the teacup, and the warmth radiates from my palms, up my arms, and nestles pleasantly in my chest.
“So?” he chuckles. “It was well deserved.”
He takes a sip of whiskey and sets the glass down on the table before taking my hand in his. I want to apologize again, but I don’t dare interrupt upon seeing the pained expression on his face for what he’s about to share.
“I’m no good at this, Nat. I stole you away from your home without so much as an explanation of what was wanted or expected. I can’t blame you for being angry because I can’t imagine what was going through your head.” He breathes in deeply through his nose before exhaling a sigh through his lips. “I don’t want you to feel trapped or scared when you’re with me, but I do want you as mine. Mine alone. You’ve done something to me no one else ever could—opened my eyes to the beauty in this world and the possibility of being happy.”
Dante reaches out and takes both my hands in his. He brushes my knuckles, staring so deeply into my eyes, I’m sure he’s gazing straight into my soul.
“If that’s how you made me feel in a few days, I can’t imagine what you’ll do to me in a month. A year. The rest of our damned lives. But I don’t want to imagine it, not for a second. I want it to be a reality. Our reality. You and me braving this storm we call life, side by side, hand in hand, happy.”
“Dante.” Tears rim my eyes, and I can’t contain the joy exploding from my chest. “I thought you said you weren’t good with words.”
“I’ve been practicing it all night. Didn’t want to fuck up the last shot I’ve got.” He plays it off cool, with a warm smile on his face.
But I don’t believe a word of it. The nervous quiver in his voice, his inability to look me straight in the eye—they’re signs of confirmation that everything he said came from the heart.
“Marry me,” he says as if it’s a completely normal continuation of our conversation.